Chasing Midnight Read Online Free Page A

Yes—up there at the very top with a view of the world. I used to think some day I’d score an invite. But lately, not so much.
    Smashed pumpkins litter the pathway from last night’sfestivities, though I wouldn’t know what went on out here since Aly and I remained inside manning the front door and pigging out on Dad’s homemade doughnuts. Mom took the twins trick-or-treating, and I’m still not sure where Spencer ended up. In years past, he’s been the one to scare all the trick-or-treaters with a homemade grotesque mask dripping in ketchup—an older-brother type of thing. But last night he was MIA. Probably coughing up a lung in bed, since that’s where he’s been for the past two weeks. Stupid asthma.
    At the base of a giant Redwood tree, Aly hides her longboard behind the same bush she always does, and together we weave through a maze of scrub oak down to the creek that cuts through my backyard. After shuffling across our makeshift bridge, we leap to dry ground and climb the grassy hill up to my house.
    Everything feels more damp now that the sun has retreated, the air growing colder by the minute as the fog starts to make its way across the bay, determined to cover us all like a fuzzy blanket.
    The outline of Spencer’s hair is visible just beyond the porch lights, his fro jetting a few inches above an old, homemade Adirondack chair. As we approach from behind, he coughs hard, making me feel bad for sneaking up on him while he’s in the middle of losing a lung. I wait until he’s done, and as Aly heads into the house for a snack, I linger beside my sick brother. A fleece blanket is pulled up around his chest, and he’s cupping an oversized mug in his hand.
    “Hey, Spencer. What are you doing out here?”
    He looks up. “Hey, Kenz.”
    I step sideways into a pool of light but freeze at the sound of branches creaking behind us.
    Crunch-crunch-creeeeeak.
    My heart jumps like a firecracker as a voice calls out from the far end of the yard. “Don’t moooove a muscle.”
    I step away from Spencer and toward the voice, wondering what’s going on. Spencer seems disinterested in the whole thing.
    A disembodied voice orders me back. Dad’s voice. “Turn around!” he whispers as loud as it can still be considered it a whisper.
    “What for?” I call out to him, wondering what he’s up to tonight. It’s always something with him.
    “Shhhhh,” he whispers more quietly this time. “Just two more seconds. I got you. Come on, little bugger. Show me what you got. Just a little closer . . . ”
    “Wha—?” I start to say.
    “Gopher,” Spencer explains, still staring straight ahead, pretty much ignoring the whole scene altogether.
    Oh, right. Gopher.
    I allow my eyes time to adjust to the darkness at the edge of the yard, and then I see him. Dad. Right near the base of the blackberry bush by the side fence—camo hat and all. He’s belly-down on the ground with his BB gun trained on a spot in the garden. Every year it always comes to this—a full out war between Dad and the gophers, Dad usually the loser.
    Shots ring out.
    I scream like I’m the one down.
    Dad jumps up and runs toward the garden, yelling incoherently, a few swear words thrown in for effect. And then he stops abruptly, curses the air, and stomps into the house.
    Defeated again.
    “Explain to me again how we’re related to him?” I ask Spencer.
    He chuckles, which turns into coughing.
    “Why are you out here in the dark, anyway?” I ask, sitting on the arm of his chair. “Doesn’t the cold make your cough worse?”
    “I guess so. But I’m tired of staying in bed all day. Plus, I wanted to watch the sunset.”
    The only high school boy I ever heard admit to something like that. It’s a trip what sitting and thinking by yourself a lot can do to a person.
    “When do you think you’ll start feeling better?” I ask, wishing there was something I could do . . . anything to help him . . . but mostly just feeling hopeless.
    For years