Rush The Game by Eve Silver Page A

“The salad had grilled chicken. And cheese.”
    “Dressing?”
    “Actually, yes.” Low-fat raspberry vinaigrette.
    He stares at me, saying nothing, his expression solemn. “I love you. You know that.” Not a question.
    My breath catches. I know he loves me; it just isn’t something he actually says all that often. “I know, Dad.” You just don’t love yourself, at least not enough to stop drinking before something terrible happens . But there’s no point in saying that because if I do, he’ll just turn around and walk away. No deep convos for Dad, at least not if the deep end is on his side. I smile a little sadly. “I love you more.”
    At my reference to our childhood game, he smiles back and I have to look away before I throw my arms around him and babble out all my fears like I used to do when I was five, worried about the monster under the bed.
    With a shudder, I remember the way the Drau was sucked in by my weapon: legs, then torso, and finally head. It knew what was happening the whole time it was dying. Its end wasn’t fast and easy.
    So who’s the monster now?
    A couple of hours later, I give up on homework. I can’t concentrate. My mind keeps going back to the aliens, the lobby, the weapons. Tyrone. Richelle.
    Jackson.
    I’m so mad at Luka for being stubborn. He doesn’t have to betray any secrets. I could stick to general questions and he could stick to one-word answers. I grab my phone, ready to tell him exactly that, when it hits me.
    I don’t need Luka.
    He won’t talk to me? Fine.
    Richelle Kirkman from Philadelphia just might.
    I log on and enter her name in the search engine. Richelle will talk to me. I know she will. Even if there’s some sort of edict against talking to anyone outside what Luka refers to as the game, Richelle isn’t an outsider. She’s as much part of it as I am. And if even the insiders aren’t supposed to discuss it, I’ll keep my questions generic. There must be something she’ll be willing to divulge.
    My connection is slow, the little circle spinning and spinning. Come on. Come on .
    Nothing. Three minutes’ worth of nothing.
    “Dad,” I yell. “Dad, can you reset the modem? The connection’s slow.”
    No answer. I run downstairs to Dad’s home office. He’s not there. I can hear him outside, running the mower over our too-long grass. Good, the neighbors were starting to give me pointed looks every time I left the house. I reset the modem. The row of lights flickers back on one by one.
    Success. I do a little victory dance and pump my fist in the air.
    I tear back up the stairs. I have a plan. A solution. I’ll get the answers I need. I am in control.
    In that second it dawns on me that this is the most excited I’ve been about anything in ages. Gingerly, I feel around for the gray fog, sort of like a tongue poking at a sore tooth. It’s there, at the edge of my thoughts, but it’s hazy and weak rather than thick as pea soup.
    A search for Richelle’s name pops up a bunch of results. A real estate agent. A funeral home. The third is a link to the census bureau. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. But I’m not out because the fourth is a social network site. I click it and grin when her picture pops up. I did it. I found her. I’m back in control. I jump up and do another victory dance as I study the page—
    I stop mid-dance and sink into the chair.
    The page that popped up is wrong. My breath rushes out and I can’t get it back. I’m gasping, dizzy, my hand flying up, my fingers splaying over the screen.
    I shake my head, but it doesn’t change anything.
    On the left, there’s a picture of Richelle looking pretty much the way I saw her on Friday, wearing her cheer uniform, a smile on her face. Her hair’s different, tied back in a ponytail. But the sparkle in her eyes is the same.
    Across the top of the page is a series of smaller pictures: one of Richelle with the squad, one in street clothes with friends, one with a couple that I assume