The sister’s asking questions.
The diner girl.
I wrap my arms around myself.
A sound scrapes outside.
I jerk so hard my hip bumps the table.
Silence.
Then footsteps pass the room, slow and heavy.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I back away from the door until my calves hit the bed. The mattress squeaks under the tiniest pressure, loud enough to make me glare down at it.
“Traitor,” I whisper.
The footsteps keep going.
A car door opens somewhere outside. Closes. A man coughs. Ice drops into a bucket with a violent rattle that nearly sends my soul out through my nose.
I press a hand to my chest.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay. We are not dying because of frozen water.”
My phone.
The thought hits like a lifeline.
I yank it from my jacket pocket, ready to call, text, do something that makes me feel less like a sitting duck in boots.
The screen stays black.
I press the button.
Nothing.
I press it again.
Still nothing.
Dead.
Of course it’s dead.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Wonderful. Love the commitment to ruining me.”
I search the nightstand drawer. There’s a Bible, two takeout menus, an old pen, and a frayed charging cord already plugged into the lamp.
I plug my phone in and crouch there until the dead battery symbol appears.
It might as well be laughing at me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the black screen.
No Brianna.
