The deputy’s brows narrow, and he opens his mouth to retort. But then the seatbelt light turns off, and a voice must come on over the intercom, because he stares at the speaker above us.
The next few minutes are quieter than ever before. My mind should probably be buzzing with angry thoughts, but it’s not. All that’s there is a simmering sort of rage, and the solemn knowledge that I can’t simply go back to my old life. I made it so far. I almost escaped, almost started over. Jace gave me a taste of life—real, vibrant, free life. And now that I’ve had a taste, I don’t think I can ever let it go.
I’m not going back to my dad.
The plane clears of people, and the deputy stands from his seat, gesturing for me to follow. I stand slowly. My legs are still shaking, and my heart beats too fast for my lungs to keep up with it.
We come out of the landing tunnel, and the vibrations of the noisy airport strike me from all sides. All around us are bustling travelers coming and going from various terminals, but no one seems to notice me.
To my right, I see a little girl run toward a man dressed in a suit. She tackles his waist in a hug, and the man laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. The scene should probably make me smile, but instead, it just inflates my anger. Why can’t I have a dad like that? What did I do to deserve a father like the one I have?
No, that’s not the right question. What I should be asking is: what did my dad ever do to deserve me? I’m a good teenager; I don’t smoke or drink or cause trouble. And, if given half the chance, I’m more than capable of loving. Hell, most parents would consider me the perfect kid.
Nothing. That’s my answer; my dad did nothing to deserve me. He doesn’t deserve me. I should have no hesitations to fight his hold over me.
So then why is my heart beating so fast? And why is my head so dizzy, my palms so sweaty?
I swallow hard, gulping back the fear and replacing it with anger.
I can do this.
I will do this.
The deputy starts leading me toward the main hallway. I assume my dad is somewhere in this crowd, and that makes my gut twist and my blood burn. I’ve felt like this so many times before: terrified and filled with rage.
But now it’s . . . different. Before, there was shame mixed in with my emotions, and that always stopped me from trying anything stupid to get away. Or maybe anything smart. I’m not really sure which it is, but I do know that there’s no shame now. There’s just this intense concoction of fear and anger, and I’m finally going to put it to use.
I look around as we walk, searching for what I need. I pass a couple of bathrooms, but they’re too small. Finally, I see one of those huge airport restrooms with two entrances.
Bingo.
I nudge the deputy to get his attention. He glances down at me, but keeps walking. “What?” he asks.
I bite my lip and say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He sighs. “Hold it.”
“I can’t.”
Annoyance flashes across his expression. “Look, kid, my job is to get you back to your dad safely. I’m not here to change your diaper.”
There are a thousand and one things I want to say to him: that I’m not a kid, that he has no reason to be so demeaning, that it’s impossible for me to return to my dad and be safe. But instead, I think back to that puppy dog expression Killer always uses on Arrow. Even deputies can’t be immune to that level of pathetic, right?
I channel every ounce of inner puppy I have in me, pout my lip a little, and say, “Please? I really, really have to go. I’ll come right back, sir.”
Maybe it’s the puppy look that does it, or maybe it’s because I called him “sir.” But, for whatever reason, he gives an exasperated sigh and nods toward the bathroom. “Okay, go ahead. But I’ll be waiting right by the door, so don’t try anything.”
I nod and hurry into the bathroom, weaving through the crowd as fast as I can. A couple people shoot me annoyed looks, but to my surprise, not one stops me. With all the Amber Alert stuff, I figured someone would recognize me and try to “save” me. But no one does, and I make it into the bathroom without incident.
I figure I have about one minute before the deputy realizes there’s another entrance to the bathroom. Maybe two minutes, considering his level of intelligence. Either way, it’s not much time to escape.
I walk toward the opposite entrance, going as fast as I can without drawing attention. I’m twenty feet from the door. Ten. Five. Two . . .
A woman shoves open the door, and I stumble back to avoid smacking into it. I glance up to find the woman gaping at me, her eyes wide with shock. Then she points to me and says, “You’re Alison Collins! Sweetie, are you okay? People are looking all over for you!”
Heads turn toward us, and while most people immediately look away, a few start walking toward me. Shit. This is so not good.