To look casual. To not draw attention.
Callum is arguing with one of the delivery men about something—where to put a piece of furniture, probably.
His back is to me, his attention completely focused on the discussion.
The other delivery man is out by the truck, loading something onto a dolly.
Not looking at the house.
Not paying attention to anything except his work.
Fifteen feet to the door.
Ten.
Five.
I'm at the threshold.
One foot on the marble floor inside.
One foot on the stone step outside.
No one has noticed me yet.
No one is stopping me.
This is real. This isactuallyhappening.
I step outside completely.
Both feet on the front steps now.
In the open air for the first time in ten days.
The afternoon is cool and bright.
Spring sunshine is warming my face.
I can smell grass and trees and earth and freedom.
Behind me, I hear Callum say something.
A question, maybe.
A sharp "Hey?—"
But I'm already running.
Down the steps, my feet flying.
Across the circular drive, gravel crunching under my shoes.
Toward the tree line that borders the manicured grounds.
Someone shouts.
Callum, definitely.
