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First, I need to get close enough to the emergency exit handle without Grunt noticing. Second, I need to wear something other than a white straitjacket. Releasing the metal post, I crawl on my belly toward the driver’s seat. On the floor beside it is a jacket, which might contain a gun, a phone, or both.
“Are you alright?” I ask Grunt.
He tilts his head in my direction before turning his attention back to the road. “Just a flesh wound.”
I rise to my knees to get a better look through the windshield. We’re on a long highway, surrounded by woodland. In between the trees on the left are snatches of the sea, shimmering in the sunlight. If I can exit somewhere here, I could hide in the woods until I hear the police returning from the asylum.
“What’s our next move?” I shuffle toward him, so I’m kneeling on his jacket.
“What do you mean?” Grunt snarls, that infernal mask still stuck to his face.
“Told you. Men like him are followers,” Xero says.
Ignoring him, I ask, “This is an island, right? How do we leave it?”
Grunt’s shoulders rise to his ears. “Don’t worry about that. I have a plan.”
“He doesn’t,” Xero says.
Then it’s a good thing I do. Moving forward, I tuck the jacket toward my feet, so it’s completely hidden from his view.
“Can I take a seat, please?” I ask.
“Sure,” Grunt mutters, not taking his eyes off the road.
I turn around and rise to my feet, clutching Grunt’s jacket to my chest. One glance over my shoulder tells me he’s already dismissed me as harmless. I turn back, my gaze fixed on the emergency handle in the middle of the bus and just a few seats within my grasp.
Outside, the scenery on the left changes from woodland to sparse trees surrounding a rugged coastline. The ocean stretches out as far as I can see, with a boat gliding on the water. It’s sleek, sporty, and slicing through the waves in our direction.
My heart thrashes. If I could stow away or even get close, this might be my ticket off the island.
Xero nudges my shoulder. “Go.”
I slip into the seat adjacent to the emergency exit, shrug on the jacket, and zip it up to my chin. Grunt is still driving, seeming oblivious of my plans.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the emergency handle and pull. The door releases with a pneumatic hiss, letting in a rush of sea air. Time slows as I hesitate to take a deep breath before taking my leap to freedom.
Just as I’m about to jump, Grunt swerves the bus, making me tumble backward. The doors snap shut with a metallic clang, the brakes screech, and the bus comes to a halt.
“Amethyst!” Xero yells.
My gaze snaps to the side. Grunt rises from the driver’s seat and charges toward me, his features twisting with fury behind his mask.
THIRTY-FIVE
Wednesday August 4, 2010
Dolly just ran down to the kitchen, brandishing another knife, screaming no one will believe her that Amy killed Charlotte.
As for Charlotte, her body is no longer in the house. I don’t know if Lyle put her in the basement, the garage, or the trunk of his car. She’s gone.
Dolly sliced through Lyle’s hand when he tried to take the knife. The blood splattered on the floor tiles made me double over and heave. Amy was safely locked in an upstairs bathroom with Heath, probably fretting for both of their lives.
My little girl has regressed since the last time she lost control. Before the summer camp, Dolly used to injure Amy, often breaking her skin. When Amy reported it to me, I would confront Dolly, only to find her with the identical injury. She claimed Amy did it, of course.
Back then, I didn’t know who to believe. Every time Amy would come to me with an injury, I’d rush to Dolly, only to find her in the exact same condition, adamant that Amy was the perpetrator. It was a cycle of accusations, injuries, bandages,and tears. And it never made any sense until the incident at the school.
It was a leather carving class, which required the use of specialized tools to cut patterns into the hide. Some snide comments were exchanged—the details are irrelevant. At the end of the class, as the kids were pouring out, Dolly carved a horizontal line into Amy’s stomach.
