Carried Away

I’ve scored another direct hit. He rocks back on his fluffy socks, and doubt flashes on his face. “The FBI?”

“That’s right, they’re onto you. They’re probably searching your social media as we speak. I’m sure you’ll be very popular with the rest of your ilk in jail.”

Now he looks baffled with a side of annoyed. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The glare is back as he quietly studies me. And even though there’s a stillness to him that is meant to make him appear relaxed, I don’t buy it one bit. The only reason why I haven’t sprinted out of the room yet is because he hasn’t moved from his spot in the middle of it.

“Let me see your press creds.”

Press credentials…I turned those in when they fired me. And if he realizes I no longer have the protection of an important employer, he may take liberties. “No.”

That forbidding face registers my answer. “Let me see ’um.”

My pulse is racing like a runaway horse, but I will not shrink. I shake my head. “No. That’s none of your business.”

“Let me see them or I will put you out right now.”

I’ve had just about enough. “It is snooowwwwing, crazy man! You know, the white stuff that almost killed me. Is that what you’ve been planning all along? To kill me and turn me into beef jerky? Freezings my meat for later use! My family is expecting me so don’t think for a minute you’re going to get away with it!”

He blinks. Other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle. “Jesus fucking Christ, no one is…”––he makes a face––“ going to turn you into”––he snorts––“beef jerky. You said you’re a reporter.” His voice has fallen a few decibels, softer, less accusatory. “What’s the problem with you showing me your credentials?”

He’s not luring me into his trap. I’m not the dumb girl in this story. “You have no right to demand my credentials.”

“Listen up…” He exhales loudly and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I saved your life, I fed you, I nearly lost a pinky to frostbite trying to get your damn tampons from the car. You’re my guest and I’m asking to see your credentials. Cough ’um up.”

All those things are true. Also true, there is no reason for him to see them.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t,” I say, thinking quickly. “They’re in the glove compartment of the rental.”

The vein running up his forehead looks ready to explode. “Are you kidding?”

“No.” That’s partly the truth. I’m not kidding––I’m lying.

His head drops and he takes a deep breath.

Although the snow is falling more gently and the worst of the storm has passed, the conditions outside are still far from safe. In fact, it looks like there’s a solid five feet of snow banked up to the window. Wading through it to get to the car is no easier now than it was this afternoon.

“Fine. I’ll get them.” He starts for the door, brushing past me, and alarm bells start ringing in my head––a five alarm fire drill.

“You can’t go out there!” I shout, running after him.

“Done it two times already.”

He makes it to the front door and shoves his feet in the Timberlands sitting on the mat. If he gets out there and finds the glove compartment empty, he may very well tear me limb from limb. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk angering him any more than he already is.

The stress has me on the verge of tears as I watch him throw on his heavy Northface coat.

“Wait!” He freezes, not glancing my way at first. “You can’t go out there.”

Now he faces me and rolls his eyes.

“It’s too dangerous,” I implore, my voice high and tight with anxiety. “I can get the creds after it stops snowing. After you plow us out tomorrow. Before my father comes to get me.”

A strategic drop––the mention of my dad. To let him know that I have family who will be looking for me. Always humanize the victim. That is to say, if I play this right, I won’t be a victim.

He doesn’t buy it though. Grabbing the handle, he’s about to open the door when the stress of the last three days catches up to me.

“I don’t have any creds!”

Turning away for the door, he searches my face and the dam breaks. Tears start running down my face and I can do nothing to stop them.

“What do you mean, you don’t have any?”

“I mean, I don’t have any…I was laid off…last month.”

That earns me a glare-lite. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“Turner, seriously, I was fired. I don’t have any.”

I feel like I’m being fired all over again. How humiliating, having to explain myself to this guy. Walking back to the couch, I sit and wipe my face off with the sleeve of my sister’s ruined pink cashmere sweater. When the quiet gets too much to bear, I glance up again.