Chapter Thirteen - Rachel
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rachel
Present
“So, what did he say?” Meredith asks, literally on the edge of her chair.
“According to Mrs. Caster, he said my work is nothing short of outstanding,” I tell her, relaying the conversation I had with my boss only a few hours earlier.
Meredith smiles wide. “That promotion is yours. I already know it!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I can’t help but share her smile. It’s been great to work in the office again, and all signs are pointing to this promotion being handed to me on a silver platter at the management dinner in a few weeks.
Meredith leans back in her chair, scooting it with a screech that draws attention from the other parents in the lobby, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Being in the martial arts studio isn’t as nerve-racking as it was last week, and I have no idea if that’s due to how much Lyla loved it or Ryder’s lesson over the weekend.
If I expected an apology after he threw trauma in my face like a festival pie, I was sorely mistaken. In fact, we’ve barely even seen each other in the few days it’s been since we trained.
The day after our fight, he was gone from the early morning hours until almost midnight, which might not be so strange if it weren’t for the fact that it was a Sunday. Though I suppose his line of work wouldn’t conform to traditional working hours.
Yesterday, he left as soon as I was home from work, and I didn’t see his car in the driveway until I woke up this morning. He even seemed to be in a hurry when he met me in the parking lot earlier to drop off Lyla.
Encounters like that are the only ones we’ve shared, and we rarely make eye contact, let alone speak. It seems that my plan to avoid Ryder is working better than ever.
“How is she liking it?” Meredith asks, angling her head toward our kids, who are helping pick up equipment from their obstacle.
“She says she loves it, but I’m not sure if it’s the martial arts or being with Dominic that she actually enjoys.”
“And how are things since her father moved in?”
I shrug, showing none of the complicated emotions that I feel about this particular topic. “Fine. Kind of boring, actually.”
Meredith nods. “Well, that’s good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that it’s better to be boring than complicated or combative. I don’t know many co-parents who could live together and not kill each other.”
I force a smile. “I guess you have a point.”
The kids pour out of the classroom, and Lyla runs toward me. Dominic grabs his mother by the hand and practically drags her to where he put his shoes. She shoots me an exasperated look as she goes.
“How was class?” I ask Lyla, picking up her shoes from where I kept them beneath my chair. She sits to put them on, smiling up at me with a grin that melts my heart and any remaining apprehension I’ve reserved for her taking these classes.
“It was fun!” Her eyes focus on something over me, and somehow, her smile widens. “Hi, Mr. Torres!”
“Hey, little ninja,” says a friendly voice from above me, and when I look up, Mr. Torres is looking down at me with a charming smile. “Hi, Mrs. Lance. I’m Mr. Torres. I just thought I’d come and introduce myself.”
He doesn’t hover long and takes the newly vacated seat at my side.
“Actually, it’s just Miss,” I tell him, flashing my ringless finger. “And please, call me Rachel.”
“Oh, my apologies, Rachel,” he says. “Feel free to call me Jacob.”
He holds out his hand, and I take it, surprised by how calloused, yet warm, it is.
“Lyla is doing great in class so far. I think she’s going to thrive in this program.”
I look down at Lyla, who looks ready to burst from the compliment. “That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you, Jacob.”
“Of course. She’s a great kid,” he says.
We share another smile before he goes to talk to a few other parents, and I help Lyla get her shoes on.
“Ah, what was that all about?” Meredith whispers when she and Dominic come up to our side. Her eyes are playful and far too suggestive.
“Nothing at all. He was just being polite,” I insist as we walk outside, but I know she won’t believe that.
When the feeling hits me, my heart sinks as my awareness rises. Ryder said he wasn’t having me followed, and I believe him, which means that this is just paranoia, right?
Would I feel this paranoid three times in one week?
I try to pinpoint where the watchful eyes are coming from, but I can’t calm my breathing enough to process it. The nausea that roils inside me would make me throw up if I weren’t so focused on holding Lyla’s hand and searching my surroundings.
It only makes me feel marginally better that Meredith walks by my side, seeming to feel none of the anxiety that must be radiating off me. It’s actually starting to scare me, and I realize that it might be time to talk to Ryder about this.
Maybe someone is following me.
They’re going to take your daughter, the voice hisses. They’re going to hurt you.
“I think Torres likes you. He didn’t have a talk with me when Dominic joined…” Meredith continues her musing, but I can’t hear what she says over the pounding in my ears. I scan the busy parking lot, but once again, nothing stands out.
Okay, I tell myself, with all the calm I can muster, the feeling always goes away once you’re in the car. You just need to get to the car.
This thought gives me the strength to give Meredith a normal farewell as Lyla and I walk another row up to our car.
I’m scanning the area like a crazy person as I get Lyla in her car seat and slide into mine. I reverse out of the parking spot on autopilot, still searching for anything that could be the reason for my spiking anxiety. When I pull onto the main road, I wait for the feeling to subside.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the alarms in my head blare even louder as I cruise down the busy street. I search my surroundings, looking in the rearview mirror for anything out of place, and, for a reason I can’t explain, I keep focusing on a black truck with tinted windows.
It’s a few cars behind me, driving along like every other car, and there’s no logical reason I should be wary of it, but I am—and I trust my instincts.
The hiss is loud, like it’s trying to hush any hint of logic left in my brain. They’re coming for you, for Lyla. This time, no one is going to save you.
For the next few miles, I cast shaky glances at the truck every few seconds, but it stays at a distance. When I’m coming up on the highway ramp, I decide to put my theory to the test.
I stay in the far left lane until the absolute last possible second, then make a sharp right to get onto the ramp. It’s a risky as hell maneuver that sends me across two lanes, and I hate that I have Lyla in the car with me for something so dangerous.
And I hate even more that I’m right.
The black truck makes the same drastic turn but gets blocked by another car and has to slow down to get around. At first, I think I’ve gotten away, but the truck cuts through traffic and makes it to the ramp.
And now it’s speeding toward me.
Like black claws dragging me into murky water to drown, I realize that Lyla and I are in very real danger.
You don’t stand a chance. You might as well give up now, the hiss taunts, and every muscle in my body threatens to freeze up—but I can’t. My life and Lyla’s depend on how I handle this situation.
“Lyla, sweetie, do you have your headphones?” I ask in a calm, collected tone.
“Uh, huh.”
“Why don’t you watch a movie?” I ask, and she nods enthusiastically, grabbing the tablet and headphones to do just that. She’s normally not allowed to watch movies in the car, and I’m hoping she’ll see my diversion tactic as a treat.
You can’t protect her. You can’t even protect yourself. What kind of mother keeps putting her own child in danger?
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, but the pain is easier to focus on than the thoughts that grab me in a vise-like grip by the throat.
The truck is gaining speed, and I know that I have to do the same if I want to put distance between us.
As I merge onto the highway, I get to the left-most lane as quickly as I can and match the traffic there.
The truck is several cars behind me, and I use this moment to grab my phone from my pocket and dial the number of the only person who can help me.
“Hey, what’s up?” Ryder’s voice is pleasant, albeit surprised, since I only call to have him talk to Lyla.
My words are rushed in a voice too low for Lyla to hear.
“I’m being followed. It’s a black truck, and they’ve been watching me since I was at the martial arts studio.”
“Where are you?” he asks, snapping into a tone that’s all business.
“Highway eighty, heading west toward the house.”
“Do not go home,” he says, and I hear rustling in the background like he’s running, and then all sound from his end goes quiet.
“Ryder?” My voice breaks on his name as the black truck gains speed, weaving through cars at an alarming rate.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he says. “I just ordered soldiers in the area to head your way.”
“What am I supposed to do?” The hysteria is making its way into my voice, and I send looks to Lyla, ensuring she’s blissfully unaware of the current situation.
“Keep driving. I’m tracking your car now, and I’ll give you directions. For now, stay on the highway and keep as much distance as possible between you and the truck. Is Lyla okay?”
“Yes. She’s watching a movie, so she’s not paying attention.” I send another look to the truck, which is only a few cars away now. I’m already going ninety and still gaining speed. “Ryder, they’re getting closer.”
“Stay calm, Rachel. I’m right here, and I promise you’re going to be okay,” he says with such certainty that I have no choice but to believe him, even as I watch the truck get closer.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“You’re going to get off the next exit, but I want you to wait to get on the ramp until the last minute.”
I can do that. I mean, I just did that. I tell myself that over and over again, reaching for any confidence I can muster, but my reservoir is empty.