I sat up straight.
The SUV rolled to a stop about ten yards away, facing me—the vague outline of the driver visible through the dark glass.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. They rested awkwardly in my lap. I wanted to appear confident, unafraid. I knew I looked like neither of those things. I moved them to my sides, gripped the bench, then I folded them at my chest and slid down slightly, hoping to at least look relaxed. I felt like a goof.
The back door opened, and Latrese Oliver stepped out in her long white coat.
She leaned into the SUV, said something to someone, then started toward me, her stride and poise representing all that I was not. Elite, superior, dominant.
When she stopped a few feet from me, she said not a word, only glared, glowered, her lips pursed tight.
The uncomfortable silence grew too unbearable. “Hello,” I finally said.
“She’s not here. If you want to see her, you need to come with us.”
I looked past her to the SUV. “Where?”
Ms. Oliver said nothing. Instead, she turned and started back toward the white vehicle.
There are times in life when we find ourselves at a crossroads. At sixteen, I didn’t quite understand this. Years would pass before I would even recognize such a thing. These crossroads become deciding factors, turning points.
Although completely out of my control, the death of my parents was one. Becoming friends with Dunk was another. I would soon find myself at a series of crossroads surrounding Auntie Jo. Life is a series of crossroads, and most of the time, they lead down one-way streets.
At that moment, I did not recognize this point as such a crossroad. I only saw it as a decision. I could stay here, I could remain on the bench, and most likely never see Stella Nettleton again. Or I could go with these people, who had shown me nothing but pain and ill will.
I stood.
I followed.
I went to the SUV.
Latrese Oliver held the back door open for me, and I climbed inside, sliding over to the seat behind the passenger. A man was in the driver’s seat, about thirty years old with short brown hair and dark aviator sunglasses. A woman sat in the front passenger seat. Her long blonde hair was braided, the end of which disappeared somewhere inside her white coat—a coat identical to the driver, both the same as Latrese Oliver.
Neither of these people acknowledged me as I got into the SUV (a Chevy Suburban, as Dunk had said four years earlier). Both only looked forward, their gazes fixed on some distant object.
Oliver got in beside me and pulled the door shut. “Do you have any weapons?”
“Do you?”
She smiled at this for a second, amused. Then, “Your friend’s gun. Is the weapon on you?”
So they did know about the gun.
“No.”
“And nothing else?”
“No.”
Oliver tugged a black hood from the storage pouch in the back of the driver’s seat, unfolded the thick material, and handed it to me. “Put this on.”
I considered arguing, knew it would do no good, and pulled the hood over my head.
The world went black then.
The Suburban lurched forward.
3
