CHAPTER FIVE #2
“I think you’re right,” he says quietly. “That you need help.” A tidal wave of relief begins to crash over me, then freezes as I see the look in his eyes. It’s not belief. It’s pity. “Maybe there’s someone we can call? A counselor or doctor or something?”
I deflate. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t say that. Maybe just … having an episode of some kind?”
I clamp my lips between my teeth, at a loss for how to convince him. Then I remember Anna’s post.
“Look,” I say, retrieving my phone and tapping through Instagram.
“The author—Anna Matthews—posted about it tonight. Everything lines up.” I hold the phone up for him to read.
When his dubious gaze shifts back to me, I bring up my own profile.
“I’m Roxie Mitchell,” I say, shoving the screen back toward him. “She even used my name!”
He leans back, still looking at me with that horrible sympathetic expression. “I can see how that would be confusing,” he says. “But it’s just a coincidence. This isn’t a crime novel. No one is trying to kill you. You’re safe, okay? Just let me call someone for you.”
I scoff, shoving my phone back into my pocket.
“Yeah, right. Someone like the cops? Nice try.” The hope drains from his face, needling me with guilt.
“Look, I’m not a bad person. I don’t do this.
I don’t steal cars, I don’t crash them into the ocean, I don’t hold hostages in my best friend’s summer house. ”
“You have, though. You’ve done all those things.” He pauses, his brow wrinkling in thought. “Except for the hostage, actually. That’s only if you’re holding someone as security for demands. Otherwise this is just a kidnapping.”
I blink at him. “Did you just correct me about my own crimes?”
He raises his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, don’t make this worse than it already is. Please just let me go.”
“Where, Grant? And how?” I’ve been careful not to seem hostile, but I’m losing patience.
“If you recall, I destroyed our transportation, and you’ve got a bum ankle.
Believe me or don’t, but you’re stuck with me until I can figure out what to do.
And frankly, I really suggest you start believing me because let me tell you, it is grim out there. ”
Grant says nothing, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and I suddenly feel exhausted. What am I doing? Nothing I say is going to convince him to help me. And it’s not like I can blame him.
“I’ll go see if I can find you a wrap bandage or something,” I say with a sigh of defeat.
“Just—don’t leave, okay?” He doesn’t move or speak as I back away, but there’s a subtle brightening in his eyes that tells me this is futile.
“Or do,” I say. “I don’t really care at this point. Best of luck to you.”
My brain is shorting out as I climb the stairs, trying to figure out a plan B.
Does it even count as plan B when you’re making everything up on the fly?
What I really need to do is track down the Gifter and get them to take this all back.
I can do that with or without Grant. The question is whether he’ll stay out of my way or immediately rat me out to the police.
I have a feeling I’ve done too much car theft and kidnapping tonight to win their support.
The whole help, I’m trapped in a book angle probably won’t help either.
I flip on the upstairs light and head toward the bathroom and its first aid stash. I’m well acquainted with it after many summers of jellyfish stings and splinters; tending to an injured hostage—sorry, not hostage—is a first.
The tiny bathroom is a cold, shadowy twin of its usual self, its gingham curtains fluttering in the chill breeze. I place my hands on either side of the porcelain sink and try taking some grounding breaths. I need to rack my brain for solutions, or at least options, but it proves unrackable.
I look at myself in the mirror and almost want to laugh at the reflection.
The date makeup still clinging to my face for dear life can do nothing for my harried expression and tangled hair.
I look and feel like I’ve aged a decade in a matter of hours.
And all of this is framed by the knock-you-over-the-head cheer of the retro floral shower curtain behind me.
Did something move? I squeeze my eyes shut and look again. I can barely think straight, let alone trust my eyesight. I’m so tired and cold, it’s like I can’t be bothered to perceive anything else accurately.
… Cold. This room is especially cold. Between the fire and the shuttered windows, the rest of the house has begun to warm up, but it’s freezing in here.
I piece it together on a delay. The breeze.
The open window. Whatever I thought I saw in the mirror.
That hollow feeling of unease that accompanies a drawn shower curtain.
Wondering if it isn’t so hollow this time.
I turn around slowly, fighting to keep my breathing even and my nerves stable.
With an impossibly quiet, careful step toward the shower, I inch my hand up toward the curtain. I move so slowly my muscles ache, rigid with apprehension. Almost there. Centimeters to go. Millimeters. My hand finally touches the plastic curtain, and with a sharp inhale, I jerk it aside.
He lunges.