The Girls I've Been(71)

“Now,” he says.

I shake my head.

He shoots. Just like that. The plaster above my head splatters everywhere, a chunk of it hits my arm.

“Move, or she’s next.”

I have to move to survive. I’ll die if I leave him behind. I have to protect Iris. I can’t protect Wes. The thoughts misfire in my panicked head as he pushes me forward.

I have no way to spin this, and if you asked me who I am right now, I would tell you: scared, scared, scared.

Duane has two-thirds of everything I care about in this world in his hands, actually and metaphorically. He knows it now and he’ll use it.

The basement smells metallic and charred from the welding equipment scattered near the hole in the bars Red Cap made, all for nothing. Duane doesn’t even look toward the safe-deposit boxes; he’s got another prize now—he just needs to get away with me.

This is not how my plan was supposed to end. This is not how it was supposed to happen. Iris isn’t supposed to be draped over him, rag-doll limp, her curls and feet dangling. Wes isn’t supposed to be upstairs, all alone, huddling away from the smoke pouring in. Oh God, he’s all alone. He can’t. Not like this. Not like this.

I’m screaming as Duane pushes me out of the bank. I’ve gone feral, every tool and clever trick chased from my head in a flood of smoke and trapped, Wes is trapped in there.

He has Iris slung half across him like the human version of Kevlar, and me in front, the shotgun pressed against my back, but it doesn’t stop me. I keep screaming Wes’s name, and Get him, go get him at the scrambling deputies. But they stay crouched behind their patrol cars, guns aimed, and I can see it in their faces: There’s no clear shot. I don’t see Lee. Where is Lee?

It’s a blur as the smoke rises and Duane pushes me forward. The barrel digs into my back and there’s no way out or back or forward. There is no spinning away from this. Someone’s going to take the first shot, and then . . .

My eyes snag on the edge of his jacket, and then my mind snags on it half a second later. The jacket. He wasn’t wearing a jacket earlier.

He’s wearing Red Cap’s jacket. Why?

It clicks together like Newton’s Cradle, one thought hitting another like those little silver balls, the connection snapping through me, cause and effect.

Red Cap kept handing over the weapons, both of them, like it was nothing. I thought it was trust. I thought it was stupidity.

It wasn’t.

He was armed the entire time.

He has an ace up his sleeve. That’s what I’d scribbled on my note to Lee. The most useful thing I could think to give her: my gut feeling about this man. I hadn’t realized how literal I was being.

He reaches into the jacket pocket. My mind races, ticking balls hitting each other, back and forth, back and forth. Small. Portable. With enough effect to facilitate escape.

My mouth opens to scream it before he even pulls it out.

“GRENADE!”





— 56 —


12:26 p.m. (194 minutes captive)

1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys, 1 hunting knife, 1 chemical bomb (detonated), 1 giant fire starter (on fire), the contents of Iris’s purse (also on fire)

Plan #1: Scrapped

Plan #2: Working a little too well

Plan #3: Stab

Plan #4: Get gun. Get Iris and Wes. Get out.

Plan #5: Iris’s plan: Boom!

Plan #6: Don’t die.



I’m too late. He’s too fast. They’re too slow.

He doesn’t throw it through the air, there’s no graceful arc. He chucks it underhand with the kind of slow roll that makes it skitter-soar right under the middle squad car.

They scatter like spiders, but not far enough. Boom. The car goes flying up and then back, and he grabs my arm, pulling so hard that this time I’m yelling from pain.

It’s all smoke and fire and confused shouts, and he shoves me and Iris into the back seat of some car parked behind the bank. We squeal out of the parking lot before the deputies can recover.

He whoops as he zooms down the ranchland highway, no one following us yet. His elation is thick in the air and it just spells death for me, but why should he care? He’s nearly home free.

His smile turns mean when he catches my eye in the rearview mirror. My hand tightens around Iris’s arm, hoping it’ll wake her up. But she’s still slumped; there’s a bruise on her forehead that doesn’t look good, but at least she’s not bleeding. That’s good. Right? Unless it means she’s bleeding inside.

“Finally quiet, huh?” he asks me.

I’ve got nothing left and nowhere to go. I’ve got the knife in my pocket, but I can’t stab him, driving at this speed. He might shoot me or Iris. He’s already proven too fucking hardy for my own good, since stabbing him the first time didn’t stop him.

I’m racing through it, the anatomy I need to hit, and I’ll need to go for the neck, right? But then he might slam on the brakes by instinct. This fast, the car might flip. It’s old. There aren’t airbags. We’re not even belted in.

The world blurs and my mind turns and turns, trying to find a solution, because there’s no sound of sirens behind us or even in the distance. They’re not coming. They’re too busy back there.

He’s slowing down. My body goes alert, find an exit, con your way through it, and my hand tightens around Iris’s wrist. I need her to wake up, but she’s not. How hard did he hit her?