Chapter 17 #3
I almost end the text with I love you before stopping, since I am not planning on confessing my love to him for the first time via text message.
With no idea how to get home by myself, tears start forming.
Tristan lives at least twenty minutes away by car from my house, which by foot would mean…
Gosh. I am an average runner at best. Rushing to clean everything really developed my cardio, but it would be a two-hour run at best, not counting breaks.
What if Dad cannot wait that long? What if I am too late?
No. Think, Ella. Tristan said his men were watching the house. Security. Men he trusts.
Men who could drive me there faster than I could ever get there on foot.
He told me not to leave, but this is not me being reckless.
This is my father possibly dying alone, and there has to be a difference.
Typing my address into the itinerary app, the way appears, and I rush downstairs, phone clenched in my hand.
Since his men are securing the front gate, I use the back-door entrance and manage to get out with a key he left in the entryway.
Without the key, his alarm would have gone off and alerted everyone.
Thank God. I do not want to scare anyone by triggering the whole security system before I can explain myself.
I just need to find one of his men, show them the message, and make them understand.
Outside, the cold night catches me in the throat.
Monumental gates with initials mark every corner, the forest surrounds each mansion, and a few streetlights leave too much creepiness for my imagination.
I hurry along the side path leading toward the front of the property, staying close to the wall, expecting to see the security car any second.
It should be there. Tristan said they were watching.
I reach the front gate, heart pounding, searching left and right.
The car is there, parked in the shadow near the stone pillar.
Empty. I slow down, frowning. Where are the guards?
The driver? Isn't it odd? A strange chill crawls down my spine as I step closer, peering through the dark window. Nothing. Not even the faint glow of a phone screen or the movement of someone reclining in the seat. Where did they go? Did Tristan call them away? Are they walking the perimeter? Should I wait? My phone trembles in my hand as I look at the time, then at the road stretching beyond the gate. Dad’s voice echoes in my head.
I need you.
I’m going.
I cannot stand here waiting for someone who might not come back for ten minutes, twenty, an hour. If Dad is truly about to die, every second I waste here is a second I will never forgive myself for. I type one more message to Tristan with shaking fingers.
Me: I went to your security at the gate, but the car is empty. Dad needs me, I have to go home. Please call me.
Then I look at the little dot on my screen.
I will make it. I will try my best, like Dad and Mom taught me.
Knowing I must look completely crazy right now, I start running back the way we came, following the little dot and praying my battery lasts.
My lungs open up as if torn away by hands, knowing I don't want air to run; I need it.
My legs fly over concrete, and the first twenty minutes go by fast enough as long as I do not look over my shoulder, playing pretend that running at night is safe when I am about to leave the rich part of the neighborhood and enter a more industrial area, with dogs barking and metallic sounds making me jump. Forward, Ella. The only way is forward.
Tristan would lose his mind if he knew what I was doing, but he did not reply, and I had no choice.
I had to find a way to go home. I will get there, sweaty and exhausted and with broken feet, but I will get there and explain everything to him and never have to live with the regret of not being there for Dad when he needed me.
I will get to look at my face in a mirror without wanting to crush the glass, and I will stand by that.
The map says I have to keep going straight for another mile, then turn near a gas station.
That’s good. Gas station means people, and people mean safety. At least, most of the time.
My phone is heating up in my hand, the battery already low enough to make me want to scream, and I keep lowering the brightness like it’s going to magically save me from dying in the middle of nowhere.
I don't remember us passing so many industrial warehouses.
Perhaps I was too focused on Tristan and should have paid more attention to my surroundings.
Yet, when I am with him, I realize I never do, as if he was a human shield, noticing all the exits and safe paths for me, letting my mind rest and wander, secure with him leading me.
A pair of headlights appears behind me, and my stomach drops.
Another person, in the middle of the night.
That cannot be good. Or perhaps it’s a night-shift worker from one of the companies here.
People are allowed to work at night. I mean, I do too, even though I usually follow a very brightly lit path near the Ashford Building leading up to a bus station where there are always the same people at the same hour, and I know all the stops, and the bus driver is quite nice, which makes me feel perhaps safer than I should.
Here is much different. Whereas coming back after a shift feels like routine, this feels more like a human hunt.
Calm down. Running isn't illegal, so why stop when you could get home to Dad in the next hour?
I move closer to the side of the road, trying to look normal, which is ridiculous since nothing about a girl in a white T-shirt and jeans sprinting alone at night with tears on her face is normal.
The car slows down as it reaches me, and my first instinct is to ignore it.
Keep running.
Do not stop.
Do not be stupid.
Despite not watching serial-killer documentaries, I know that the classic kidnapping scenario usually does look a lot like this setting. But then I think of Dad.
Of his voice breaking on the phone. Of him calling me in the middle of the night.
He needs me, not in an hour. Now. And this car could drive me there in a heartbeat if I explain everything on my phone.
I glance to the side, noticing a man driving a carpenter’s work truck with Harold & Co.
written boldly on the side of the orange vehicle.
Late forties, a little chubby in the sense that I am pretty sure he could not catch me if I were to sprint, and I hear him.
“Lass, stop! It’s not safe here at night!
Tell me where to drop ya, I’ll drive you.
I got a kid almost your age. That’s madness!
” His voice reminds me of Dad’s, and my instinct tells me to stop, to trust another soul not to hurt me when I could not be in a more vulnerable position.
The car pulls up beside me, the window rolling down, to reveal a man with kind eyes and gray at his temples.
He has an uncle vibe with a hint of Father Christmas.
Like someone who would teach you how to ride a bike and call you kiddo no matter your age.
“Hey, you all right?” he asks, frowning. My throat tightens as I accept my fate, turning to him. I instinctively sign but stop midair. Oh, right. The phone.
“I’m trying to get home. Could you please help me? I’ve got two dollars I can give you.”
“Can’t talk, kid?” I shake my head.
“Of course I’ll drive you. It’s dangerous out here.
My daughter’s about your age. I’m not letting you stay out there in the dark.
Come on, write your address. I’ll drive you, and keep your money.
God knows you young people need it.” He types the address into his phone, clipped to the ventilation of the car, and beckons me with a graceless wave.
“Come on, kid. I don’t have all night.” Ignoring every rule I have ever been taught–do not get into strangers’ cars, do not trust them–I climb in.
I am desperate, and he seems…trustworthy.
I nod, sending a little prayer to God, keep me safe, please.
The car smells faintly of coffee and mint gum.
A folded newspaper sits on the dashboard, and a little wooden cross hangs from the mirror.
I buckle my seat belt with shaking hands, hiding them under my thighs.
All right, saying Tristan would be mad would be the understatement of the century.
I call him again, but he does not answer.
So I text one more time, in case this is the last time I can, because let’s face it, I am in a stranger’s car, in the middle of an industrial zone, with no money and no one knowing I am here.
Me: On my way home. Please answer. I need you, Tristan. I need you so much right now.
But once more, it goes unread, unanswered.
“So, what is it? Running from your parents? Partying?” I shake my head.
“Not a talker, huh.” He sighs. “That’s all right.
Silence is good too.” Turning right at the end of the road, I watch him follow the right path on the itinerary app.
So far, so good. “I know the area,” he says gently.
“Don’t worry. I’m a carpenter, woodworking and such, uh, and my name’s Bob, by the way.
” He glances at me with a strained smile, accepting that silence is all I have to offer.
Five minutes pass, and I am still alive, which I am not sure I should acknowledge as a miracle or a normal thing.
Arrival in seven minutes. Almost there. Almost. Bob stops talking and glances at something in his left pocket a few times, but I cannot see what it is clearly.
After passing by gas stations and abandoned companies, we open onto a road I recognize.