The Devil and Danna Webster (16 page)

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Once my pounding heart slows and I feel myself relax, I take one last breath and open my eyes. The glowing numbers on the countertop tell me I've been standing here for fifteen minutes. Too long. There are only a few minutes to spare before I miss the morning train and am late for school again. Not wasting any more time, I scoop my bag and sweatshirt off the floor and head for the front door.

As I punch in the code to unlock the door and slide it open, I quickly scan the screen mounted on the wall of the hallway. There's a wall screen in each room of the house, and I always leave a couple of windows open so I can keep tabs on the serious stuff, like how much money is left in the bank, what bills are coming up this month, tests, homework assignments, and most importantly, when Mom's pages are due.

Which apparently, was yesterday.

Crap! I can't believe I missed a deadline. I'm always so careful about keeping track of the exact dates and times. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I quickly type out an apology to Evan, Mom's book editor, promising to have the pages for him by tomorrow morning. He doesn't know the books by his most famous client, Lily Dal Monte, are actually written by her seventeen-year-old daughter. I wait until I hear the deadbolts for the front door slide into place. Once they do, with two heavy, reassuring clunks, I take off down the stone steps leading from our secluded house to the street below.

My thoughts swirl as I make my way towards the main gate, frustrated that I've forgotten the pages. I've been so excited to have Mom awake, all my other responsibilities just slipped my mind.

But I'd rather have an angry book editor, hundreds of miles away, holed up in his little cubicle of misery, than hear one more lecture from Mr. Thorne about being late to school. And I definitely don't need to try to finagle my way out of another parent-principal conference with Thorne. He's sort of obsessed with Mom, even though he's only met her once.

As I fly down the main road of our super-private community, I wave at the guard posted by the large metal gate that blocks my route out to the world.

From inside his tiny hut, Gus waves back. "Don't be late again!" he calls out to me and winks. He tips his hat, a tan-colored monstrosity the neighborhood makes him wear as part of his uniform.

"That's the plan," I yell back and imitate his gesture even though I'm not wearing a hat. It's our little morning routine. I squeeze through the small opening he's made for me in the bars, and wave as I rush off to catch the train. My sneakers slap hard against the pavement as the cold autumn wind blows right through my dark blue sweatshirt; I should have worn something warmer.

As I race toward the train platform at the end of the street, I gaze back at the big gate and let it comfort me. No one knows this is where my famous mother lives. No one's ever been able to find her.

And until I turn eighteen, it needs to stay that way.