43. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
C ARLY
I get my chance to escape sometime around daybreak.
Both men took turns keeping watch over me throughout the night, but the Burned Man just went outside muttering about needing some air, and Jordan Rojas is asleep on the couch.
Jordan hasn’t stirred since his “shift” ended hours ago. And the Burned Man has only gotten more irritable as time passes. Maybe it’s because I made a show of softly sobbing into the makeshift pillow, no matter how many times he told me to stop. Eventually, he went to the couch to sit and observe me from there, which was the whole point of my crying in the first place. The couch shielded his view of me just a little, just enough for me to do what I had to do.
Strangely, it’s just the two of them keeping watch. I thought there would be more lackeys arriving, but I guess the rest of the pearl thieves have been rounded up by the FBI so they must be low on manpower. This also doesn’t feel like a well-planned operation on their end, more like something they cooked up due to sheer desperation and hatred. It works in my favor because it gives me loopholes to exploit.
I bided my time the whole night, playing up how scared I was and pretending to be spooked by the slap they gave me. My cheeks still sting even though Jordan put some kind of treatment on it. Apparently, they have a first aid kit lying around for whatever reason and Jordan is still playing up the “nice guy without a choice” angle. Nevertheless, I didn’t give a single protest for the rest of the night. I simply lay in the corner, on the floor, crying but obedient.
But my sobs were also to hide the fact that I was slowly trying to extricate my hands from the zip ties. They took off the one on my legs when I had to pee, and simply tied them with a rope when we returned. Jordan, who was the one to take me to the bathroom, made a mistake and tied the rope over some of the fabric of my maxi skirt, which gave me some slack to work with. Not a lot, mind you, and I rub myself raw but I don’t give up.
I have to get out of here.
I continued working on the zip ties on my wrist too. I tried different angles, scared that I might have to dislocate my finger to get it out. But sometime, during the night, I found out that by tucking my thumb in and pressing down to the point of pain, I can make one of my hands small and flat enough that it just about squeezes out.
But I don’t do it until the Burned Man is gone.
Once he leaves that morning, I work as quickly and silently as I can to get those things off.
It takes me about twelve tries and two minutes to get it right. Too much time. For those heart-pounding minutes, I stare at the door, terrified that he’ll come back and catch me before I manage to break free entirely. I swallow the desperate cries as I tug and tug and finally tug my hand free. I don’t stop to celebrate, making quick work of the rope around my ankles.
And then I get to my feet quietly and look around. I can’t go out the front door. He might be there, waiting for me to escape. Luckily, there’s a window in the kitchen, but the metal frame and casing look rusted.
It’s going to be a pain to open that without making noise, but I’m going to have to somehow manage it.
I creep there and climb onto the counter by the sink, praying it doesn’t break or give off any sound. Then I put both hands under the window, slowly attempting to slide it up. It lets out the littlest of creaks and my heart pounds.
Shit.
I glance back toward the living room. Luckily, Jordan doesn’t show signs of stirring.
Relief flows through my body. I don’t dare breathe, nor do I lift the window anymore. I can’t risk waking him up.
I analyze the opening. It’s just enough for me to get out, but I’ll have to get creative. I don’t have a choice because I can’t afford to pull it up anymore and wake Jordan. After a few seconds of serious thought, I bite my lip and bend over, putting my right leg through. Once it gets close enough to the ground, I slowly inch my body along.
A few seconds later, I almost get stuck somewhere with my neck against my left thigh. But I don’t panic. I simply breathe and imagine I’m doing yoga or something. Yeah, that’s it. This is just an uncomfortable yoga pose, like the one Tate tried to teach me that one time she had Emma and me in her class.
Relax. I hear Tate’s voice in my head. Breathe in and out. Let your body do what it’s built to do.
I twist my head to the side and stick it out first, before pulling the rest of my body.
And just like that I’m free.
I don’t take time to savor the victory.
Run, I think, as urgency tightens my muscles. But I temper the impulse to take off blindly. It’s still pretty dark out and we’re surrounded by woods, but I still need to be on the alert. He could be anywhere.
After my initial scan I immediately run for a tree, hiding behind it. I don’t know where I am, or how far I am from the road. I also don’t know where the Burned Man is. I know I’m not safe yet, not even close. If anything, things have become much more dangerous.
He already let me know in no uncertain terms, what he would do to me if I tried to mess with him again. And I don’t doubt that he’ll follow through.
I try to keep an eye out and stay as silent as possible as I creep behind the bushes, dashing from one tree to the next. When I get about a quarter-mile away, I glance behind me to make sure I’m not leaving any obvious track. Then, I continue.
I don’t know if I’m moving farther from the road or closer, and I don’t have time to even stop and think about it. I just need to get away.
If I were smarter or savvier at this, I probably would have gotten their phone and called 911, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught. As I crouch behind another tree, I suddenly hear footsteps crunching on the twigs in the distance. Oh no. My heart scurries away when I peek up and see him. The Burned Man.
He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s frowning, his head pivoting from side to side. I shrink back against the stem, overgrown grass brushing against my face. He glances around and calls out, “You know if you surrender now, I’m going to make it easier for you. But if you waste my time looking for you, it’s going to get real ugly.”
Fear has me pressing my hand over my mouth so I don’t accidentally let out a scream.
Even when he pulls his gun from his waistband and takes off the safety.
“I’m a hunter, little girl,” he says. “I can smell fear from a mile away. And I smell yours right now.”
I try to hide amidst the shadows but then startlingly and suddenly his head snaps to my general vicinity. And then he points the gun.
I manage not to scream as I run.
The gunshot scatters behind me, covering the sound of my escape. It propels me forward even as I keep from screaming. My feet naturally move in a zigzag pattern, my memory randomly pulling up one of the things Emma’s grandpa told me about what to do when I’m being shot at. I stay low and hidden, behind trees and bushes. I desperately search for a place to hide.
At the same time, a pessimistic voice inside my head tells me that I’m not going to make it.
He’s going to catch me and he’s going to kill me for this stupid attempt.
Why did I think I was smart enough to pull this off?
No. My legs pump as I run down the hill. I’m going to survive. I don’t care how much I have to run, how hard I have to fight. I’m not going to let him get me, because I have way too much to live for now.
I spot another trailer in the distance and run for it. Maybe if I can somehow get inside it, I can hide or find a weapon. Or a phone.
Despite how unrealistic that last one is, the thought keeps me going.
But before I get far, a hand shoots out of nowhere and grabs me, pulling me behind a tree.
Another hand slaps over my mouth to muffle my scream at the same time as another shot rings out.
I freeze, not fighting, or he might hear me.
I look up to the man holding me.
It’s Hal.
My heart races with fear again but he shakes his head before I can scream and his eyes plead with me to trust him.
It’s not like I have a choice now. I don’t know if he’s working with his father or not but if he is then I’m doomed either way.
Hal does something else. He points in the distance, and I squint in that direction, but I don’t see much. It’s too dark.
I glimpse up at him and he points again, meaningfully. Then he mouths a word. Micah .
My heart skips a beat. Is he saying Micah is out there? How? How did they find me?
I glance back in that direction and think I see something, a glint in the bushes. And I feel it deep inside.
Oh my Gosh. He really is there.
The crunching twigs let me know that the Burned Man is closer.
Hal’s eyebrows ruffle in frustration and then he presses his finger against his lip again, bidding me to stay quiet.
I nod, and then he steps out with his hands up.
“Don’t shoot,” Hal calls out. “It’s me.”
The Burned Man doesn’t shoot at him instantly. Instead, he sounds contemplative.
“I thought your father said you didn’t want to be a part of this.”
“Well, I changed my mind,” Hal says and walks up out of my view. “I heard Declan mention that Micah caught someone on video taking her. They’ll eventually figure out who it is. And the whole town is going to come down on me like they did with Nate Huntley. I can’t take that. Micah and Declan are out for blood and they’re not going to believe I had nothing to do with it anyway. So I might as well save my ass, and my dad’s.”
“Smart,” he says. “How did you drive up here?”
“Took a bus out of Laketown. When I got close, I rented a bike but ditched it a few miles ago. We should probably move soon.” He pauses. “If you’re looking for Carly, I think I heard something in that direction.”
“Yeah, you’re lying. And you’re terrible at it.”
Bang!
The shot makes me flinch but I still don’t scream even as Hal lets out a cry of pain and falls to the ground. Oh, God. I hear the footsteps getting closer, and know at any moment he’s going to see me. I can’t stay here. I have to run.
I start down when I finally see it. Micah. Before I can react, he springs out of the bushes and rushes for me, throwing me to the ground just as the gun fires again.
And then we’re surrounded by a flurry of gunshots, flying out and peppering the atmosphere with steel. Amidst it, I finally scream and sob the way I wanted to.
But the heartbeat above my ear is Micah’s. And it smells like Micah. He stares down at me with Micah’s eyes too.
“Am I dreaming?” I ask.
“God, I hope not,” he says, his hand caressing my face desperately. “I hope not, my Carly.”
And then finally, in his arms, surrounded by the cacophony and the faint scent of blood, I finally breathe.