Chapter Thirty-Eight - Rachel
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Rachel
I spent the drive to the parking garage in a state of numbness. I don’t remember a single part of the ride, only that I sped the whole way.
I pull in, realizing with a mix of shame and dread that I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to find Meredith’s car. She could be on any of the eight levels, and even if I find her, what exactly am I supposed to do that will help Ryder?
There’s an open spot a few spaces from the entrance, and I swing into it, deciding I’m better off on foot.
When I go to pull the key from the ignition, my hands shake, and I pop my knuckles over and over again. I feel that slithering hiss before the words echo in my head.
How are you supposed to do anything useful?
You’re only going to make things worse.
You have no plan and no idea what you’re doing.
Maybe Moreno was right. I should’ve gone home. I barely know self-defense and didn’t think about grabbing my gun when I left the house in a hurry.
I grab the door handle, but I can’t bring myself to pull it open.
You couldn’t save your own daughter. How are you supposed to save Ryder?
When you fail, who will be there for Lyla?
You might as well just give—
No.
It’s only a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs and clarity into my brain, but it’s enough. Enough to make me recognize the fatal flaw I’ve clung to my entire life.
Ignore. Repress. Distract.
I thought I was coping.
I thought being around people like Ryder—who calmed my mind—and focusing on projects were healthy ways to deal with the thoughts that plague me, but they aren’t. They never have been. They’re a way to distract me.
And right now, I can’t afford to get in my own way.
I don’t need a distraction or someone to silence my thoughts.
I need to fight them.
“I can do this,” I whisper, needing to hear the words. “I am strong. I am capable. I am not a victim.”
I wish I was strong enough that this mantra would calm my shaking and replace my fear with sure confidence, but I’m not.
I am strong enough, however, to open the door despite my near-crippling panic and climb out of the car.
I whisper the words again. “I can do this. I am strong. I am capable. I am not a victim.”
I grab a hoodie from the back of my car and slide it on. It’s not a fool-proof disguise, but it’ll give me a little anonymity.
As casually as I can, I do a lap around the floor. I’m trying to come off as confused, like I don’t know where I parked, but I’m sure any onlooker just thinks I’m a creep.
When there’s no trace of Meredith’s gray van, I go up a floor and repeat the process. By floor four, I’m feeling frustrated. By floor five, discouraged. Floor six, angry. Floor seven, hopeless.
Still, I trudge up to floor eight—all the while whispering those words on a loop.
“I can do this. I am strong. I am capable. I am not a victim.”
With each step, I see flashes of Ryder. His larger-than-life aura that sucked me into his orbit from the second I turned to face him in that club.
His strong arms that pulled me to him as we watched movies together over the months I stayed in the cabin.
His complete and utter awe that melted my broken heart the first time he laid eyes on our daughter in the hospital.
His striking features that were arranged in a fiery determination when he burst into the cell Lyla and I were held in by Mason Consoli.
His playful nature that had him throwing Lyla and Dominic across the pool.
With each memory, I feel my determination harden to steel. I might not have a brilliant plan or extensive training, but the sheer will to hold both Ryder and our daughter in my arms tonight eats away at the fear.
“I can do this. I am strong. I am capable. I am not a victim.”
As soon as my head is above the concrete ground of the eighth floor, I see the familiar gray van and freeze before going any further.
Meredith’s car is right in front of me, giving me a direct view of the driver’s side of the car. Luckily for me, she faces forward, overlooking the city.
Though I’m not in her direct line of sight now, she’ll see me in her peripheral vision if I attempt to get any closer. I’m running through my options when the slam of a car door makes me jump.
The sound comes from the car parked across from Meredith’s, and one look is all I need to recognize it.
The black truck.
As in, the black truck that followed me.
There’s a heavy set of footsteps, and I wait for what feels like an eternity for the man to finally step into view and cross toward Meredith’s car.
He’s big, well over six feet, and with a thick build to match.
His clothes are a ripped gray tee and stained jeans.
They don’t match his frame but do match his patchy beard, receding hairline, and need for a shower.
He has to be well into his forties, and I wonder what Meredith is doing getting herself involved with a man like him.
As he approaches the passenger side of her car, she turns her back to me as she looks at him, and I barely think before I make a break for them.
My tennis shoes carry me soundlessly through the garage, and I make it to Meredith’s blind spot just in time to hear the man’s door slam shut.
I have no idea what I’m going to do if they drive away right now since that would immediately give away my position, but I don’t worry for long.
Their conversation carries out of the car with perfect clarity.
“If this comes back on me, I swear I’ll have every family hunting your ass,” the man huffs.
“It won’t,” Meredith assures him. “I did exactly what you asked. No one has suspected a thing in the week I’ve had him. They only just realized he was even gone. If they were going to trace it to me, they would’ve by now.”
I knew Meredith was responsible for this—the scene in her basement confirmed that—but there’s something about hearing her admit that she’s been holding Ryder hostage for a week that feels like taking a physical blow to the chest.
“You better be right about that.”
“I am. Now, you can take him from here.”
His laugh is a deep, bellowing sound. “And give you a chance to double-cross me? I don’t think so. You’re staying with me until the trade-off.”
“That’s not what we agreed on.”
“It’s what’s going to happen.”
“But—”
“My arms dealer is a floor down. I’m going to grab a few items from him before the meet-up. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
His door opens, and I cower on Meredith’s side, praying that he doesn’t come in this direction—if he does, I am screwed.
By some miracle, he goes to the stairwell on the opposite side of the garage, and his footsteps echo further and further away.
My chest expands with a relieved breath.
I have half a mind to barge into the car and demand she releases Ryder, but since the man is coming back—with weapons, no less—that isn’t my best option. At a momentary loss, I pull out my phone.
If nothing else, updating Moreno could help.
Rachel: Found them. 8th floor of the garage. She’s with a man, and they mentioned going to another location for a trade-off. License plate is MRA711.
Moreno: I’ll handle it from here. Go home. Now.
Rachel: How far out are you?
Moreno: Go home.
Rachel: How far?
Moreno: Half hour. We’ll make it. Leave now before it’s too late.
A half-hour? Meredith and this guy are minutes from taking Ryder to who-knows-where. They won’t make it in time.
The idea hits me like one shot too many—with a wave of nauseating hope.
Rachel: I can stall.
I already know messages of protest are going to be flooding my phone, and there’s a solid chance he’ll make good on his threat to put a hit out on me for disregarding him so many times, but I tuck my phone away and crawl to the front tire on the passenger side.
Lowering myself even further, I reach out for the front tire’s valve stem cap and twist it off slowly.
I may not know Meredith as well as I thought I did, but I do know that she can’t sit in the car on an August day without the air conditioning on full blast, which is the only reason I’m comfortable enough to press the pin inside the valve stem.
I don’t press as hard as I can, so the hissing stays at a minimal volume, but I hope I can make enough of a difference that it delays their plans long enough for Moreno to get here.
After a few minutes, I can see a dramatic change in the tire and decide that it’s all I can risk right now. I leave the valve stem cap off and slowly scoot back.
Right into a solid surface.
“What do we have here?”
I slowly turn, finding the man standing over me, head cocked to the side, duffle on the ground, and a gun aimed directly at my head.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. Hell, I can’t even move my eyes from the gun. It’s so similar to the day Lyla was born, reminding me how close my life had been to ending then.
The only peace I have is knowing my daughter is safe and sound at home.
“Who are you talking—” Meredith gasps, eyes widening in horror when she rounds the car to see my cowering frame under the man’s gun.
“I told you this one would be a problem,” he mutters.
“What are you doing here?” Meredith asks in a strained voice like she actually cares.
I grit my teeth and lift my chin defiantly.
If I’m going to die, I won’t do it begging these low lives for anything.
The barrel of the gun presses to my forehead. “Answer the question.”
I look to Meredith. “I saw your car pull in when I was passing by. I knew you were supposed to be at work, so I followed to make sure you were okay.”
The pressure of the gun leaves my skin, just to come down hard right above my left eye.
My body slams against the ground, and my face meets the rough concrete, scraping my cheek.
The heat of the pain is blinding, and I gasp for breath as a hand grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging my head up to meet the man’s cold eyes.
He’s crouched to my level, and the scent of stale cigarettes hits me, making me gag.