Ghost Hand by Ripley Patton

Author:Ripley Patton [Patton, Ripley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Romance, Thriller, Young Adult
ISBN: 9780988491007
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 24943556
Publisher: Ripley Patton
Published: 2012-11-28T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

“It’s six after eight.” Marcus informed us.

We’d just arrived at the edge of the woods right behind my house—what was left of it anyway.

Nose put his mask back on, and I pulled my glove back over my ghost hand, crouching next to Marcus.

There, just past my dad’s studio shed, was a heaping pile of charred remains, the two old brick chimneys of the fireplaces jutting up out of the black debris like alien monoliths, the only real landmarks of what had once been my home.

“So, that was your house?” Nose asked softly.

“Yeah,” I said, looking beyond it to the front yard area and the driveway. “But I don’t see my mom.”

“She may be parked where we can’t see her,” Marcus said, “or waiting for you to show yourself before she does. But we can’t wait. The CAMFers have probably zeroed in on us already.”

“So they know where we are, but we have no idea where they are,” I pointed out. How had this ever seemed like a good plan?

“Which is why we need to move fast,” Marcus said. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I was measuring distances in my head. Our position was halfway between the shed and the old maple tree.

“Remember, we’re right here if you need us,” Marcus promised.

I exhaled, took a deep breath, and stood up. I stepped away from the guys, wading through tangled ivy and rotten leaves to the edge of my back yard. I was tempted to glance back to see if I could pick out the three teenage boys crouched in the shadows, but that might give away their position. And the CAMFers needed to think I was alone, that I had come by myself to meet my mother.

I stepped out on the lawn and realized I was shaking, my body grown suddenly cold and wobbly. This was where I’d barely escaped a fiery death, where the CAMFers had almost killed me, whether they’d been trying to or not. They had done that, and here I was, baiting them. This was stupid. Why had I ever agreed to this?

After a few calming breaths, I walked across the back yard and stood at the edge of the burnt back porch. The underporch was gone, reduced to damp, grey ash. I took a few more steps up the incline toward the front of the house, and stopped. I hadn’t expected to get this far. We’d thought the CAMFers would try for me as soon as I showed myself. And I still didn’t see my mother anywhere. Maybe she hadn’t come.

I walked along the side yard, coming even with the living room chimney, and something caught my eye—color, pattern, a familiar wisp of shape and face, a blue figure on black. It was my dad’s painting, The Other Olivia, tossed on top of what had once been our leather couch and looking only mildly scorched. My heart leapt with sudden, inexplicable joy. It had survived. I wouldn’t have to live in a world where I would never see it again.

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