After Mom did my chest physio and gave me my truckload of nighttime medications, I changed into a pair of yoga pants and a sweater, then slipped under my covers, completely alert as I watched the time inch agonizingly slowly toward midnight. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But now that the time has finally arrived, I’m paralyzed with fear. If Mom catches me trying to sneak out, she’ll ground me for a century. Forget my weekly trip to the movies with Ethan. Forget Netflix, forget my cell—forget any form of entertainment whatsoever. It’ll be months locked inside this place, peering out the venetian blinds at people actually living their lives. Hell, she’ll probably chain me to my bed and call in an exorcist for good measure. The thought alone makes me want to climb back into bed and forget I even considered this. Only the lameness of not making it out of my bedroom forces me to crack the door.
Sweat prickles my brow as I pause to see if I’ve woken anyone. But the house is just as peaceful as ever, so I creep out and close the door quietly behind me. I tiptoe down the hall, careful to avoid the part of the floor that always creaks, and pause outside the living room. Mom occasionally falls asleep watching infomercials in the dark, but when I peek inside, it’s empty. I keep moving until I reach the front door.
I lift the car keys from the rack next to the door, palming them so they don’t jangle, then face the dreadful deadbolt. There’s no way to do it quietly—no matter how gentle I am, it pops open with a crack that sounds through the house like a pistol.
My heart hammers as I wait for Mom to come down the hall and bust me. But when a full minute passes and no one comes, I open the door. Orange streetlight spills into the apartment. Even with the sun long gone, the air is thick with a predatory heat I can taste in the back of my throat.
Now or never, Hope.
I slip outside.
Metal rattles as I spiral down the stairs to the parking lot below. When I reach the bottom, I slide against the exposed brick and its thick shadows and scurry toward Mom’s Kia Rio, parked at the end of the row facing the apartment complex. When I’m sure no one’s looking, I dart over to it, feeling as naked and exposed as if I were wearing a hospital gown at school. My fingers shake as I try to fit the key into the lock, and I drop the ring. It clatters loudly on the pavement.
If Ethan could see me now, he’d shake his head and tick off “Heroine drops car keys” on one of our Horror Movie Bingo cards. This is such a bad idea.
I frantically pick up the set and fumble to find the right key. After what feels like hours, I jam the car key into the lock, whip the door open, and fall into the driver’s seat. The leather is cool against my hot back as I blow out a pressurized breath to ease my lungs. My heart races so fast one beat runs into the next.
Holy shit. Holy actual shit.
Mom’s got the seat pushed way back, so I slide it forward, click my seat belt into place, stick the key in the ignition, and start the car. The engine rumbles to life.
I hesitate, peering through the windshield at the apartment. All the windows are dark.
Oh my God. I’m actually doing this.
I shift into reverse and lurch back, then slam into drive and peel out of the parking lot. I haven’t driven in ages, and I feel more like I’m trying to tame a bucking bronco than a Kia Rio.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.” I grip the wheel hard with slick, wet fingers. “You should go back, Callahan. This is stupid. Very, very stupid.”
But I don’t, and after the terrifying experience of navigating the nonsensical one-way roads of the French Quarter, I’m merging onto the freeway. The high-rises of the city shoot up, one on top of another, city lights winking softly in the dark like glittering jewels.
Okay. So just because I took the car doesn’t mean I have to go to the warehouse. I can go somewhere else. I can go to Tucker’s party. Far less dangerous.
I consider the idea. What would Ethan think?
He would definitely be surprised. He might be happy. And then I remember our conversation about Savannah.
My phone intones directions, and I take the exit that leads to the industrial area and Schilling Road.
Rows of uneven brownstones tagged with colorful graffiti line the streets, cardboard and sheets in the windows that aren’t smashed out entirely. Streetlights shine watery light onto sidewalks cracked and overgrown with weeds. I jump at movement in the shadows, but it turns out it’s a homeless person shifting in his sleep.
The houses give way to shuttered businesses, and before long I find Schilling Road. Huge factories with chimneys that belch gray smoke into the night follow one after another. Then the factories thin out and the road turns to gravel, narrowing more and more until bulrushes are pressed against the car. I start to wonder if I took a wrong turn when I see it.
A huge chain-link fence blocks in an imposing hulk of cement that teeters dozens of stories high and leans violently to the left, as though it’s likely to topple over should a strong gust of wind arise. A NO TRESPASSING sign is tacked prominently onto the fence.
I edge the car closer and see that other vehicles are already parked outside: a white BMW, a motorcycle, a silver SUV, and a turquoise car with a pointed nose and rust around the wheel wells. I park next to the motorcycle and scan my surroundings, looking for a sign of the person who asked me here, but I don’t see a soul. The time on the dash reads 12:07. I’m late.