Chapter 17
Ezra
“Where did Tommy say we needed to go?” I ask Conin while I navigate the highway interchange, directing our course toward Tooele, and trying desperately not to think about the way I hurt Callum.
It made me feel things . . .
“He dropped the burner phone in his struggle with the mercenary. Let me check it.”
Conin produces the flip phone and scours through it.
He decides to call the last dialed number.
The beating of my heart picks up pace, muscles shocked he took the risk of calling.
It rings several times before a voice sounds from the other end.
My shoulders tense. I try to listen over the sound of roaring tires and the staple Utah wind.
“Hi,” Conin says, awkwardly. “I’m the friend of the recidivist Tommy was talking about.
Yeah. We ran into trouble. He said to escape, that he’d catch up.
Where do we go? Eureka? Okay. Okay, I will.
” Conin hangs up, snaps the burner phone into two severed pieces, and chucks them out onto the highway.
In another brief decision, he holds his phone in a white-knuckled grip before tossing it into oblivion.
The act, the brevity of it, what it means, throws me into a loop.
It makes sense—our situation is dire. I don’t have anyone who would care enough to contact me, or I anyone else.
The only person I love is in this car with me, taking on the unknown dangers ahead.
So, I dig my phone out of my pocket and hold it in my sweating palm.
Miss Bresshet takes this moment, the perfect opportunity, to call it.
Conin pales. My thumb hovers over the answer icon.
He wants to talk to her, I know he does, and a part of myself wants him to, but we shouldn’t—not when there’s the risk of someone, Barclay Network or otherwise, that could glean any pertinent information on our whereabouts.
Finally, breath hitched, Conin says, “Don’t answer it. ”
With a trembling hand, I discard my phone.
It’s engulfed by the black of night, its fate to be determined by the road.
I grip the steering wheel tighter on ten and two with sleek, sweaty hands.
Conin’s breaths are heavy, labored with suppressed panic.
As we near the turn of the mountain, I can’t find the proper words to comfort him.
I wish I was a writer like Conin with the knack for always knowing what to say, but I’m not.
I need to say something, though. None of what’s happened has been fair to him.
“Are you okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. He’s obviously not.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Seconds pass, though they fill the space with silence, as if hours have gone by.
“You can talk to me about it—it might be better to let it out–”
“I said I’m fine, Ezra!” Conin seethes.
“Okay,” I say and zip my mouth shut.
The only lights we can see are the Chrysler’s, limiting our view ahead.
The rest of the world around us is draped with the light of the moon enshrouded by stubborn clouds.
A maintenance icon flashes on the car’s dashboard.
I ignore it and maintain a steady 80 miles per hour.
The interstate remains relatively isolated and scarce.
My heart leaps every time a vehicle passes, or a pair of headlights warns us of their presence.
“Sorry,” Conin says.
“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper. “This situation is fucked. I’m so sorry you had to leave your mom behind.”
He didn’t need to apologize. Better not to rehash our argument from earlier, so I keep to myself.
“She’ll be okay,” he says, more to himself than to me. He wants to believe this. I do as well.
“We should try to make as much distance as we can. Who knows if anyone else is following,” Conin mentions.
I nod and check the rearview mirror. Headlights from a vehicle, probably miles away, blink back. I press on the acceleration, barreling us into the unknown.