“Of course I did, and I nearly got busted. You have to get me out of here.”
“Hey.” Rybeck has his soothing voice on now, the one he used when I cried over my haircut. “It’s going to be okay. It’s only for a little while longer.”
I can’t help a frustrated huff.
“We need you. You’re the backbone of this case, the one thing he can’t control. You’re our surprise attack.”
My lips start to wobble. “He knows I saw. He’s not stupid. The only reason you guys are able to retain him is because of my witness account. He will have figured it out by now.”
“Maybe. But he doesn’t know where you are. He’s locked up tight, he can’t—”
“They’ll be looking for me.”
“Your family thinks you ran away. They found your note spouting off about being too strict and suffocating. It seems to be working for now. They haven’t guessed a thing, and it’s not like Marco’s going to tell them the truth.”
Mom knows. She’s probably guessed that my note was a farce, but I can’t confess that right now. All I can hope is that she won’t tell Dad. He won’t have sanctioned Marco’s actions, but he’ll hate the idea of me testifying against his brother. Dad’s not the cleanest businessman on the block. He knows how to get around the law, and he’ll be doing just that to get his brother out of jail as quickly as possible. Marco won’t admit the truth. Dad might be crooked but he’s not a killer, and he’d never condone murdering an innocent teenager. But he wouldn’t condone his daughter turning into a traitor either.
Rybeck sighs. “I’m not saying your parents aren’t worried about your whereabouts, but so far they’re keeping things quiet. Anytime they’ve been spotted by media, they haven’t said a word about you. They’re too busy dealing with this Marco shit-storm to focus on you right now, and that’s a good thing.”
“If Dad finds out what I’m doing…” I shake my head. I don’t actually know how he’ll react, but I bet he’ll be pretty pissed. I won’t get away with betraying his brother. “He may be keeping things out of the media, but I guarantee you he’ll have people looking for me.”
“Hey, you’re safe where you are, and that’s all that matters right now. Robbie needs you to—”
“Don’t!” I practically shout.
“Shh!” Rybeck snaps.
I huff and whisper-bark into the phone. “I know what he needs. I know he deserves justice, but is he going to get it?” My eyes burn. “Can you promise me he’ll get it?”
Rybeck’s silence tells me everything I need to know. After an elongated pause, he sighs. “He definitely won’t without you. You gotta hang tough, kid. You’re strong. You can do it. Now hide the phone back where it was and go to bed.”
There’s a short click and I’m left with nothing but dial tone.
I grip the phone in my hand and lightly bang my forehead against the shelving. I want to scream, melt, disintegrate.
I’m not strong.
I’m weak, feeble, pathetic.
I want to go home. Or maybe disappear…start over.
Throwing the phone back under the tarp, I fight the tears, my face distorting in agony.
I don’t know what I want and even if I could figure it out, I don’t know how the hell I’d get it.
I can’t go home, disappear or start over.
Four days ago, I thought choices were a burden.
Now I feel like I have none, and that’s even worse.
Safety is an illusion. I rub my aching stomach. There are probably four knuckle-shaped bruises on my skin. I’m tempted to check but it’s too cold to lift my shirt. Hunching over, I shiver in the dank shed, torturing myself with the truth.
Rybeck tells me not to worry, but Uncle Marco will have people looking for me. My dad’s not the only one with shady contacts. If they don’t find me, my father might, and if he can’t silence me, the guys in here will with their own version of slow-burn abuse.
I’m screwed no matter what I do.
#10:
Early Morning Ice-capades
Trey
I roll over in my bed, stirring from my usual light sleep. Opening my eyes to a darkened room, I internally sigh, wishing I could switch off like Kade. The second he starts snoring, the guy is gone. It’d take an earthquake to wake him.
Riley’s murmuring in his sleep as usual, his overstuffed brain never able to fully shut down. The guy suffers from nightmares. He doesn’t talk about it—ever—but the mornings he wakes up looking particularly pale, I know he’s been dreaming. I asked him about it once, even confessing that I get the mares too sometimes, but all he said was that they’re too murky and dark to describe. I wish I could say the same thing. My nightmares are bright orange and red, filled with heat, smoke and death.
With a couple of mumbled curses, I reach for my watch and check the time.
Great—3:49 a.m.
That’s me, done.
If I wake before one, I usually have a chance of getting back to sleep, but after three…not a chance.
The early hours of the morning are a dangerous time.