Too late, too late. God, I’m going to die in an intersection mere miles from where I was kidnapped. Mere miles from where I was saved.
How ironic is this?
I dart across the intersection, the wheels of my car never seeming to touch the ground, which is impossible, I know. Glancing to my left, I see the irritated driver give me the double finger, his face contorted with over-the-top rage. I offer him an apologetic look and a wave, but he doesn’t care.
I’m sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot. Worse, he looks like he wishes he could choke the shit out of me.
The moment I make it through the intersection, I pull over, my wheels bumping against the edge of the sidewalk. Throwing my car into park, I cover my face with trembling hands, my breaths harsh and loud against my cupped palms.
Did I really believe I could handle this?
I pushed too hard. Too fast. Going to the scene of the crime—literally—was a crazy idea. I want to be cured. I want to be okay. I want to feel strong and carefree and confident that I can do whatever I want without a care. I shouldn’t have to worry so much, you know? I shouldn’t have to be so afraid.
But I’m none of those things. Confident. Strong. Carefree. Those words belong to the old me. Once innocence is lost, you can never get it back. That’s my problem. I lost my innocence at the age of twelve, far too early. And the man who stole it from me will haunt me forever.
Anger surges and I let it wash over me. I’m mad. Irritated with myself. I need to get over this. Live a normal life. Seek out friends. Date guys. Brenna has offered to set me up more than once. Her boyfriend has plenty of single friends whom she approves of. Nice guys. Regular guys.
But something always holds me back. Like I’m waiting for . . . something.
Someone.
I drop my hands from my face and take a deep breath. Glance up into the rearview mirror to see a car parked just behind me. It’s nondescript. Black. Could be a Honda, could be a Toyota . . . could be anything. A man sits behind the wheel, his dark head bent, his gaze locked on his lap, though I can’t see half of his face considering it’s covered by sunglasses.
All the fine hairs on my body rise in awareness. Is he following me? His head is still bent, his dark hair tumbling over his forehead, a white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and chest. He looks young. Harmless. But looks can be deceiving. I know this.
I’ve lived it. Survived it.
Blinking hard, I continue to watch him. In fact, I’m blatantly checking him out in my rearview mirror, my throat dry, my heart picking up speed. Cars rush past, impatient to get to their destinations, but not the car behind me. He waits. Like I wait.
It’s disconcerting.
Carefully, quietly, as if he’s watching my every move, as if he’s literally sitting beside me, I put my car into drive, flick my left blinker on, and slowly pull out into the street.
He doesn’t follow me.
She almost caught me.
Panic rises as I drive approximately seven cars behind her. The street is crowded as usual, even though we’re beyond the busy summer season. It’s a narrow two-lane, usually packed beyond belief in the summer but not as frustrating at the moment.
No, what frustrates me is that she just about figured me out when I pulled my car behind hers. I let her go. I had to let her go. To fall in behind her immediately after she merged back into traffic would have been waving the biggest, reddest flag ever.
Danger. Alert. Stranger following you. Call 911.
Couldn’t risk it.
What the hell is she doing here anyway? I think she’s flat-out lost her mind. She’s going back to the amusement park. I can feel it in my bones, sense it as if I’m sitting in her brain and trying my best to reason with her but she won’t listen.
Will she actually go into the park? Or is she seeking the beach? There are plenty of other beaches close by. I would have preferred the ones in the opposite direction, but she’s not cooperating.
Tilting my head, I try to rise up in my seat to see which way she’s turning. The light is red. Her car is the third one in line. The light is short but not that short, and I hope like hell she turns left. Left means she’s leaving. Left means she has no plans on staying, getting out of her car and walking into the park, none of that bullshit.
The light turns green.
She’s the second one to turn right.
Fucking hell.
The light turns yellow on the tenth car. Three more turn right after the light becomes red. I’m now the third one in line. I have to wait approximately three minutes, but it’ll feel like three hours.
I could lose her. She could park somewhere and walk right into that stupid fucking park and get swallowed up by the crowd. I can’t have it. I must find her. What if something happens to her? She doesn’t get out much. She admitted that in the interview. That she was a bit of a recluse. She takes college courses online (technology is a great thing), she doesn’t have many friends, she doesn’t do well in big crowds.
It’s a Friday. A perfect fall day and the weather is freaking gorgeous, but there won’t be many people at the park because it’s so early.
That doesn’t matter. I still could lose her.
The light finally turns green and I hit the gas impatiently, smacking my horn when the guy ahead of me starts to turn left, then changes his mind and goes right. He gestures at me in the rearview mirror and I give him a thinly veiled smile, one that feels more like a baring of teeth than anything else.
I’m wild, like an animal. Blood pumps hard in my veins, pounds in my head, adrenaline making me itchy. I’m capable of anything, my gaze skittering over the many cars parked on the side of the road, searching for hers. Earlier this morning I’d parked my car down the street from her house on a random whim; the need to see her, keep track of her, make sure she’s safe was almost overwhelming. I gave in to the feeling despite knowing it was a mistake. I shouldn’t follow her. I’m no better than my father. Trying to keep tabs on her like some sort of sick fuck.