My adrenaline is ebbing away, leaving me goose-bumped and shaky and very aware that this house isn’t heated. I helpGrant hobble to the drop cloth–covered couch in the living room, then toss him a few mismatched blankets from the basket in the corner. I’m relieved to find some leftover logs by the stone fireplace, along with a stack of old newspapers and a box of matches on the mantel. Perfect. If I have to spend the night in hiding with a hostage who thinks I’m a maniac, at least I can do it by the light of a cozy fire.
Satisfied with the modest flames crackling in the hearth, I finally turn to face Grant. He’s grimacing with his leg propped over his opposite knee, gingerly rolling his ankle.
“If you can do that, it’s probably not broken,” I suggest. “I broke my ankle once. Here, actually. I bet my best friend Steph I could get enough air from the rope swing out front to land in the water. Fun fact: I could not.”
Grant looks around, frowning at the lacy curtains, the family photos, the seashells on the mantel, and the bookshelves crammed with old jigsaw puzzles and board games. “This is your house?”
“No, Steph’s. Her family’s, I mean. But they wouldn’t mind.” I don’t question the words until I say them. I’m sure they’d be happy to offer me sanctuary from a murderer; it’s the whole fugitive-with-a-captive thing that’s more of a gray area.
I blow out a big breath and drag a wicker chair over the nubby braided rug. “Okay. I’m going to tell you what’s going on now, but I need to warn you. It’s the craziest thing that has ever happened to me, and I once ran from a bull stampede in sandals and a dress after joining what I thought was a walking tour of Pamplona. So again: Open mind, got it?”
He nods in a way that’s moreyes, fine, just don’t kill methando tell, I’m all ears, but I’ll take it.
I stare at him for a moment, unsure where to start.
“I made a wish that backfired and now I’m trapped in a crime novel,” I blurt.
Rip-the-Band-Aid approach it is.
Grant’s expression doesn’t change. He blinks once, then speaks slowly. “You made a wish …”
I nod. “To be the main character. Of a … novel.” He doesn’t need to know that it was supposed to be a romance. It’s not that I’m embarrassed; I just don’t have time for his inevitable literary academic judgment. “The thing is, I didn’tmeanfor it to be a crime novel. I didn’t mean it at all, really. It was a joke. But it came true, and now there’s a killer after me and I have no idea what to do.”
I tell my (literal) captive audience everything. Well, almost. I skim over the details of meeting Jack and how exactly I came to be at the scene of the crime. But I tell him about the Gifter, the near-stabbing, the escape. Everything up until I wrecked his Friday evening.
“Again, so sorry,” I say. “But those are the facts. I never intended any harm. I didn’t even know you were in the car when I took it. But then you went on and on about writing and story structure and crime novels and …” I stop to catch my breath and try to assess how convinced Grant seems. He looks more thoroughly weirded out than ever. I lean closer in desperation and he pulls back. “I’m out of my depth here. I don’t read crime or thrillers or anything like that. I have no idea what to expect. But you do. You can help me navigate this and make it out in one piece. Please? Will you help me?”
He hesitates for a silent moment, shadows from the fire dancing on his face. It’s the kind of face that looks accustomed to being in deep thought—not severe but focused, with pensive brown eyes. Something in them softens just a bit as he finally speaks.
“I think you’re right,” he says quietly. “That you need help.” A tidal wave of relief begins to crash over me, then freezes as I see the look in his eyes. It’s not belief. It’s pity. “Maybe there’s someone we can call? A counselor or doctor or something?”
I deflate. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t say that. Maybe just … having an episode of some kind?”
I clamp my lips between my teeth, at a loss for how to convince him. Then I remember Anna’s post.
“Look,” I say, retrieving my phone and tapping through Instagram. “The author—Anna Matthews—posted about it tonight. Everything lines up.” I hold the phone up for him to read. When his dubious gaze shifts back to me, I bring up my own profile. “I’mRoxie Mitchell,” I say, shoving the screen back toward him. “She even used my name!”
He leans back, still looking at me with that horrible sympathetic expression. “I can see how that would be confusing,” he says. “But it’s just a coincidence. This isn’t a crime novel. No one is trying to kill you. You’re safe, okay? Just let me call someone for you.”
I scoff, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, right. Someone like the cops? Nice try.” The hope drains from his face, needling me with guilt. “Look, I’m not a bad person. I don’tdothis. I don’t steal cars, I don’t crash them into the ocean, I don’t hold hostages in my best friend’s summer house.”
“Youhave, though. You’ve done all those things.” He pauses, his brow wrinkling in thought. “Except for the hostage, actually. That’s only if you’re holding someone as security for demands. Otherwise this is just a kidnapping.”
I blink at him. “Did you just correct me aboutmy owncrimes?”
He raises his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, don’t make this worse than it already is. Please just let me go.”
“Where, Grant? And how?” I’ve been careful not to seem hostile, but I’m losing patience. “If you recall, I destroyed our transportation, and you’ve got a bum ankle. Believe me or don’t, but you’re stuck with me until I can figure out what to do. And frankly, I really suggest you start believing me because let me tell you, it isgrimout there.”
Grant says nothing, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and I suddenly feel exhausted. What am I doing? Nothing I say is going to convince him to help me. And it’s not like I can blame him.
“I’ll go see if I can find you a wrap bandage or something,” I say with a sigh of defeat. “Just—don’t leave, okay?” He doesn’t move or speak as I back away, but there’s a subtle brightening in his eyes that tells me this is futile. “Or do,” I say. “I don’t really care at this point. Best of luck to you.”
My brain is shorting out as I climb the stairs, trying to figure out a plan B. Does it even count as plan B when you’re making everything up on the fly? What I really need to do is track down the Gifter and get them to take this all back. I can do that with or without Grant. The question is whether he’ll stay out of my way or immediately rat me out to the police. I have a feeling I’ve done too much car theft and kidnapping tonight to win their support. The wholehelp, I’m trapped in a bookangle probably won’t help either.
I flip on the upstairs light and head toward the bathroom and its first aid stash. I’m well acquainted with it after many summers of jellyfish stings and splinters; tending to an injured hostage—sorry,nothostage—is a first.
