65 Joey
Joey
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Joey is not prepared for this. Elena dead, watching her murdered and not being able to stop it.
The sick asshole running away with the book, with the magic.
His illusion spell that has suddenly changed the entire crime scene.
And now the police, Marissa Berg, outside the glass house looking in, thinking she’s seeing evidence of a horrific crime. But she does not see the truth.
“Joey, what do we do?” Sophie’s words wrench Joey out of her thoughts.
Marissa is right outside, waving at the vehicle behind her, which spits blinding blue and red lights everywhere, and someone else gets out of the car.
Another police officer. Marissa says something to him and then takes her gun out of its holster and points it directly at Sophie through the window.
The other officer is running, and Joey knows he’s heading for the door.
There is no talking their way out of this. Sophie has a murder weapon in her hand, covered in what looks like Elena’s blood. Joey has only one thought. “Run,” she whispers.
Sophie doesn’t hesitate. She drops the sculpture, still dripping with blood, and races down the hallway where they saw Cal run just minutes ago.
Joey follows her. They move fast, checking doors, looking for a way out.
A solid door at the end of the hall looks like it might lead somewhere outside, and when they get to it, it’s heavy, but it creaks open with a shove.
They hear the front door of the house crash open and a man’s voice yelling.
Joey can’t hear what he’s saying, but she knows they have to be quick.
They’re in a garage now. There are three dirt bikes lined up against the wall, and Joey can’t believe their luck.
Sophie sees them at the same time, and they both make a run for it.
Joey grabs the helmet from one of the seats and pushes it onto her head.
She climbs on, feeling the bike rock beneath her.
She turns the throttle slightly and kicks down the starter.
It whirs to life beneath her. Behind her, she spots a garage door opener on the wall.
Kicking the kickstand down, she leaps off the bike, smashes her palm against the button on the wall, and then darts back to the bike.
The garage door hums and cracks. Darkness and rain swell inside. Lightning and thunder warn them.
“How do I start this thing?” Sophie is twisting her hand forward and backward, looking all around her bike for an answer.
“I’ll do it,” says Joey. She finds the starter with her foot and steps down hard.
Nothing happens. She does it again, this time only stepping until she feels resistance and then starting again.
One more kick, and nothing. “Come on,” she says.
“Come on.” Then, with one last kick, it starts with a whir.
Joey sprints to her own bike and peels out of the garage, feeling unsteady. She stops a few feet away, expecting Sophie to be right here with her, at her side, but she isn’t. Joey looks back to see Sophie kicking at the starter again. The engine has turned off. The bike is dead.
There’s a moment when the world slows down.
Joey can hear voices shouting inside the house, and she knows it’s only seconds before they’re in the garage.
She finds Sophie’s eyes and tries to communicate something to her, but they only have a moment.
There seems to be understanding there, maybe even a slight nod, but honestly, Joey can’t tell.
The rain is splattering her visor. It could be shock or helplessness that she sees on Sophie’s face for all Joey knows. But she doesn’t have a choice.
The door that leads from the house to the garage swings open, and Sophie’s head snaps around. Joey watches as she raises her hands, gesturing for surrender. She wishes she could stop this right now but she is out of time.
Joey Close has no use for religion, but she prays to the trees as she turns her head and curls her fingers around the bike handles.
She prays as the bike lurches forward. In seconds, she’s peeling away, tires digging into mud and pebbles.
Behind her, she leaves Sophie and the cops and Elena and everything that happened tonight.
She’s muttering an idea to herself, to the aspens.
One more glance back and the mountain terrain has swallowed the view of the glass house.
This better fucking work.