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And there’s a box. Interesting.
Pulling it out, I run my hands over the smooth metal, holding my breath. Popping it open, I finally find something that may be of use to me.
A key.
It’s a car key, that much I know. It looks weird. Like something you’d see in a sci-fi movie. Like a key to some sort of spaceship. Or at least, that’s what I think of. It’s black with a silver crest in the middle, broken up as if the crest were made out of a ‘W.’
I don’t know what it’s to, but it’s my only shot right now.
I quietly pocket it, careful to close the box back up and place itexactlywhere it was before I messed with it. I don’t need him barging in here, huffing and puffing and accusing me of stealing his shit, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I need to get home for a bit, at the very least. I’m not naïve. I know that they’ll find me again. I know that if they don’t find me, someone else will. I get that my life could be in danger, and if someone associated with my parents doesn’t find me, I’ll likely be taken in by the FBI and questioned.
But Ineedto go home first, and I know they’re not going to let me.
Tonight, I’m getting out of here. At least for a little bit.
* * *
It’s been hours, and Ronan hasn’t returned. I tried the door, but there’s something tightly wedged in the bottom of it, preventing it from moving inward much at all. At least, not without significant effort and a lot of noise as the rubber catches on the concrete.
I still don’t think I totally understand who these people are and what they do. I haven’t even processed that Jerry is my twin sister completely. She was never brought up, and the more I sit with that information, the more awful I feel that she was out there, bouncing from foster home to foster home while I at least lived in a house. No matter what happened to me there, it’s better than what she went through.
The thought of the CIA operating within the US isn’t surprising. Like they said downstairs, it’s happened before. But as I sit with it, it makes more and more sense. I know more than most that there’s a deep, seedy world out there, and it’s reasonable that people would want to ensure that world is kept in check.
And I start to wonder what really happened to my parents. I mean, I figured they pissed the wrong person off. That much wouldn’t be surprising in the slightest. But I wonder who and why. Am I going to have to deal with them? Are they going to be after me?
Either way, I’m not really excited to stick around and find out more about them at the moment. I need to get home. I need to tell Adam what’s going on, and most importantly, I need to feed my damn cat.
Wait, scratch that. I can’t tell Adam about this. Not specifics, anyways. I just need to tell him something came up. That I’m fine. That I’m going to be gone for a little while. I just need him to feed Shiloh for me. Just to stop by every couple of days. Or better yet, to take him to his place. I don’t need any trigger-happy idiots barging into my place looking for me only to find my cat.
I don’t want to get him in trouble or put him in danger, that’s for sure.
I lay on Ronan’s bed, sprawled out, my arms outstretched as I look at the ceiling, counting the number of times the fan spins in a minute.
It doesn’t help the time go by any faster.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I hear the door open, and Ronan’s annoying face peeks in. When he spots me, he frowns, and the words he spit at me before he left come rushing back to me.
Asshole.
I saw the way he looked at me. He can pretend all he wants, but he liked what he saw.
I just wanted him to leave so I could rip apart his room.
I look out the high window, noticing that, at some point, it got dark.
My plan is happening sooner rather than later. Now I just have to figure out whether I want to do it the first opportunity I have or if I want to wait for him to go to sleep.
“Any news?” I ask him nonchalantly, sitting up and crossing my legs.
“Nope,” he replies, grabbing clothes from his dresser. His eyes linger a moment too long on his stack of boring black t-shirts, and a sliver of panic runs through me. Did he notice something was misplaced? Did I mess something up? Is he going to know I was looking for something?
But he doesn’t say anything, at the very least. Instead, he just takes a shirt, digs in another drawer for shorts, and heads to the bathroom.
“I’m taking a shower,” he says as he passes, the scent of whiskey following him.
I nod, keeping silent as I watch him disappear into the room.
