Four minutes. Then however long it took to get to Sepulveda. I could make it in thirty if traffic was light.
Please God let traffic be light.
The car pulled up and I walked out the front door without looking back. I felt the moment I crossed the boundary, that invisible line a hundred feet from the house, like a physical thing. Like a cord snapping. Like my freedom evaporating into the California air.
The monitor would be alerting someone right now. A signal pinging to whatever company tracked these things. They’d notify my lawyer. Notify the court. Notify the police.
I didn’t care.
I got in the Uber, a silver Camry with a driver who looked like someone’s grandfather, and gave him the address.
“Starlight Motel on Sepulveda. Please hurry. Please.”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Took in my pregnant belly, my tear-streaked face, my shaking hands. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t ask questions. Just nodded and pulled away from the curb.
The drive was agony.
Every red light felt like a lifetime. Every slow driver in front of us made me want to scream. I kept checking my phone, watching the minutes tick by, praying for a text from Yusef saying he was fine, it was all a mistake, he was on his way home.
Nothing.
I tried Prime again. Voicemail.
“Please,” I whispered, not sure if I was talking to God or the universe or just the empty air. “Please let him be okay. Please. I’ll do anything. Take me, take the trial, take whatever you want. Just please let Yusef be okay.”
The driver glanced at me again. “Ma’am? You alright?”
“Just drive. Please. Faster.”
He pressed the gas a little harder.
I clutched my belly, feeling the baby squirm beneath my palms. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. Mommy’s gonna fix this. Mommy promises.”
Twenty-two minutes.
Eighteen minutes.
Fourteen minutes.
The motel finally came into view and it was a run-down two-story building with a flickering neon sign and a parking lot full of cars that had seen better days. The kind of place you went when you didn’t want to be found. The kind of place where bad things happened and nobody asked questions.
“Here,” I said, shoving cash at the driver. “Keep the change.”
I was out of the car before he fully stopped, my legs unsteady beneath me. The baby shifted, throwing off my balance, and I had to grab the hood of a parked car to keep from falling.
Room 12. Ground floor, all the way at the end.
I moved as fast as my pregnant body would let me. Past the ice machine. Past the vending machines. Past doors with peeling paint and windows covered with heavy curtains.
Room 12.
I pounded on the door. “Hello? I’m here! I came alone! Please… please don’t hurt him!”
Nothing.
I tried the handle. It turned.
The room was dark. I fumbled for a light switch, found it, flicked it on.
