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Home.
Where Ronan knows I live.
I wish I could text Adam.
Wait, my phone!
I start feeling around my pockets for it but realize that it’s in my purse, which was left in Jerry’s car when they brought me in. The second I started thinking something was wrong, Ronan swept it toward him. I was so caught up in everything that I didn’t even think about it.
I think this is the only time I’ve been let down that I don’t share my location with anyone. It’s too risky for me, despite knowing that even if I don’t share it, my parents would have been able to find me if they had really wanted to. It wasn’t hard for them.
I let my head hit the seat next to me as I groan internally, wishing things were different. I’m still the scared little girl who couldn’t run away. This time though, I’m an adult who continues to let her guard down when she shouldn’t. My only comfort is knowing that if I didn’t come willingly, I would have likely been forced.
But that’s not quite unfamiliar, either.
* * *
It’s been what feels like hours but has probably only been one. Everyone has gone to bed from what I can tell, and I start getting fidgety.
There is no way I’m going to sleep here, waiting until the daytime when they’re both awake and walking around. Where I can be seen and found way more easily than at night.
I’m also not waiting here another day. Cramped in this car, my knees tucked under my chin as I listen to all the sounds this old place has to offer. Besides, I’m sure that they’ll get pissed off at some point and come to find me, making sure that I’m still here.
It takes me a couple of seconds to build the courage to get out. I keep telling myself I can do it. To just not think about what comes after. I just need to get past this. To open the door. After that, things are easier.
I get up, careful not to rock the car, and reach for the handle. It feels good in my clammy hands.
Holding my breath, I pull it, popping the door open quietly.
While the light didn’t come on when I got in, I was prepared for it to upon my exit. I’m pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t.
Climbing out silently, I only think about leaving the door open for a split second before I get too anxious about an alarm going off or a light coming on, and close it as softly as I can, bumping it with my hip for good measure.
Crouching, I make my way through the mess of cars before coming out into the space. I could creep around the outskirts of the compound, but it’s much too dark here, with only the moonlight filtering through the tall windows at the top of the building, and I worry that I’ll bump into one and set off an alarm.
Taking another deep breath, I tiptoe my way across the room, looking around as I do.
Finally, I’m at the kitchen with only halfway to go.
Click.
I don’t have to guess what the sound comes from. I’ve heard it too many times throughout my life.
Eighteen years ago
I close my hands as I hold the cool metal in my hands. It feels far too big for me. Too heavy. My arms shake as I try to steady myself, holding it straight out like my dad told me to.
Target practice, he says, is one of the most important things I have to work on before I can work with them.
I don’t want to work with them, though. But I do want to make them proud. I wish I could tell them that without getting smacked.
“Remember what I told you,” my dad says, happiness shining in his eyes.
“Hold my breath when I pull the trigger,” I repeat. My dad says it’s one of the most basic rules. My breathing causes me to move, even just a little, and my aim will be off. But other things prevent my aim from being accurate, too. Like this gun being too heavy.
“I think it’s too heavy,” I tell him, looking at my feet.
“You don’t have the luxury of thinking it’s too heavy. Having to hold it still will be good practice for you.”
