She’ll come back, I tell myself every time it reaches voicemail.
“Hey, Savvy . . .” I speak into my phone while it records my message. I should try to avoid any long pauses while I choose my words carefully, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make it worse. “I don’t feel right not being able to talk to you. This is—I—” My words fumble over each other as I grapple with how to sound less desperate. “I want you to be happy. I want that more than anything in the world. If you could just call me back?—”
I move the phone away from my ear and hold my free hand over my eyes for a moment, then put the phone back up to my ear.
“I didn’t mean to scare you off if that’s what this is. But I did mean everything that I said to you today. Every bit of it. If you feel differently then I?—”
A beeping sound comes through the phone and I look down at the screen to see that my time has run out and the call has ended.
I slump onto the couch and begin to go over every touch, every word, every breath between us today. Where did I go wrong?
30
SAVANNAH
My estimation may be off since I’ve been trying not to cry while counting in my head, but I think that we’ve already been driving for more than twenty minutes. Based on the speed of her car, we’re on the highway now and any hope that I initially had about staying in Westridge so that someone could find me quickly is beginning to dwindle.
When Emma shot her gun as I tried to run away from her, l was shocked. I didn’t think she’d actually do it. She missed, but I could have easily been hit and now I know for sure that she isn’t afraid to pull the trigger.
I had no choice but to do as she said after that if I didn’t want a bullet painfully buried somewhere among my internal organs. Which is why I’m currently curled up in the trunk of her car with a busted interior latch desperately trying to remember every detail that might help me figure out where we’re going. Or at the very least have a rough idea of where we are once we get there.
Thankfully, after I feigned cooperation to avoid any further trigger pulls, she gave up on trying to bind my hands together and then threw a bottle of Gatorade at me before I was stuffed in here.
I waited helplessly in her trunk for a while, presumably to clean up evidence, before she finally got in and started driving.
My legs curl up toward my chest and I rub the sore red spots on my knees from where I fell to the ground. The pain isn’t unbearable, but I still wince and suck in a breath from the sting.
Other than the drink and myself, there’s nothing in the trunk that I can use as a weapon or to help me pry open the trunk.
“Shit,” I whisper, realizing that I’ve forgotten to keep track of time.
Maybe wherever we’re going will have a landmark that I can identify. In frustration, I try to kick the latch that opens the trunk, but there’s barely enough room for me to move my leg. I’m not a strong person to begin with, so it’s probably no use.
Warren’s face flashes in my mind the moment I feel like giving up. He wouldn’t like that I was talking to myself like that. He’d remind me that I am too hard on myself, and that gives me the strength that I need to take a deep breath and recalibrate my inner thoughts.
You are strong, he’d tell me if he were here instead of only in my head.
You’re going to get out of this.
My body sways back and forth from random swerving every few minutes. Emma is most likely weaving in and out of traffic and changing lanes on the highway. A couple of times, I thought I heard a muffled voice coming through the speakers as if she was on a phone call. It sounded like a male voice, but it wasn’t loud or clear enough for me to understand what was being said or who it was.
By the time that we finally slowed to a speed that was more synonymous with driving on a two-lane road or residential area, I’d come up with a few different options as a plan of attack.
Option A was thrown right out the window when Emma finally stopped the car, then opened the trunk door with thebarrel of her gun pointed straight at my face. When I heard her get out of the driver’s seat and walk toward the back of the car, I braced myself to throw a fist into her stomach. Unfortunately, I had to stay down and stare at the Glock in her hand instead.
Option B is biding my time until I can catch her off guard again. I’ll be faster next time if I get the opportunity.
Carefully, I take in the surroundings while she orders me to step out and walk toward the house she parked in front of. My eyes sparkle when I see the familiar skyline of the city I know so well. We’re on the outskirts in what looks to be an undeveloped suburb. There are houses on either side of the one we’re at, but they are merely in-progress wooden frames with no sign of people or any vehicles around them.
I step slowly toward the house while Emma slams the trunk closed and walks behind me. There’s no grass in front of the house, just dirt. The sidewalk is finished, but rough around the edges like it was done quickly. We approach the entrance and I reach for the handle of the front door, but quickly bring my hand back to my side when Emma jabs the gun into my lower back.
I step to the side, and she reaches around me to open it. Inside, there isn’t a single piece of decoration. It’s a large house with cathedral ceilings and a spacious layout, but there are no light fixtures or furniture either. Clear plastic sheets and industrial-sized paint cans line the baseboards.
I stop in the center of the foyer, continuing to scan the space with my eyes, but not being too obvious by craning my neck or turning my head.
“Keep walking,” Emma demands. She sniffs violently several times and her voice sounds shaky. “Down the hall to that white door.”
I let out a long breath, but follow her directions without a verbal reply or protest. The white door that she’s referring to has a hole in it instead of a doorknob and is already swung open intothe hall. I swallow hard and bite down on the inside of my cheek when I see that there are steps leading to a basement.
