But, no, that can’t be right.
“Who was the father?” Malcolm asks my grandfather.
“My daughter isn’t a whore,” is the angry answer he’s given. “Derek Abbott was the father.”
Malcolm lifts his eyes to mine. “How old did you say you are?”
I feel like I’ve been plunged into ice water. “I’ll be seventeen tomorrow.”
Malcolm extends the sonogram to me. “Are you sure about that?”
“They’re getting married,” my grandfather says, oblivious to the earth-shattering implication Malcolm just made. “He told me himself when I found out about the baby. Gave her a ring and everything. Ugliest, flashiest thing I ever saw, but Tiffany wouldn’t take it off, even though the thing must have weighed a good pound.”
My hand is clutching the ring I’ve worn on a chain around my neck for as long as I can remember. Mom told me all about how my dad proposed after finding it at a flea market and how she never wore it because it was too gaudy. Looping my finger around the chain, I draw it out from beneath my shirt. In a weak, almost breathy voice I ask, “This ring?”
He lunges for me so fast that Malcolm has to dive between us.
“Thief!” he roars. “You stole my baby girl’s ring! Thief! Thief!”
We can’t get him to calm down, and even though his mind might be impaired, his strength hasn’t diminished. It’s clearly taking everything Malcolm has to hold him back.
Cold needles into my bones as I try to get him to understand that I’m his granddaughter—Tiffany’s daughter—and that she gave me this ring and told me it came from my father, who couldn’t have been Derek Abbott. Derek died a year before I was born. And I knew my father; I have memories of him. Faint ones, but I have them. Mom didn’t cry until he died, until that night I found her cradling this ring and lifting it off her neck to fasten around mine.
I’m not old enough. I’m turning seventeen. I’d have to be nearly eighteen if Derek was my father.
But staring at the face of the grandfather she’d told me was dead, the one who keeps calling her by the name she changed, it isn’t hard to imagine her adding one more lie to the list: If she changed her name, why not change my age too?
Was it only after I was born that she met the man I remember as my father, the man who was kind to me and let me call him Daddy because of whatever sob story my mom invented for him?
Vomit begins burning its way up from my stomach, thawing the cold and scalding my throat.
My grandfather is still yelling—screaming, really—and I’ve stopped saying anything.
I hear footsteps pounding down the hall, and a second later the door opens.
Two people in scrubs rush past me and, misinterpreting the scene, one of them, a large man, bodily wrestles Malcolm away from my grandfather, while the other one, a slender woman with dense freckles all over her face, rounds on me.
“What are you doing here?” she says.
“Stealing from me!” My grandfather is straining to get past the male orderly who’s trying to calm him down. “They took my daughter’s ring!”
“We didn’t. We—”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the woman says.
“I know. I’m sorry.” My short hair whips around my face as I turn back and forth between her and my grandfather. “Is he going to be okay?”
The answer is an obvious no as he takes a swing at the male orderly, who has to lunge out of the way. The momentum from his missed punch sends my grandfather careening to the floor atop the shards of shattered glass.
I see blood as his forearms slice open, and feel my own blood drain from my face. Instinctively, I move to help him, but the woman blocks my way.
“You stay right there.” Never taking her eyes from Malcolm and me, she lifts a bulky radio from her hip and calls for help. The other orderly bends over my grandfather, talking softly to him as he assesses the injuries.
“Who are you?” the woman says.
“We were…just…lost,” I say, stammering a little.
Malcolm has been slowly edging his way around the room, and as soon as he reaches me, he says, “We’ll go.”
“Uh-uh.” The woman’s eyes sweep over my features until they still and widen.
And I know she knows.
Malcolm and I reach for each other’s hands at the same instant.
“What are your names?” she asks, but there’s a new inflection in her voice, one that tells me she doesn’t need the answer.
“Amy,” I say at the same time Malcolm says, “John.”
We start backing up when the woman reaches for her phone instead of her Silver Living–branded radio. She moves slowly, as though she doesn’t want to alarm us.
My grip tightens around Malcolm’s hand, wanting to be wrong about the flicker of recognition I thought I saw in her face.
“This is Shannon Donnelly from Silver Living. I’m supposed to call this number if anyone visits Mr. Jablonski. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m staring at the girl from the photo you just dropped off—”
Malcolm and I make a break for the door at the same time.
“No, the woman isn’t with her. It’s a young black guy. They just ran—”
That’s all we hear before we burst out into the hall and collide with another orderly. All three of us go down. I feel my ankle twist, and have to bite back a cry. Malcolm lands hard on his side and isn’t as successful at holding in a pained groan.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say to the fallen orderly, a slim, prematurely balding man, who looks stunned but not hurt. I grab Malcolm’s arm and pull him to his feet.
Shannon bursts out of the room, nearly tripping over her fallen coworker. Her phone is still pressed to her ear. “Yes,” she’s saying as we sprint away as quickly as my ankle and Malcolm’s ribs will allow. “I’m sure it’s the daughter, but her hair is much shorter and darker now.” I don’t understand why she isn’t chasing us until she adds, “Security is moving to cover the exits now.”
We round one corner and dash down another hall. The building is huge and sprawling, and we didn’t have the option of retracing our steps, so neither of us has any idea where we’re going.
My ankle threatens to roll again as we skid to avoid an elderly woman pushing a walker. We pass more residents too, but only one other orderly, who calls out that there’s no running in the building.
Every corner we round, every doorway we push through, I expect to see the bounty hunter waiting for us. Fear floods my system with adrenaline, and soon my body is slick with cold sweat. How close is he? When he lost Malcolm and me, did he come straight here, correctly assuming that I would too? What if he’s been waiting right outside and Shannon’s call sent him instantly charging in after us?
The heavy chlorine smell that clings to every surface is searing my lungs as I drag air in and out, and I start to feel like it’s fogging my brain, clouding my judgment. I pull Malcolm into a random room and push the door shut behind us. Panting, he doesn’t waste his breath with inane questions.
“We can’t stay here,” he says.
“We can’t keep running blind down random hallways,” I say, leaning against the door and pressing my fingers into the stitch in my side. “I’m pretty sure they eventually loop back to where we started.”
Malcolm nods, then glances around. With more speed than either of us should have left in our reserves after the past twenty-four hours, he practically lunges at me and unceremoniously shoves me to the side to reveal a floor plan taped to the back of the door.
We silently scan the map and locate the nearest stairwell, which we’d somehow managed to plow right past. When I reach for the door handle, already bouncing on my toes, Malcolm grabs my wrist to stop me.
“I think we should split up.”
He has to feel the tremo
r that pulses through me. I have been terrified almost nonstop for days. I’m hurt and exhausted, and it’s taking every ounce of strength not to let waves of implications drown me, after what I just heard from my grandfather. And the only reason I’m able to do that is because Malcolm is right by my side—just as afraid, just as weary and with injuries far greater than mine.
I don’t think I can keep it up alone. I know I can’t. “No way. In together, out together. If we keep going a little farther, we—”
“We can’t. By now the entire building is looking for two running teenagers. We need to walk, and we need to do it alone.”
I hate the logic of his words. I hate it so much I start turning the doorknob anyway.
Releasing my wrist, Malcolm uses his shoulder to keep the door shut while he traces a path on the floor plan. “You can take the stairs down here, and I’ll take the ones here.” His finger slides inches to the right, past the office we infiltrated earlier. “A couple of hallways and we can meet up again here.” His finger stops at the rear exit we entered through. “I’ll be less than two minutes behind you. Then we can—”
“What about security?” I can’t think beyond getting out of this building. I don’t want to. Because once I’m outside, I have to confront things that I’m not ready to confront. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Malcolm makes a gesture halfway between a shrug and a dismissal while finding the key I’ll need and removing it from the ring. “Haven’t you noticed how understaffed this place is? We’ve seen, what, four attendants on this entire floor? The lower floors aren’t for people with cognitive issues, so my guess is they’ll have even less. And if they can’t afford staff, no way they can pay for legitimate security. At best, we’re talking about a couple guys with radios, who I guarantee will be more scared of us than we are of them. If you see one, just run. If they’re blocking a door, charge them.” He’s serious as he says it, still studying the map and frowning as he double-checks that he’s picked the best routes.
“You want me to play chicken with a security guard?”
“If you have to, yeah. And here.” He leans past me, so close that his cheek grazes my hair. He plucks a baseball cap off a hook on the wall and tugs it onto my head. He even tucks my hair behind my ears.
It sends a momentary trickle of warmth through me.
“I’m not stealing some guy’s hat.”
“Borrowing. You’re borrowing some guy’s hat. You can ditch it at the exit, and he’ll get it back.”
“What about you?” There aren’t any other hats.
Malcolm grins at me, the first time I’ve seen him smile like he truly means it. “It wouldn’t look nearly as good on me.”
I decide to give in to an impulse then. It’s not the first time I’ve felt it, and the timing is awful, but if I don’t do it now…No, I mentally derail that thought before it can gather any real speed. There’ll be lots of other opportunities. I’m doing this now because I want to. Because he’s putting my safety ahead of his own. Because I don’t want to think about anything else.
I lean forward and brush my lips against his cheek.
He doesn’t jump the way I half expect him to. He’s surprised, but the corners of his mouth lift just a bit, letting me know it wasn’t a bad surprise. “Here,” he says again, tapping the exit on the map. “We’ll meet right here.”
And then we split up.
Suppressing my instinct to run is physically painful, as is restraining the worst-case-scenario thoughts that hit me with every step I take.
The hat is too big. It’s not adjustable either, so it keeps dipping forward and covering half my face, which I realize might not be a bad thing. Still, it would have fit Malcolm better, and helped conceal his appearance, because we both need to walk out of here undetected.
There are several residents milling about, some who take the time to smile at me as I pass and others who give me blank stares as they shuffle along. Goose bumps rise on my skin, knowing that Malcolm and I are moving farther and farther apart.
Malcolm’s right about this place being understaffed. Still, I check around each corner before entering a new hall, and if I see any employees, I slip inside a room and wait for them to pass. Not all the rooms are unoccupied, though, and I waste precious seconds with lies explaining my presence to the residents who ask who I am.
I enter the passcode wrong on the first try when I reach the door leading to the hall in front of the stairs. Fortunately, Malcolm had the foresight to memorize the codes for every floor, and he made me repeat the one I needed three times before I left. I take a deep breath and try again. This time, the red light turns green, and I use my key to open the door before picking up speed and nearly tripping as I rush down the steps. It’s even harder to rein in the impulse to run once I’m on the ground floor, but I do it. I suck in a deep breath, and I stroll down the first hall.
Amble down the second.
And saunter up the third.
When I see the security guard standing by the exit, my muscles relax fractionally, because Malcolm was right again. This guy has a white-knuckled grip on his radio, and I can see a sheen of sweat on the wide expanse of his forehead even from yards away.
I don’t charge him, though. Not yet.
I force my legs to bend, and I lower myself onto a bench as though I’m waiting for someone.
Well, I am waiting for someone, but my easy, nonthreatening movement and, more than likely, the facial-feature-and-hair-hiding hat cause the guard to skim right past me in his vigilant defense of the exterior door.
I wait another minute for Malcolm. Two minutes, three…
He likely also had to avoid a staff member or two by hiding out in rooms. And he’s hurt, I remind myself. That fall outside my grandfather’s room hadn’t done his ribs any favors.
Another minute passes, I know this because there’s a clock on the wall directly across from me and I’ve been tracing the second hand like my life will be over if I so much as blink. I’m staring so hard at it that I don’t notice him until he slides onto the bench next to me.
“Ready to charge a security guard?”
* * *
The guard lost, and now we’re outside.
And we’re okay.
We made it.
I turn to smile at Malcolm. I know we still have to put some distance between us and Silver Living, but that seems easy by comparison.
I don’t see either man until Malcolm and I are ripped away from each other. A pale, bony hand clamps over my mouth as an arm hooks tight around my waist and lifts my feet off the ground.
Malcolm is struck from behind, hard, and he goes down, but then another man, wearing black steel-toed boots, heaves him over his shoulder and starts walking toward a windowless van with the engine still running.
I scream, or try to, but the hand covering my mouth muffles the sound, so I bite down until the copper taste of blood fills my mouth.
I hit the pavement with teeth-rattling impact, but I manage to avoid slamming my head this time. Still, my legs are shaky, and I’m scrambling to try to get my feet under me.
All the while, I hear the man swearing. “Stupid little…Bit my hand…”
I scream when he grabs my ankle. I kick out and am rewarded with a grunt, but my attacker doesn’t let go. I claw at the asphalt, desperate to find something to use as a weapon.
With a violent twist, he flips me onto my back, and the air punches out of my lungs as he lands a vicious kick to my ribs. I gasp, and my eyes stream with tears, blurring my vision.
He bends over me. “Little girls should not”—he kicks me again—“act”—another kick—“like”—I try to curl in on myself as he draws back for yet another kick—“fu—”
I drive my heel into his groin. He comes crashing down in a red-faced heap beside me, so close that only inches separate our faces. He has
crystal-clear blue eyes, flooded with hate.
Pushing away, I whimper as I try to sit. I don’t have time to wait for the pain to stop. I have to get up. I have to run. Now.
My body doesn’t want to obey, and I can’t straighten all the way when I stand, but I still move. Not remotely fast, but I move.
Malcolm. I see his unconscious body flung into the back of the van, and the other man—the bounty hunter—turns and sees me. He casts one disgusted look at the man still writhing on the ground and starts after me.
I try to run. I swear I try. I know it’s not enough. I don’t look back, but I hear his footsteps growing closer, closer, and the sound stabs into me.
“No, no,” I whisper, the words mingling with the sob I can’t hold back.
And then there’s bright-white pain splitting my skull.
A sliver of light cuts my eyes as I pry them open, revealing a world that is upside down and swinging slowly from side to side.
The backs of two jean-covered thighs fill my vision, and my side throbs as we—me and the man whose shoulder I’m flung over—continue ascending a narrow staircase. I blink to better clear my vision, but the light is dim and my head screams at me to stop.
A few steps down a creaky hallway, I hear a door wrench open, and I’m lowered and dropped onto a hardwood floor. The impact is so sudden that I cry out.
“Wakey, wakey, little girl.” It’s Blue Eyes. He bends down, and I can feel his sour breath in my face. I try to turn away, but he grabs my chin in a crushing grip and forces me to face him. “I hope you don’t tell the investigator anything when he gets here. Because then I’ll be the one who gets to make you talk.” His fingers force my mouth to open. “First thing I’m gonna do is pull every one of these pretty teeth out. Two hours, maybe less, and you’re mine.”
“Move,” another voice says, and I hear the difference in his steps as Blue Eyes backs away to make room. There’s a subtle metal clang that tells me it’s the bounty hunter. The light is so dim that all I see is his silhouette and the outline of a body over his shoulder.
Girl on the Run Page 10
