“Hi, Mom,” I say and try to remain casual.
She knows something’s wrong immediately.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” she says. Her panic jumps from zero to a hundred in seconds.
“Nothing, Mom. Seriously. I’m fine.”
“Then what is it? Do I need to come pick you up? Is Ezra alright?”
My heart skips a beat. No, Ezra is not alright. And I can’t tell her why. If my heart were an alarm, I’d be blaring for the world to hear.Stow it, Conin.I need to get through this.
“He—”
Lie.I need to lie. My tongue dries and I lose the ability to speak. An itch crawls up, pausing at the base of my throat, choking me. The words cling to the cornice of my tongue. I’m stuck. The longer I stay silent, the more Mom will freak.
“Conin?”
I opt for a partial truth.
“He’s not okay, Mom. I need to handle a few things,” I say—a massive understatement. “It’s going to take a while, but we’ll be okay. I love you so much. I want to tell you how much I appreciate you, everything you’ve done for me . . . for supporting me when Dad wouldn’t.”
“Conin, you’re freaking me out. What’s happened?” she sputters.
“Something happened between Ezra and Lukeman. It . . . put things into perspective for me. I wanted to call you to say how much you mean to me—”
“Come home! Bring Ezra with you. We’ll handle this together!”
“I . . . can’t.” The earth stops rotating. I hold my breath. If it wasn’t for the noise of passing cars, I would’ve thought the world had ceased to exist around me.
“I love you,” I mutter and hang up.
She calls back without hesitation.
My thumb hovers over the block icon, shaking uncontrollably. I hit it before I can chicken out, then delete the contact altogether. With a quivering breath, I shuffle to our motel room. Ezra’s still on the bed, but Tommy now sits across from him on a rolling desk chair. Neither acknowledge the phone trembling in my hand, nor do they inquire about the conversation I had with Mom.
“Are we safe?” I find myself asking Tommy.
“We’ll be fine. There’s a plan now,” he says, but I can see the skepticism in the whites of his irises. The sight of it sets me on edge.
“I’m a cohort with the Angelics.”
“What does that even mean? You mentioned a safe haven. Are these Angelics like you guys? Do they have somewhere safe where we can take Ezra?”
Ezra keeps quiet, eyes trained on the bedding.
“The Angelics are an organized group of AWOL recidivists. They were founded long ago by their leader, Esther Brown. And they do have a safe haven; it’s located somewhere in Northern California. I can take you there with the help of another Angelic. His name is Atlas. He resides somewhere in Eureka, which is about a two-, three-hour drive from here. He told us to meet him at first light and can explain the rest then.”
“And how do you know we can trust him?” I ask.
“Co’—” Ezra warns.
“I’m simply looking out for us. Atlas is a stranger, and we don’t know anything else about these Angelics,” I say, exasperated.
“Do we have another choice?” he says.
I clamp my mouth shut. I’m worried about what I say around him, but he’s right. I don’t know what else we can do. A safe haven sounds too good to be true, but if bringing Ezra there is an option, we have to take that risk. I’m not completely on board—I’ll just need to put a little faith in Tommy and hope for the best. Ezra appears to trust him, for the most part. And I’d trust Ezra with my life.
“Atlas is good people. I’ve met him a few times. He’s who convinced me to join the Angelics, to aid recidivists in need,” Tommy tells us.
