BOOK TWO OF THE SCARLETT CHRONICLES |
After being kidnapped as a young child, seventeen year old Scarlett Grey found her way home to her family. For months, she struggled to find a balance between the girl she'd left behind and the girl she had beco...
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HE GOT BACK in the truck the next minute and we drove away.
I hadn't watched to see if the girl had seen my plea. I'd doubted she had, and I wasn't going to risk her safety trying to make it any more obvious. All I could do was sit in silence and pray to anybody who would listen for this to all be over.
I didn't know how long we had been driving for after the gas station. It was dark outside and we didn't pass anymore signs that hinted at our whereabouts, but with each mile I was sure we covered, I gradually lost all hope that we might see a police cruiser in our rear view.
Come to think of it, I hadn't noticed any headlights anywhere in our travels— not since we passed that black vehicle just before I had passed out. The more I thought about it, the more unrealistic it seemed.
How could we travel this far and see only a single car at a rural gas station?
Don't get your hopes up, Scarlett. It's god-knows-what o'clock at night, only crazy people are out at this time.
The voice in my head was probably right. I'd hit my head and wasn't processing information properly.
"You are awake," he stated, glancing over at me for just a second.
I had been in and out of consciousness more than once. There was no functioning clock in the truck, so I couldn't tell how long I was out for at a time. But apparently he had noticed.
"Yes," I murmured quietly, pulling my my legs up onto the seat and wrapping my arms around my knees.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his jaw work. "How's the head?"
It felt like I had been hit by a truck. "Fine," I lied.
To my surprise, and disgust, he nodded his head curtly. "We'll get you something for that when we get home, Angel."
A shiver ran down my spine at his tone— warm and... caring?
Why was he pretending to care? He'd had to threaten the lives of people I love the most just to get me in this seat. Someone who cared about me would never do that. They would never run me down with a truck, bind me and shove me into that truck and drive me away into the night. That wasn't caring, that was psychopathy.
