They were probably upset with him. They had to be. He’dfuckedeverything up when he’d gotten into the car with that man. So of course everyone would be upset with him.
His stomach hurt even more and his chest felt even tighter as he let go of the chair and took a step backward, back toward the door, needing to get away or... or something. Because he was sure he was in the worst fucking trouble.
Fuckin’ dead.
He’d befuckin’dead.
The words echoed in his head, the man’s voice louder than the other voices around him, and he clapped his hands up over his ears as he backed up anotherstep, running directly into something very warm and solid. He whimpered and shook his head.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.
God, he was in so much trouble. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have—
“Shh, hey, Rye, shh. You’re good, you’re okay. You’re okay. It’s just me, Jake. And Rachel is here too, and we’re both gonna help you, okay?”
The solid warmth behind him had arms, and they were nothing like the man’s. They were strong but gentle, supporting him as his legs seemed to fail.
“Jesus Christ, Jake, if he’s really Ryan Davis...”
“Yeah.”
“Did you . . . ?”
“I had no idea, Rachel, I swear. I’ve only known him as Rye. Help me? Can you pull out the chair for him?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.”
“Rye, hey, let’s get you sitting, okay?”
It was Jake. It was Jake’s arm that was around him now, gently helping him forward. And it was Jake’s voice talking to him. And that somehow softened everything else around him, all the loud sounds and the harsh, bright lights. He managed to take a short breath, though the air almost seemed to burn his lungs.
“It’s all okay, you’re okay. You’re safe, alright? God, I...” There was a hesitation, and then Jake’s voice broke as he repeated, “You’re—you’re safe. You’re safe now, Rye.”
Safe. Safe. Safe.
Rye repeated the word again as he let Jake help him sit. The chair was hard plastic and cold. Or maybe he was just cold. Cold and scared. And the feeling was gone from his fingers, which were now wringing together nervously in his lap.
“Stop your fiddling, stupid child. Sit still and let me—”
“Ryan?” Rachel’s voice cut through the other voice in Rye’s head. “Ryan, god, where have you been, hun? It’s been fifteen years.”
He wanted to answer, but he couldn’t. His voice wouldn’t work, again.
From his left, Jake spoke quietly. “Rachel, maybe that’s not the right question to ask right now...”
“I’m sorry, I know, just . . .”
Please, I just want to see my mom. I just want to go home.
Rye forced his eyes up, and he saw the police officer lady staring at him, studying him. She shook her head and then looked over at Jake and shook her head again.
“Christ, it’s really him, Jake,” she whispered, her voice rough with some emotion Rye couldn’t interpret. He scrunched his eyes closed again as his stomach twisted, and he shifted his arms to wrap low around his belly, willing the pain to go away.
Jake said something, but Rye couldn’t quite hear him. Then Rachel spoke again, and the world started to spin.
“Ryan, hun, god, your mama’s gonna be so happy to see you, you have no idea.”
His heart shuddered and stuttered and skipped around in his chest, like it wasn’t sure if it could work anymore but it knew it had to keep beating somehow, and his stomach did all sorts of funny things. And he probably made some sound—a sob or something—as he pulled his feet up onto the hard plastic chair, awkward as the position was, hid his face in his knees, and began to cry.
