Latitude Zero by Diana Renn Read Free Book Online Page B

you up in the system,” Mari said. “So what happened out there anyway?” She suddenly looked a little less friendly. Her gaze was intense. Was I imagining it, or did she suspect me of being the cause of all this?
    “I saw people suddenly wipe out in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time.” I winced. What was wrong with me? I went to a school founded on Quaker values, a school that launched people like Preston Lane into the world. And here I was, leaking lies all over the road.
    Mari lowered me into a seat in the van, giving me a long look. “Where’s your friend?”
    “What friend?” I felt dizzy.
    “That guy you were with. He was wearing a black jersey like yours.”
    She’d seen us together. I
knew
we’d attract attention.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t with anyone,” I managed to say. Part of me wanted to rat Jake out. Payback for having dropped me. But the old instinct to protect him kicked in.
    “I’m sure I saw you on the road together earlier. Who is he? And where is he?”
    “I really don’t know who you’re talking about. I was doing the ride alone.” That was almost true. I got dropped. I
was
doing the ride alone, in the end. “I swear,” I insisted, when she crossed her arms. “A friend of mine was going to do it with me, but he—he changed his mind.”
    “So your guy’s not somewhere out on the course now.”
    “Honestly? I have absolutely no idea where he is.” No lie.
    Mari’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer. Then she glanced back at the cyclists on the road shoulder. “Okay, then. I have to go scoop up more roadkill. Be right back.”
    Relieved she no longer seemed interested in Jake, I caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror as I took off my helmet. I did look like roadkill. Sweaty. Streaked with dirt and blood.
    I felt like bolting and rejoining the ride. But my bike was a mess. Make a run for it? No. My arm and leg killed. I’d just get my wounds cleaned up and find somewhere to wait for Juan Carlos.
    The van filled up with six other riders complaining of injuries and busted bikes. Everyone tried to piece together what had happened as Mari turned around and drove back down Great Marsh Road, past the ride still in progress. One woman said a novice rider probably started the crash. “People ride outside their skill area and their speed group; it’s a recipe for disaster,” she said, and everyone murmured their agreements.
    I shrank into my seat and stared out the window. The trees at the edge of the conservation land seemed more crowded together than before, concealing all their secrets.
    Was Juan Carlos’s spare bike still in those woods? Doubtful. Unless Juan Carlos had gotten my text and sent someone in to retrieve the bike, the fence must have found it by now.
    One thing was for sure. Even with this road rash, I’d find a way to talk to Juan Carlos after the race and tell him what had gone down in those woods. I pictured the look of gratitude on his face when the police brought the mango man into custody and returned Juan Carlos’s stolen spare bike.
    Then at least one good thing would come out of this horrible day.

9
    IN THE medical tent, Mari helped me into a folding chair and handed me a bottle of cold water. I gulped it down gratefully, forgetting that, as a bandit, I was not even entitled to an ice cube.
    “So I’m going to go look you up in the system and get your medical release form,” said Mari. “What was your rider number again?”
    “292.”
    “Okay. Patricia here will take care of you.” She seemed warmer now, but still wary of me, as she turned me over to an EMT, an unsmiling woman who immediately set to work cleaning my wounds. I hoped Patricia worked fast. Partly because the pain was excruciating. Partly because Mari would discover soon enough that I’d given her a fake registration number.
    A siren wailed in the distance. My whole body tensed. What if someone were really hurt badly, all because of my dumb