Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Staring at the house, my heart sinking further with every beat, I murmur, “Of course not.”
“Because I am logged into the account and prepared to shut your card down with a single click,” he continues, his voice deceptively smooth. “I will then call the bank to inform them your card was stolen, and that withdrawal should be considered theft. They can look up your car on the security footage at the bank you withdrew from, and things will only get worse from there. At least you won’t have to worry about going to school tomorrow, because I’m going to withdraw you from the university.”
I was so close, too. It’s stupid of me to think I can get away. I know Wren wants to be helpful, but she doesn’t quite understand what’s going on here. And I can’t keep letting myself get caught up in these fantasies of freedom. It’s not going to happen.
“Do you understand me?” he asks after I’m silent for too long. “Get home. Now. Before I start making good on my promises.”
What am I supposed to do? He could call the police on me. I fully believe he would if he doesn’t get his way. I fully believe he would say whatever it takes.
Calling Wren, I explain, “I need to go home. He saw me take money out of the ATM and knows I’m planning something.”
“You don’t have to go!” she insists. “You know Briggs would help you through anything that happens.”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I tell her. “This is my problem. I have to figure it out on my own.” Maybe if I say that enough, I’ll actually believe there’s a way to do it. How much more of this can I take? Being pulled back-and-forth, believing then having my hopes crushed.
I have to prepare myself once I come to a stop at home. He’s probably going to be furious, full of threats and rage. Maybe I should remind him he’s not the only one who can call the police. If he hurts me, at least I’ll have evidence. That’s how desperate he’s made me.
Instead of hearing his enraged shout once I’ve stepped through the front door, I hear noise in the kitchen. A lot of noise—pots and pans clanging, the oven door opening and closing. When I tiptoe in the direction and peer around the edge of the wide doorway leading inside, I find a pair of women loading aluminum pans into the oven, like they came from a restaurant or catering company. What the hell is this?
“There you are.” Dad’s sudden appearance behind me makes me jump, a yelp lodged in my throat. Rather than the violence I expected, he treats me with what seems like nerves. Like he’s worried about something. “It took you long enough. Go upstairs, get yourself dressed up for dinner.”
I’m starting to seriously wonder if he’s got a split personality.
Whatever his problem is, I’m having a hell of a time keeping up with him. He’s freshly shaven, hair neatly groomed, adjusting his cufflinks. “We’re having dinner here?” I ask.
“Good to know all the money I shell out on your tuition is well spent.” Rolling his eyes, he replies, “Yes, we’re having dinner here. We have an important guest coming. I need you to look your best.”
A guest. Not this again. “Clark?” I whisper, and now I wish I had stayed at Briggs’s. Nothing Dad could do to me would be worse than having to spend a meal with that creep. Could I make a run for it?
He scowls, shaking his head. “No, and enough questions. The clock is ticking. He’ll be here in an hour, and you need a lot of work.” Scoffing, he breezes past me on his way into the kitchen, where he gives orders on how he wants the table set in the dining room. We’re eating in the dining room? This must be important.
I swear if I didn’t know better, I’d think I never woke up this morning. This whole day has been a dream. Only dreams are this disjointed and difficult to make sense of. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I need to stop trying to make sense of things. It’s a waste of time.
As soon as I’m in my room with the door closed and locked, I pull out my phone and call Tucker. Why Tucker, of all people? I don’t know. Maybe because he was here last night. Because I haven’t talked to him yet today, and he’s come to my rescue in the past. I need to be rescued, dammit. I need somebody to help me.
When his voicemail picks up, I have to bite back a groan of pure dismay. “I need your help. Please, call me back.” After ending the call there, I fire off a text.
Me: Please, call me. It’s an emergency.