He’s right.
And I can’t explain any of it.
The police would be called, which was, ironically, what I wanted from the beginning, except Mom said we couldn’t go to the police. I stand and move to one of the front windows to peer through the gap in the curtains and watch the couple heading toward the office.
Malcolm has maneuvered himself to the other window by the time I turn back. I’m both impressed and alarmed that he was able to get that far while being tied up. And I’m that much more certain I don’t want to cut him free. But if we’re going to get out of here, I don’t have another choice.
I walk to the bathroom, dig my fingers under the razor-sharp window frame—the one that matches the slice on my hip—and pry one side loose.
Malcolm presses back into the wall when he sees me coming at him with the sharp piece of metal.
I kneel down at his side and reach around him. The angle is awkward; his shoulder digs into my chest as I saw through the zip tie around his wrists. “As soon as we’re away from here, you are going to tell me everything.” I can’t back up my words with a threat, because once he’s untied, I won’t have much leverage at all. I move to the bindings on his ankles while he rubs the circulation back into his hands, carefully avoiding the bleeding red rings encircling each wrist.
“Days,” he says, catching my stare. “I don’t even know how long, but I doubt I would have made it to four if you hadn’t helped me.”
“And I wouldn’t be running for my life if you hadn’t pointed the way.” I cut through the last tie on his ankles and glare at him. “Save your gratitude.”
I leave him to get to his feet by himself and round up whatever looks potentially useful from the supplies strewn across the floor. I repack my backpack with the rest of the protein bars and as many of the first-aid supplies as I can carry. I’m not taking any grocery bags; I need both my hands free.
I grab my makeshift knife, crafted from the edge of the bathroom window, and make sure Malcolm sees me tuck it into the waistband of my jeans.
He limps toward the door, and I can’t help wondering if he’s playing up his injury so that I’ll lower my guard. But he could be dragging himself across the floor with one arm, and I’d still bring the weapon with me.
I make a show of keeping my hand on it and nod my chin for Malcolm to precede me outside.
Malcolm’s progress is slow once we’re outside—too slow. I move to his left side, keeping the edge of the window-frame knife tucked on the outside and farthest from his grip, and sling his arm around my shoulder.
I decide he’s not playing up how hurt he is. There is a fine sheen of sweat along his brow, and his lips draw tighter together with each step.
I tug his hoodie up over his head, hoping it’ll provide enough shadow for his face in case anyone approaches. And I lean in close, trying to look like any other couple—albeit a drunk and staggering one—wrapped around each other and heading for our room. The performance is a pathetic one, but it doesn’t raise an eyebrow from anyone we pass.
I spare a glance behind my shoulder once we’re a few rooms away, and see three people exit from the main office: two men and a woman in very high heels. I don’t need to see them point to the room we’d left behind to know who they are.
I’m grateful beyond words that Mom checked in without me. The manager won’t look twice at Malcolm and me, or if he does, he won’t connect us to the room with the busted-down door some twenty feet behind us. Still, I try to increase our speed, despite the very clear protests from the back of Malcolm’s throat.
We finally round the corner of the motel and take a few more steps to the back. I help lower Malcolm to a sitting position against the wall, rather than drag him along with me any farther.
“I’m going to make sure they don’t come looking this way. But don’t try to run,” I tell him. “I’m fast, and I will catch you. And then I’ll be mad that you made me chase you.”
I don’t even recognize the words I’m saying, and my low, flat voice is starting to freak me out. I’m not particularly fast and I’m certainly not violent, and yet I must be doing a decent job of faking both those things, because Malcolm doesn’t argue.
“Where am I gonna go?” He lifts one arm to gesture at the tree line nearby. No sign of civilization.
He doesn’t look like he plans to willingly move anytime soon, but I know I’d run when given the chance, so I glance back at him every few seconds as I peer around the front of the motel. After several minutes, the three people emerge from our room and retrace their steps to the office.
When the couple reappears again, the man is swinging a room key around his index finger. The manager isn’t far behind them, carrying a toolbox in one hand and a hammer in the other. He looks distinctly unhappy but also resigned.
I let my head drop against the side of the building in relief that he doesn’t appear to have called the police. I pull the broken cell from my pocket; even I can tell it’s beyond repair. My breath catches as I’m reminded again that this is the longest I’ve ever gone without talking to Mom. Why hasn’t she come back? Why did she leave me alone with nothing but a crappy cell phone?
Something horrible must have happened to keep her from calling me. And even if she tries now, she won’t reach me. The broken cell phone mocks me with its shattered screen, and it’s only Malcolm’s presence that keeps panic from closing in.
I don’t want to go back to him, to tether any part of my future to his.
But now he’s my only link to Mom.
Turning, I face Malcolm with an expression as dead as I feel. He hasn’t moved. He isn’t even watching me.
His eyes flutter open at the crunching gravel under my feet as I approach. “Are they still looking?”
