“No answer. Try it again?”
“Yeah.”
He tries it three times, and all three produce the same result. Eshe doesn’t answer. Fuck.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Thanks, Jamari. I need to go.”
“What’re you going to do? What do you need me to do?” He shoots the questions at me with rapid-fire quickness.
“I don’t need you to do anything,” I say, replying only to his last query.
The first one… What’s understood doesn’t need to be explained. There’s only one thing I can do. With Eshe not answering the phone, I have to assume she’s still trapped. I don’t have time or room to play the faith game. Not when her life is possibly on the line. That’s a risk I’m just not willing to take.
Christ. What are they doing to her right now? Those screams play in my ears like a ghost’s rattling chains and haunting shrieks.
A world without Eshe in it…
The bile sloshes in my gut again.
I can’t…
My chest seizes, and my mouth goes desert dry. Pressing a fist to my sternum, I rub the aching spot.
No. The choices Abena gave me are shitty and shittier. But Eshe stands a better chance of survival as an osu, an outcast, on the run with at least her Seven at her back than tied to that chair and slowly carved to pieces. And this world needs Eshe Diallo in it more than it does the Huntsman.
When it comes down to it, the choice isn’t one at all.
“I have to go, Jamari. But I lied. There’s one thing you can do for me. Earlier, Eshe took the Camaro. Track the car to its last location and find it. Then see if you can get in touch with one of her Seven. Eshe’s going to need them when she’s released.”
“Fuck, H. You’re going to—”
“Jamari, get that done for me. I’ll hit you up later.”
I won’t. The most obvious outcome includes me not walking away from this. But with Jamari sounding like he’s barely holding it together, I can’t voice that truth.
Ironic.
Just hours ago, I drove Eshe out of my house because I refused to risk getting attached to another person only for them to eventually leave me. Again.
And now here I am, doing the same thing to Jamari, someone who, against all my best efforts, I’ve come to care for.
Yeah, irony is a bald-headed bitch.
“Are you—” He coughs. “Are you coming back?”
This time, he sounds younger, so much more vulnerable than his sixteen years. I pull the driver’s door open and slide into the seat. I close myself inside, and his low, muffled sniffles that it seems like he’s trying to hide are amplified in the quiet.
“Probably not. You know what to do if that’s the case, right?”
“I don’t want—”
“Jamari.” I catch his shuddering breath, and I close my eyes, his pain echoing inside me. This is why I don’t let anyone get close. Why I shouldn’t have allowedhimclose. “You know what to do, right?” I press.
“Yeah. Yeah, I gotchu.”
“Good. I have to go.” I lower the cell, but the frantic soundof my name stops me, and I return it to my ear. “You need something?”
