was right, that first night I arrived. There are more than four cars. There are nine, counting mine, tucked all the way at the end in front of one of the doors. A panel on the wall has easy enough buttons. I hit one and the door in front of my car lifts.
A hundred silent prayers race through my brain while I run. Please, let the keys be in the car. Please, let him not be chasing me. Please, please, please. The first thing I do is pop the trunk. Wedged all the way in the back are a pair of rain boots I had for a mandatory horticulture class. A brisk wind whips in as I pull them on. Better than nothing. Better than staying.
The keys are in the ignition and the car comes to life without hesitation.
I sag over the steering wheel. “Thank you,” I whisper to the car.
Which makes me think of Leo.
Which makes me put the car in drive and gun it out of the garage.
The final obstacle is the gate, and I accelerate toward it and hold my breath. Believe. Believe that it’s going to open. Believe that I can survive this if I have to crash through it and run. I believe.
It opens.
I sail through, almost let down by how easy it was.
A fresh layer of powder covers the center line, and I concentrate so hard on driving that it takes me several miles to notice the lack of snowflakes inside the car. Someone must have been working on it. Leo must have had someone working on it. I shake my head and turn up the radio. No thinking about him now. Not when my heart is out of its mind.
I follow the light pollution to the highway, and the highway to the city, and the city’s edge to the same road where all of this started. I’m three blocks past the alley where I first met Leo when the car shudders.
“Not now,” I tell it, and pat the wheel. “Not now. We have to get home first.”
It shudders again, and dread turns my stomach.
“No, no, no.” I don’t have a coat. I don’t have a purse. I don’t have anything, and if this car dies, I will be so, so screwed. It’s nighttime at the wharf. My hair is standing on end.
The car whines, rising into a shriek, and the wheel jerks in my hands. It’s unsteady now, all wrong noises and a hard rattle that makes my teeth snap together. I make it to the side of the road and throw the driver’s side door open.
Screaming into the steering wheel will not fix this. The only thing that will fix this is walking until I find a place that will let me borrow a phone. Jesus, it’s cold. The wind is made from blades that grab at my dress and tear at my skin. Going across the street at least gets me some mild protection from the gusts. I’m not much of a runner, but I break into a jog. The air is so cold it hurts—or I’m used to Leo’s house, which seemed cold at first, cold and forbidding, but is actually warm. It’s so warm.
I do not want to go back.
I don’t.
My teeth chatter. All the stores I pass are dark, but there will be a bodega or a café or somewhere with a person inside. Someone will have a cell phone. Somehow I’ll call my family, and they will come to get me, and I will be warm and safe and—
A hand shoots out of an alley, barring my path. I run straight into it. The fist wraps around the front of my dress and pulls me into an alley. “Hey.” I try to dislodge the hand, but he’s holding on tight. “Hey. Stop.”
“You stop.” The man grins. “Girls running down the street like that have to stop and see us. We’re in charge of this block, and we don’t let people go through without a chat.”
I grab his wrist in both hands and twist at it, my stomach sinking. I don’t remember. I don’t remember the self-defense class I took my freshman year. I don’t remember how to use his weight as leverage. My nails are all I have, and I dig them into the skin of his wrist.
“Bitch,” he spits, and then his arm is around my neck, my back to his chest, and he’s dragging me farther back into the shadows.
There are three of them, there