“What the hell was that?” Cassidy demanded. She marched to the edge of the curb and looked at the same thing I was looking at, which was a bunch of cars and nothing.
Owen had Adam’s shoes in one hand and his jeans and shirt in the other. “Yeah, what was that, Tor?” he asked flatly.
The only option was the truth. Or at least some version of the truth. I scanned the parking lot one last time for Adam. Cars whizzed by on the adjacent road.
“Adam doesn’t like his scars,” I said. “He … he was in an accident. He never likes to look at them. You have to promise me, you won’t ever try to look,” I told Cassidy.
Her lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me. What kind of accident?”
My eyes flitted over to Owen. “A car accident.” The more truth I told, the fewer lies I had to keep up with. “He doesn’t like to talk about that either, though. You can’t ask him.”
“I won’t,” she answered quickly, then traced a cross over her heart with her fingernail. “Cross my heart. Can we go find him?”
No, I wanted to scream. We can’t go find him. Not while my creation was in a self-examinatory tailspin of epic proportions, but instead I just said, “I think it’d be better if it was just us.”
A thin line of water sprung from her lower eyelid and balanced there. She nodded. “I’ll go deal with the manager in there, I guess.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and said, “Just take care of our boy, okay?”
After that, I couldn’t get away fast enough. It sure wasn’t Cassidy slicing open his chest and stitching it back together, so I couldn’t grasp what her claim to him might be. She made out with him? From what I gathered, she’d done that with plenty of boys and never claimed any sort of ownership over them.
Owen drove, so we found his car in a sea of SUV crossovers. He dumped Adam’s belongings in my lap.
“That’s it. We’re screwed.” He thumped the steering wheel and then rested his forehead on it. “I knew this would happen. Elvis has left the building, people.” Owen was still wearing the powder-blue blazer and ascot.
I slid the seat belt across and clicked it into place. “We’re not screwed,” I said. “Just drive, okay?”
Shaking his head, Owen obeyed, removing his forehead from the steering wheel, which had left a red indent on his skin. He reversed his Jeep out of the spot and guided it out of the lot and onto the road. “Which way?” He sounded resigned.
I scanned the roads. “That way.” I pointed down a long stretch of road lined with half-full rain ditches on either side. “Toward my house.”
Owen pressed the accelerator, and the car lurched onto the road. “We’re three miles from your house.”
“Just do it.” We followed a minivan with one taillight out. The driver of the minivan must have been ninety years old because she—or maybe he—was driving slower than a sloth with cement bricks for feet. “Go around them.”
“I can’t go around them. It’s a double yellow line.”
I slammed back against the headrest, then thought better of it and reached over to honk the horn. “Get out of the way!”
Owen swatted my hand. I leaned closer to the windshield and tried to make out what was farther down the road. I thought I saw something bobbing along the side.
“I told you we would get caught.” Owen shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you?” Owen looked deranged in his evening clothes. “My face is way too innocent for prison, Tor. Look at it. It’s the face of a child. Someone will shank me with a knife made from toilet paper rolls and bedsheets before I can even learn how to make moonshine out of rotten fruit.”
I grabbed Owen’s arm too hard and he swerved. “That’s him.” I scooted to the edge of my seat. “That’s him!”
Owen nudged the brakes so that we could drive at the same speed as Adam was running. I rolled down the window. “What are you doing?” I asked. Blood covered his hand and the torn shirt. What he looked like he was doing was running from the scene of an ax murder. He grunted but kept running. His bare feet slapped the pavement. “Adam, will you please get in?”
“I’m hideous.” Sweat soaked the tattered white dress shirt. “Why did you not tell me I’m hideous, Victoria?”
“You’re not hideous. You’re special.” His breaths came in powerful huffs. “This is crazy, Adam. You knew what—I mean, you knew who you were. Why are you running?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop, either. Nothing we said or did persuaded him to get into the car. And so it was blood-splattered and sticky that he finally finished the three-mile run to my house. He didn’t speak. Instead, he retreated into the depths of his lair and was gone.
When I moved to climb out after him, Owen caught my wrist and held me in place. “Tor, hold on.” His eyes darted between mine. “There’s … something I haven’t told you. I didn’t think it mattered. Just stupid high school stuff.” With my seat belt off, the door began to chime. “Until today, that is.”