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A perky brunette appears on the screen as my picture is minimized to a square in the upper right corner. No sound—or maybe I can’t hear it through the glass, I don’t know—but there are no captions, either, so I can’t figure out what she’s saying about me.
I only know it can’t be anything good.
One week missing?
Are you kidding me?
How?
No. Seriously.
How?
I only left yesterday.
I don’t get it. It’s not… it’s not possible. And I know that this is only one more impossible thing to lump in with the rest, but time is time. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. I was at Black Pine only last night and, while I slept for a little while, it wasn’t like I fainted and stayed knocked out for six whole days.
According to the news, though, I did just that.
I don’t get it. However, before I can even attempt to wrap my head around it, my senses start to ping. I catch a flash of black and white cruising toward me out of the corner of my eye. The ping turns into clamoring warning bells.
Ah, crap.
Black and white cars mean only one thing.
Ten minutes ago, I would’ve been relieved to see a cop car pulling up along the curb behind me. Flag it down, explain who I am, see if the cop would be willing to give me a lift back to the asylum.
I can’t. Not now. If I go back, they’ll want to know where I’ve spent the last week and I won’t be able to answer them. Not can’t—won’t. And what will happen to me then?
Well, my worst suspicions were confirmed with the news report. Whether it’s been one day or one week, the Black Pine staff has told everyone that I’m out here.
And, not only is Acorn Falls close enough to the asylum, but it’s where I lived last. How much do I want to bet that this is one of the first places they looked?
I have to find Nine. He got me into this mess. He can get me out of it.
He has to.
The cop idles at the curb. I shift so that I can get a better look at him in the reflection of the glass. He’s a big guy, thinning hair on top, a travel mug in his hand as he watches me through the passenger side window.
Uh-oh. Even without the shopfront acting like a mirror, I know what I look like: matted hair from the stone floor; rumpled clothes that are more suited to the cranked-up air conditioning of the facility than a summer afternoon; bare feet. And, I think with a sinking stomach, my gloves.
I shake the sleeves of my hoodie so that they cover most of my hands.
Did he see?
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I move so that I’m facing away from the window. I glimpse over at the car. Not good. He traded his mug for some walkie-talkie-looking radio thing. His lips are moving while his beady eyes stay locked on me.
Shit.
Time to go.
I’m no actress, but I try. With a shocked expression and a little jerk as I shake the sleeves of my hoodie down to cover even more of my gloves, I pretend like I just remembered something super important. Then I frown, like I’m annoyed at myself. Shoving my renewed fear aside, resisting the urge to run again, I slowly walk away.
Staying calm is hard. With every casual step, my knees shake with the need to just take off. Sure, I might get away from this cop, but what if there are more?
Don’t make it suspicious, Riley. You can do this.
After I put a block between us, I give in a little. My walk turns into a speedwalk. Then, as my momentum carries me, it becomes more of a jog.
