Tone Deaf(70)

The deputy starts leading me toward the main hallway. I assume my dad is somewhere in this crowd, and that makes my gut twist and my blood burn. I’ve felt like this so many times before: terrified and filled with rage.

But now it’s . . . different. Before, there was shame mixed in with my emotions, and that always stopped me from trying anything stupid to get away. Or maybe anything smart. I’m not really sure which it is, but I do know that there’s no shame now. There’s just this intense concoction of fear and anger, and I’m finally going to put it to use.

I look around as we walk, searching for what I need. I pass a couple of bathrooms, but they’re too small. Finally, I see one of those huge airport restrooms with two entrances.

Bingo.

I nudge the deputy to get his attention. He glances down at me, but keeps walking. “What?” he asks.

I bite my lip and say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He sighs. “Hold it.”

“I can’t.”

Annoyance flashes across his expression. “Look, kid, my job is to get you back to your dad safely. I’m not here to change your diaper.”

There are a thousand and one things I want to say to him: that I’m not a kid, that he has no reason to be so demeaning, that it’s impossible for me to return to my dad and be safe. But instead, I think back to that puppy dog expression Killer always uses on Arrow. Even deputies can’t be immune to that level of pathetic, right?

I channel every ounce of inner puppy I have in me, pout my lip a little, and say, “Please? I really, really have to go. I’ll come right back, sir.”

Maybe it’s the puppy look that does it, or maybe it’s because I called him “sir.” But, for whatever reason, he gives an exasperated sigh and nods toward the bathroom. “Okay, go ahead. But I’ll be waiting right by the door, so don’t try anything.”

I nod and hurry into the bathroom, weaving through the crowd as fast as I can. A couple people shoot me annoyed looks, but to my surprise, not one stops me. With all the Amber Alert stuff, I figured someone would recognize me and try to “save” me. But no one does, and I make it into the bathroom without incident.

I figure I have about one minute before the deputy realizes there’s another entrance to the bathroom. Maybe two minutes, considering his level of intelligence. Either way, it’s not much time to escape.

I walk toward the opposite entrance, going as fast as I can without drawing attention. I’m twenty feet from the door. Ten. Five. Two . . .

A woman shoves open the door, and I stumble back to avoid smacking into it. I glance up to find the woman gaping at me, her eyes wide with shock. Then she points to me and says, “You’re Alison Collins! Sweetie, are you okay? People are looking all over for you!”

Heads turn toward us, and while most people immediately look away, a few start walking toward me. Shit. This is so not good.

I run. It’s a stupid thing to do—what better way to attract attention than to go sprinting through an airport? But I don’t have any other choice. Nothing I say is going to convince those women to leave me alone, and I’m not going to let go of my escape that easily.

I sprint out the door and dive into the crowd, pushing and shoving people out of my way. My heart pounds so hard that I think my chest might explode. I accidentally knock some guy to the ground, and I hesitate for single second, but then I just keep running.

Ahead, I see the main exit. I still have to get past security, but maybe I can do that. They should be more concerned about people running in than out. So they hopefully will let me by, and then—

Arms wraps around me from behind. I struggle wildly against them, but they’re too strong, and I’m trapped. A stream of profanities erupts from my mouth, and I hope I’m yelling them loud enough for the entire airport to hear.

The arms spin me around, and in a gut-wrenching moment, I realize how familiar the hands feel.

Rough. Indifferent. Angry.

Dad.

I have a single second to take in my dad’s face. He’s glaring down at me, but forcing a smile to appease the people surrounding us. The crowd converges around me. People are pressing in, and my chance at escape is long gone.

My dad keeps his hands on my shoulders as he guides me toward the exit. His grip grows tight, warning me not to try anything else. Tears press against my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I can’t cry in front of my dad. Even if he’s won, I can’t let him see me break down.

His hands dig into my shoulder blades, and I don’t think he’ll be loosening his grip anytime soon. He talks to the man at the security station, nodding and smiling at all the appropriate times. If I try to look at him objectively, I can see the relieved father happy to have his child back. But I peer closer, and I see the truth all the people around me are missing: he’s only relieved because he has me back under his control. And he’s not happy to see me, not really. He’s just happy he doesn’t have to chase after me anymore, and that his reputation as a good man is secure.

I look around, silently hoping someone else will see the truth in this situation. But the airport security is busy ushering passersby away from me, and I’m left alone with my dad. I see two police officers hurrying toward us, and I let out a quiet curse, which just makes my dad dig his fingers into me harder. I shut up and just glare at the officers as they approach. They’re no doubt friends of my dad who are here to help escort me away from the airport.