“Sage isn’t your responsibility.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because it sounds like you’re about to make him your responsibility anyway.”
Yasmin goes quiet, which is somehow worse than the yelling. I can feel her eyes on my face, reading every micro-expression I make. Then she sighs—not the frustrated kind, but the resigned one. The sound of someone watching a car crash in slow motion and knowing there’s nothing to be done about it.
“You’ve already decided, haven’t you?” she asks.
I want to argue, but I know without uttering a single word that it would just sound frail and stupid. “I haven’t decided anything,” I try anyway. “I’m just thinking through the options.”
“Uh-huh. And which option are you leaning toward? The one where you stay here safe with your best friend and your baby, or the one where you throw yourself back into Bastian’s nightmare?”
Again, I don’t answer.
Suddenly, I hear a strange noise. A soft scraping sound against the bottom of the door.
Yasmin goes stiff. “What was that?” She’s up in seconds, disentangling herself from me and bounding into the kitchen.There’s the rumble of a drawer and theshiiinkof a knife being pulled out.
“Yas?”
“Stay there.”
More footsteps. I track her movement toward the door, imagining her brandishing a dull butter knife like it’ll save us from whatever midnight creature is lurking in the hallway outside of our apartment.
Her footsteps stop. “There’s no one here,” Yasmin declares after a moment. She starts to relax, until… “But wait—there’s something under the door.”
I hear her bend down, the soft grunt of effort. Then paper rustling.
“What is it?” I ask.
Another pause, longer this time. When Yasmin speaks again, her voice is wary. “It’s an address.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of address?”
“A motel, looks like. The Moonlight Inn, Route 41.” She’s quiet for a beat. “El, this is his handwriting, isn’t it? Bastian’s?”
I don’t need to see it to know she’s right. Of course he didn’t just leave when I told him to. He’s still out there somewhere, waiting.
“He’s there,” I murmur.
“Probably.” Yasmin’s footsteps return, and I feel her sink down beside me again. “But that doesn’t mean you have to go.”
She’s right. Like she said, I could stay here on this floor with my best friend and my unborn child and let Bastian figure out his own mess. I could crumple up that piece of paper and throw it away and never think about the Moonlight Inn again.
Icould.
But we both know I won’t.
14
ELIANA
aboyeur /a?bwä'y?r/: noun
1: the expeditor; the one who calls out orders and coordinates timing between kitchen and floor.
2: you, finally, calling the shots.
