What Lurks Beneath the Surface ✔️

chapter thirty-two

"Clem, get behind me," I hiss, stepping in front of the ten-year-old.

"You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" he sneers, folding his arms over his chest.

I swallow the lump in my throat. I thought I'd seen him angry before, but I was wrong. That night at Poppy's was nothing compared to this.

The vein in his forehead bulges out as he approaches us. There are half a dozen cops outside waiting to break down the door, but that doesn't silence the fearful voice inside my head. I've seen enough Law & Order to know how this works. They can't start mindlessly shooting; one of their bullets might hit us, the hostages, instead of Benson, the perpetrator.

"Just let us go," I beg him. "The police are outside. You've already been caught. Please."

"Did you even get into Columbia, or was that just a ploy to get me on the phone?" he snaps.

"Did you ever plan on moving to New York, or was that just a way to lead me off your trail?" I retort, refusing to let him manipulate me again.

Smirking, he says, "I was going to go to New York. My goal was to settle down there with Clem. Eventually, when you moved for school, I was gonna invite you to join us." His dark eyes flicker with sadness. "I wanted us to be a family. A real family."

"Are you delusional?" I spit back. "You can't start a family by kidnapping one child and hoping the other will just look past the felony and move in with you! Besides, we have a family. You're just not part of it."

"I used to be," he murmurs, "until Bowie and Gemma spoiled everything."

"I'm not joining your pity party again. Let us go!"

"Not a chance. As soon as that door opens, I'm getting cuffed and sent to jail."

"Just let us leave, you psycho!" I cry. The only thing standing between me and that door is Benson, and I don't want to be trapped with him for another second.

"You know, Evangeline," he goes on, "you're just like my brother and sister. You stick your nose where it doesn't belong. You put yourself in the middle of situations that you can't even begin to understand."

"Maybe, but you're wrong about the last part," I tell him, shaking my head. "This is a situation I do understand. I understand that you're a sad, pathetic excuse of a man who thinks the world owes him something. I understand that you're a criminal who deserves to die behind bars. I understand that you will never change, and I was stupid to think you—"

Benson reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and pulls out a shiny black handgun, silencing me instantly.

He has a gun. My father is pointing a gun at me.

Inside of my own sweatshirt pocket, my cell phone rings.

"Answer it," Benson commands.

I don't even look at the caller ID. "H-hello?" I say.

"I love you, pretty girl, but once we get you out of there, I might just kill you myself. Are you alright?"

Rem's voice brings tears to my eyes. I think about our car ride a mere hour ago, about the song he sang to me, about his fingers wrapped around mine.

"Vange? Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Tell him I have a gun," Benson orders, "and that the police better back off before I start shooting."

"He has a g-gun," I repeat, "and the police better back off before he starts sh-shooting."

Benson smiles. "Now hang up the phone."