Page 40 of Hush, Little Baby

No, not hammers.

Well… Maybe, right?

No, Charlie. No one is bringing a dumb hammer to a gun fight.

Right…?

No. Shoot. It doesn’t matter. Stay focused, Charlie, c’mon.

Nikolaus looks asleep, but I don’t completely trust it. His face is relaxed, beard shadowing the strong line of his jaw, mouth softened in a way that almost makes him look less terrifying. But even asleep, he looks like someone who could wake up and ruin my life with one hand.

Which, to be fair, he already has.

I turn my head slowly toward the nightstand.

The clock says 4:03 a.m.

For a second, the numbers don’t click, don’t really mean anything, and then my brain finally connects them to real time.

Four in the morning.

I slept for about four hours.

Four hours.

I almost laugh at how ridiculously dumb I am, but it comes out as a tiny, silent wheeze that hurts my throat.

Four whole hours.

I fell asleep beside a man who took me from the club against my will, stripped me, bathed me, told me he was taking me across the country, and then tucked me into bed.

I press both hands over my face, careful not to move too much, and scream internally.

I hate my stupid, exhausted body. I hate how easy it is to trick. Warm water. Clean hair. A heavy robe. A few grapes. A low voice telling me I’m good, and apparently, my nervous system just rolls over and exposes its belly like a dog. Like it doesn’t matter that I’m in danger. Like it doesn’t matter that I was crying so hard I could barely breathe only a few hours ago.

Maybe that’s why I slept.

Maybe my body got tired of being afraid.

Maybe there is only so long a person can panic before the brain flips a breaker and says, “No, we’re done.”

But I can’t be done.

Not now.

The flight.

My stomach drops so fast I almost gag.

He said the flight was early. A private jet to New York.

Once I get on that plane, I can’t think about what happens after. I can’t. My brain just goes white and staticky when I try to imagine it. New York is too far. New York is another world. New York means there won’t be a front desk downstairs, or random strangers I can scream to, or a street I might recognize if I can get outside. New York means Nikolaus’s house, Nikolaus’s people, Nikolaus’s rules.

New York means I disappear.

This is it. The thought lands with a cold, clear certainty that cuts through everything else.

This is my last chance.