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“Got it.” This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like Briggs is my savior. I’m still not sure what to think about that as he taps his number into my phone and saves the contact. “Here. The second anything happens.”
“You think something’s going to happen?”
His mouth pulls together in a tight line. “It better not. But if it does, I want you to call me.”
I don’t like how that sounds. Is it crazy to wish I could go back to when he was the worst thing I had to worry about? Rather than question my sanity, I hurry out of the truck and across the sidewalk, my shoes slapping the pavement. It probably looks like I’m doing a walk of shame. I guess I am, in a way. Right now, what I care about more is getting up to my room. I could use more sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I’ll be able to understand all these weird feelings I’m having.
The first thing I notice is the way scraps of paper float away as the door swings open. They blow around, landing haphazardly, like dead leaves on a windy day. My drawings. How did this happen?
My eyes dart around, taking in one image after another. Art supplies scattered everywhere. My bed stripped, mattress on the floor, pillow torn apart. My drawers overturned with my clothes everywhere.
None of that affects me the way the sight of a note on the desk does. My stomach sinks to my feet and turns into a block of ice when I see it, though something pulls me to it. Like I’m a fish on a line. It reels me in until the block letters are legible.
LAST CHANCE, ROACH. LEAVE OR DIE!
My head swings around while my heart pounds sickly against my ribs. The closet door is open. It’s empty. The bathroom is as much of a mess as everything else, but there’s nobody inside. I’m alone.
I’ve never been more alone.
Right away, instinct makes me reach for my phone to text Briggs, like he told me to. He can’t be all that far away yet. He’ll get me out of here.
Somehow, common sense cuts through the panic. It stops me before I can pull up the messenger.
Briggs is the only one with the key to this room—besides me. He didn’t give me time to lock the deadbolt before he dragged me out of here. He could’ve given his key to one of his asshole friends and had them do this. That could have been why he was determined to pull me out and go to that party.
It all makes a sickening sort of sense. He would never treat me with genuine care. He wouldn’t let me sleep in his arms unless it meant being able to hurt me later.
But what do I do now? Somebody is literally making death threats at this point. What am I supposed to do, stay here and wait for them to show up again? If they really want to kill me, I don’t think a deadbolt is going to stop them. They could probably break the door down—it’s not like anybody around here would help if I screamed.
The first face that comes to mind is Maya’s, but I can’t do that to her. She doesn’t need to be dragged any deeper into my bullshit. She’s already done so much for me, anyway. Everybody has a limit to their patience.
What am I supposed to do? Where can I go? Buck probably has somebody else staying with him by now. He’s always got friends looking for someplace to crash for a little while.
I know the answer before I’m ready to accept it. It’s the only other option. There is literally nobody else in my life.
She doesn’t sound good when she answers the phone. Like she drank too much last night. Big surprise. I can’t remember a time she was able to stop at one drink. “Well, to what do I owe the honor?” Mom asks with a snort.
“You know I wouldn’t ask you this unless I really was in trouble.” I have to take a deep breath. “But I need someplace to stay for a few days. That’s all.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
What did I expect? Maternal instinct finally kicking in? After all these years, I think it’s safe to say that will never happen. “Like I said. If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t bother you. I’m living in the dorm now,” I explain, picking through the clothes on the floor, making sure nothing else was done to them before I throw them into a bag to take with me. “Somebody’s been messing with me. I just walked in and found a note telling me I need to leave or die.”
All at once, my fear turns to something harder. Anger. “You were determined to get me in this school, and now somebody here wants me to die. I need somewhere to stay for a few days while I try to figure out what is happening. Please.”
I’m actually surprised she doesn’t keep me waiting. “God, yeah. Okay. Come over.” I’m pretty sure I can hear the clinking of empty bottles before she ends the call. Like she’s trying to rush through straightening up.
I’m not going to stay around here to give her extra time. Once I have a few days worth of clothes and all the toiletries I absolutely need, I get the hell out. This time, I make sure the deadbolt is locked. At least I’ll know if there’s any damage to the door that somebody broke in. I don’t need to go in and see it for myself.
Driving to Mom’s reminds me how different my life has been from Briggs, Maya, everybody. Her apartment building sits in the middle of the roughest part of town, even worse than where I lived until not long ago. There are broken blinds in some of the windows, and the dumpster alongside the building is overflowing with bags and bags of rancid garbage. Right now, all that matters is nobody inside wants me dead.
By the time I reach the fifth floor—again, I would rather take the stairs—there’s something besides staying alive on my mind. Reminding Mom she’s the reason I’m attending Wicked FallsUniversity sort of reminded me, too. Why am I there? How did she get me in?
First, I have to adjust to the sight of her when she opens the door. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her. Her hair is a little stringy. I’ve seen her after she’s been on a bender, but there’s something more long-term about this. Like it’ll take more than a shower and aspirin to pull her out of it.
“Hi.” She steps aside to let me in after that warm welcome, but I’m too glad to be safe to care. As far as I know, nobody can find me here.
“You smell like chlorine. And what did you do to your hair?” she asks once the door is locked. “You cut it? Why? When?”
