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“Lo, we have a problem.”
“Mom!” I shout, just as the sedan tries to cut us off. We almost slam into a brick wall of an old laundromat.Ohmygod.I can’t blink. I hear my rattled breath.
She speeds out of the close encounter, and I still haven’t moved an inch.
“Lily!” Dad shouts, panic shooting in his voice.
“Luna?” Donnelly calls out, his concern palpable. He’s with my dad.Eating dinner together at the office,I picture them huddled around a box of pizza or to-go cartons of burgers.
“We’reokaywe’reokay,” Mom slurs together, trying to catch her breath.
I exhale too. “Mom is awesome,” I say in a swallow, trying to calm down.Calm. Down.
“Where are you two?” Dad asks. “Shouldn’t you be at the putt-putt place already?”
“Paparazzi are chasing us,” I say first.
“Where’s security?” Donnelly asks.
Mom takes a left turn. “They’re meeting us—” The sedan rear-ends us again. Fuuuck.
“What the hell was that?” Dad sounds furious and more alarmed than I think I’ve ever heard him. “Lily?!”
“They’re bumping into us, Lo—”
“Pull over.”
“No,” I cut in, scared to be in a parking lot with Boom Box. The Bulky One tried to physically come at me, and we have no bodyguards.
“Find the safest place andpull over,” Dad forces. “They’ll run you both off the fucking road.”
“I’m going to pull over,” Mom says, even though I’m shaking my head a hundred miles a minute.
“No, please,” I say “It’s Boom Box.”
“Stay in the car,” Donnelly tells us.
“Boom Box?” Dad questions.
“These two paps—”
“Mom, wait”—I wide-eye the street—“is this…?”
She’s turned on to a slim road that resembles a darkened alleyway, a normal shortcut, but road work signs and orange barrels block off the exit. We’re in a dead-end.
“Lily?” Dad calls out.
“I’m trying to get out of here.” Mom attempts to reverse, but headlights glare in our rear windshield. She hits the brakes. Boom Box is right behind us.
We’re trapped.
“Where’s here?” Donnelly asks.
I scramble with my cellphone to drop a pin of our location. “I sent you a pin. We can just stay parked, right?” I ask Mom.
She nods, already putting the car in park. Our wipers squeak in the quiet, and exhaust billows out the butt of our car, further obscuring the paparazzi who’ve confined us here. “We’ll be fine,” she tells me.
“Lock the doors,” Dad says urgently. “Just wait in the car. We’re coming to you.”
