Ten minutes outside town, there’s an unmarked Dodge in a field where there are no closed circuit television cameras. I put the fake license plates on it last night and filled the tank from a gas can. Then I sped down the back roads to be sure it’s ready to make the run I’m planning.
The car’s ready. The restraints in the trunk are ready. And I’m ready.
I drive the Rover to it and make the switch of vehicles.
I’m coming for her.
* * *
Rachel
I’m standing on the Langston Theater stage alone. It’s our community theater, but it’s also a newly restored historic theater that’s gilded to within an inch of its life.
I look down at the anonymous note that was left at the stage door for me on closing night of our limited run, original production. My best friend Zoe and I wrote a dark fairy tale calledA Midsummer Night’s Glare, and both performed in it. Her role was as principle dancer. I stayed behind the curtain, playing lead violin in secret. People from up and down the East Coast have come to town to see it. I’m proud of us.
But I didn’t get to perform in the final show because my father has cracked down, and I’m more of a prisoner than ever in his house. He’s suspicious of everyone. This might be the last time I manage to sneak out alone.
I look inside the envelope where there’s a train ticket to take me from Boston to Chicago.
I read the note again.
Leave Coynston before it’s too late. There’s a room for you at the Drake Hotel in Chicago.
I think the note is probably a test. Most likely, it’s one of my father’s tricks to see if I’ll take the bait. He’s paranoid that I’ll take off before my wedding. I narrow my eyes at the heavy bond paper. The note could also be a little trap of Alberto Leone’s. He’s my fiancé, and he also seems concerned I might disappear in the night.
I won’t. I can’t.
I wish I could. But my own Midsummer Nightmare doesn’t get a happy ending.
I slide the note into my violin case and take Lady Indigo out. I turn and face the rows of empty velvet-covered seats. Even in the low light, there’s a golden glow that I love.
I didn’t get to play on the night the show closed and I didn’t get to go to the cast party, so I want to play my own music onstage one last time.
This needs to be my final quiet rebellion because Frank’s angry. I don’t care that he’s mad at me, but the brutal ways he’s cracked down on everyone who might’ve helped me makes me sick. He’s also preventing me from seeing Zoe. The war between C Crue and the Palermo syndicate is raging, fueled recently by Zoe’s defection to the C Crue camp and by our play production, which tells the story of how Frank tried to kill my mother on the day she left him.
I shake my head. My life’s been so messed up from as far back as I can remember.
I try to tell myself that being given to Alberto Leone is my way out. At least I won’t be under my father’s thumb anymore. Berto can be a jerk, but I’ve mostly figured out how to appease him and how to control situations when I can’t.
I close my eyes and play my heart out, until I’m shaking from the thrill of it.
When I finish, I put my violin away. Maybe I can get Alberto to let me join an orchestra in New York. What if Zoe and I got to do off-Broadway together? It could happen. Not right away, but maybe one day.
I pick up my case and walk backstage. I shut off the stage lights and then move down the silent hall, flipping switches to darken the hall as I pass through it.
My stomach hurts. I realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Do I dare pick up food and text Zoe to meet me at her old place? She has one more month on her lease and the last I heard she still had furniture in the apartment.
The last I heard.There was a time when we texted all the time and talked at least once a day. Now I haven’t spoken to her in three weeks. Frank confiscated my phone and only allows me to use it to talk with Alberto. I know I could use the burner I secretly bought, but it doesn’t seem worth it. When I’m finally married and in New York, I’ll have my own phone back. I’ll be able to talk and text with her when I feel like it.
I step outside, planning my route to the borrowed car I snuck away in. I’ll be glad to stop sneaking around. I’m sick of all of this.
When I turn I see a black sports car that shouldn’t be parked near the stage door. It has tinted windows. I glance around and a hulking figure emerges from a dark corner of the building.
My head jerks up, and I recognize Sasha Stroviak.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
His big arm catches me around the waist. My feet leave the ground and I’m tipped sideways. My hands fumble to hold onto my violin case, but I drop it.
