11.5. Stacks . . . A Good Samaritan

If there was a word for that strong feeling that sluices over you and strikes your heart heavier, sinking it down to your boot like a dropped anchor, well, Kiersey was it.

She had gone up to the house and rung the lip-shaped (and surprisingly loud) doorbell five times, and it was obvious no one was coming to the door.

The next thought in her now scrambled mind was to sink to the bubinga-wood porch floors like a dead weight. Then maybe she could do some bawling like a four year old wanting her mommy.

But what she did was lean against a porch railing and press her face into her trembling palms. Maybe she was trying to stabilize herself - give herself a few head moments, or she was trying to tamp down the swell of tears she felt in her throat.

Anyway, it was no use. Two streams of tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes, smearing her palm. Wasn't she just done for? Ryan Vice was nowhere to be found and there only was a day more before she had to