“Hey, take it easy. I’m not that funny,” I joke.
“It’s funny how the roles have reversed. I’m supposed to be taking care of you, protecting you. Not the other way around,” he says, his brows pinching together as he expels a resigned sigh.
“You have taken care of me. You took a damn bullet for me. There’s nothing wrong with letting me make sure you’re okay.” I state, tilting my head. My smile disappearing as I look Thomas directly in his sapphire eyes and add, “I can never repay you for what you did for me.”
“Ariah, I’d do it every time. Your safety is always my primary concern, not just because you’re my client, but because you remind me so much of someone I lost long ago,” he whispers, trailing off. I nearly miss it.
I want to ask who, but I say nothing, sure he didn’t mean to share so much.
“Well, let’s make a jailbreak,” I tease, changing the subject. The lines of pain smooth from his face as the hurt from a bad memory disappears from his eyes, softening into an affectionate appreciation for my actions.
“Yes, let’s make a run for it.” He chuckles, attempting to stand from the bed on his own, but the nurse quickly reprimands him.
“The only way you’re breaking out of this is by rolling out. Please, sit in the wheelchair,” she chastises, and he groans, making me giggle.
Patting him on his shoulder, I say, “Let’s go home.”
* * *
“I mean,of course, I got an invite. I mean, obviously, they would be stupid not to invite me.”
I roll my eyes listening to Sam’s annoying ass brag about receiving an invitation to the elite’s social event as if it’s some exclusive affair. I thought this was something the whole town went to.
Tapping Shay on the shoulder, I ask, “Didn’t you get an invite to the damn party this weekend? Isn’t this thing supposed to be for members?”
Turning in her seat, she leans over, answering, “Of course I did. Every eligible girl in town gets an invite, like this is some twisted play on Cinderella. Sam’s just trying to make a bigger deal about getting hers than necessary, per usual.”
I take in what she said, but I’m confused. I didn’t see any other girls get flowers or have the ostentatious announcement of them being chosen.
My curiosity wins out, prompting me to probe further, “Did all the girls get their invitations in their lockers?”
“No. Our invitations were mailed home and look nothing like the one you and the other girls received.”
“Ah, okay,” I nod in understanding.
Mr. Jameson’s droning on about derivatives when phones start making buzzing and dinging sounds throughout the room, cutting off his point.
“What is all that noise?” he grumbles but doesn’t do much to reprimand the students for pulling out their devices.
Audible gasps turn to shrieks, prompting me to glance around the room.
The corner where the guys sit is empty. Wyatt and Owen texted in our group chat that they wouldn’t be in today because they had some pressing errands to complete.
When I see people staring at me, I get annoyed, hoping this isn’t another video from Sam and her plebs.
That’s when I hear it or hear her.Mom?But it can’t be. Why would there be a video of my mom?
“Ry,” Shay grabs my arm, forcing my attention in her direction, “Ry, where’s your phone?”
Frowning, still trying to puzzle it together, I bend reaching for my phone, and mutter, “In my bag. What has she done this time?” I mentally prepare myself for whatever bullshit Sam’s using to attempt to get under my skin.
“It’s-it’s not Sam, Ry. Get your phone. Now.” The urgency in her voice has me yanking my phone from the front pocket of my bag.
Checking my messages, I have two from our group chat and one from an unknown number. Ignoring the one from the guys, I open the one everyone must’ve gotten, and I stop, my body paralyzed and face frozen in astonishment and disgust. The video plays and I watch, in horror, as my mom’s face comes into view. She’s tied to a metal folding chair, her face smeared with blood and dirt, her clothes ratty and caked in days of grime. Her once vibrant green eyes dull and glazed over as she looks into the camera but not seeing. They’ve pumped her full of something. The distressed cry cuts through the room, echoing off the walls before stilling.
A modulated voice, scratchy and high, hisses.
“You’ve taken what doesn’t belong to you, Ariah Bishop. So we’re returning the favor. We’ve got your dad, and now we’ve got your mom. How long do you think it will be before we have your brothers and sister?”
