Blood to Dust

“How come Ink is never around?” I take off my clothes.

“He works nightshifts.”

That explains why we spoke freely last night.

“He’s here tonight, though,” Nate adds.

“So how come he hasn’t checked on me even once?”

I swear he blushes under that mask.

I don’t want him to think that I have a problem with the current arrangement, so I reassure him, by adding, “I’m not complaining. I like you better, for the record.”

“Duly noted, now get your ass in the shower.” He gives me a light nudge. I turn my back to him—showing him that I trust him and start humming under the stream of hot water, swaying my hips to a bad pop song. I love pop songs, because the Archers hate them.

Nate washes my dress again, even though there’s no need. Maybe it soothes him to do something while he’s here.

“Why were you upset last night?” I throw my head back and let the water wash out the shampoo he bought for me. It’s hard to believe that only a few nights ago, I was still living in Danville, with a walk-in shower and four showerheads in my own giant bathroom. My usual shampoo is made of organic coconut and my body lotion probably costs more than his shoes.

“Finish up. I’m gonna hang this in the meantime.” He ignores me and walks away, locking the door behind him. I quickly get out of the shower and resume my search for sharp objects.

Remember, Prescott, it’s a numbers game. Nate’s crack-up percentage is at about 15%, if not less. Camden will be here in twenty-seven days. . .

Time.

Godfrey was right. It slips between your fingers until you’re dead. I need to find a way out of this place, fast. I can’t rely on Nate’s good heart if I have a slight chance to make it on my own.

I place one foot against the wall, grab the towel rack and pull it out with force. I use it to pop the lock on the bathroom door with a loud bang. There’s no way either of them didn’t hear the lock breaking in two.

Time.

I know my countdown starts now.

Ten.

I storm out with nothing but a towel. Once in the narrow, dim corridor, I run straight to the small living room and launch for the main door.

Nine.

It’s locked. I swivel back and look around, eyes frantic, urgently searching for the keys.

Eight.

They should be here somewhere. Beat and Ink can’t lock themselves in from the outside.

Seven.

I hear his heavy footfalls. The hallway is short, too short.

Six.

I spot the keys resting inside a fruit bowl, hidden between a few black bananas. I scoop them and jam the key into the lock with shaky hands. I can’t do it. Dammit, I keep missing the hole!

Five.

Trying once.

Four.

Trying twice.

Three.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Two.

Taking a deep breath, I jam the key again, twisting it left and right.

Click.

I swing the door open and trip through it, at first heavily, like I’m moving through sticky dough. I still can’t believe my good luck. My pace breaks into a full-on sprint when I get used to the sudden fresh air. I’m out. My bare feet are hitting the dewed grass.

I’m out. I’m out!

I’m running into the pitch-black night, toward the lights, toward Taco Bell, toward freedom. Once I get there, I’ll fall to my knees and beg the cashiers for help. They’ll call 911. I’ll be safe.

All I need is to get to the corner of this sleepy, wide-road boulevard. It merges with El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Liberty is at my fingertips, and I can almost brush it. Hell, I can already smell it. Nighttime breeze hits my lungs, the bloom of summer violent with its hopefulness. I gulp it in pleasure, gasping for more.

Stumbling upon shattered beer bottles, I race forward, wincing in pain but never stopping, my muscles straining under the rush of adrenaline.

I’m just about to round the corner into plain sight when a huge body football-tackles me into the grass of a front lawn.

My airway is cut by the attacker, who is pressing against my torso. Intentional? At this point, completely irrelevant, as I’m thrown back to square one. Muscular legs are straddling my body and he’s using one hand to pin my arms above my head, the other to cover my mouth.

Nate.

I’m yelling, biting into his palm with everything I have, knowing that he is too good to hit me, too good to inflict pain upon me—though not too good to let me run away from the hands of those who would destroy me—but all I get is his low voice growling brokenly, “Sorry.”

I pop one eye open, shocked. He’s sorry?

“You’re trying to save your life, I get it. But I’m trying to save mine, all right? We can do this cat and mouse thing, where you’re trying to break free and I impose shitty rules to keep you from escaping. Or you can just accept that this is not going to happen. Next time, you’ll be out of this house, Godfrey and Camden will escort you out.”