Pinned by our gazes, Amy shakes her head, her eyes huge in her face.
My jaw sets in frustration. “Don’t make me do this.”
She remains silent.
The cords in my neck tighten. Amy ran because she’s a prisoner trying to escape her captors, but I wonder if she also fled to escape the attraction that flared so unexpectedly between us.
Irrationally, I blame her. Why doesn’t she stay true to character and remain the vain, selfish creature I find so easy to hold in contempt? Why does she have to show spunk?
I eye her coldly. “Last chance.”
She doesn’t respond.
Nolene releases an impatient sigh and pulls out her .22 from the waistband of her jeans. She points it at Amy’s head. “Still feeling tongue-tied, princess?”
Amy doesn’t move, her eyes riveted on the weapon.
“Put it away,” I instruct Nolene. “I have a better plan. We’ll put her in the storeroom.”
A storeroom with no windows and a light switch on the outside. I haven’t forgotten breaking into Amy’s house and seeing the lightsshe’d left on in the middle of the day, picking up on the wisp of a phobia.
Judging by the stricken look on her face, Amy understands all too well what my intentions are.
When Nolene catches sight of Amy’s expression, a smile forms and she puts away her weapon.
It takes the combined strength of both of us to drag Amy into the storeroom. She fights us the entire way, lashing out so desperately she manages to open up my cuts and land a glancing blow to Nolene’s cheekbone. Finally, we get her into the half-empty storeroom, locking the door, cutting off her screams.
I gave her a chance, I think, hardening my heart against the frantic pounding and muffled cries on the other side. This is all on her.
Nolene pulls off her ski mask. “Guess she really does have a phobia about the dark.”
“Start packing,” I order grimly. “We have to leave.”
33
AMY
––––––––
I scream and pound the door until my hands ache and my throat is raw.
The darkness is suffocating. I can’t bear it.
With a whimper, I drop to my knees and press my cheek to the floor, trying to get as close as possible to the dull strip of light showing beneath the storeroom door, as though the light is the oxygen I need to breathe.
And then there’s no helping it, I’m tumbling into the memory, seeing myself at fourteen, sulky and temperamental, used to getting my own way.
But not that night.
“I want you to stay home,” my mom said, uncharacteristically putting her foot down and refusing to allow me to go to a friend’s house party. “It’ll be nice to spend some time with you.”
“Nobody stays home on Friday night, Mom.”
Her voice was weak but firm. “You’re staying home. We’ll watch TV together.”
As if I want to spend my Friday night watching some lame TV series with my mother. If only my dad was here to run interference for me, but he’s the keynote speaker at some spinal cord seminar tonight.
“Everyone is going, Mom!”
