The Safehouse by Danielle Bannister

Author:Danielle Bannister
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781648984723
Publisher: City Owl Press

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AMANDA

It might seem like what I was doing was stupid. Irrational. Insane. In reality, it was the only logical play. We were trapped. If I surrendered and threw myself at Connor’s feet, acting so relieved that he’d saved me from Malcolm, as long as Malcolm stayed hidden, I might be able to save his life. Which was the only thing that mattered to me.

Hence the roofie. Malcolm wouldn’t have let me go in with this plan willingly. He would have fought me tooth and nail to stay inside that panic room. No. This time, I was going to save him.

I wasn’t sure how long I had before the drugs wore off and Malcolm woke up and came out, guns blazing, so I had to move fast. If Malcolm was right about the exits of the cabin, then I could at least get out, even if they couldn’t get in. Both exits had massive vault-like wheels needed to open them. For my fake backstory to work that I was making up as I went, both doors would need to be open. I was going to tell Connor that I escaped while Malcolm was out. That way, they would know he wasn’t still inside. It was the best I could do.

I opted to exit from the front door as I knew they were at least watching that exit. I had no idea if I’d be shot on sight or if they’d swoop in and grab me. Either way, Malcolm stood a chance. Even if I died, they didn’t know he was in that room, which meant he might live. And that was worth any price.

Swallowing my fears, I used all my strength, opened the front door, and ran. Hard. Like I was running away from a terrible monster. The performance of my life had begun, and I needed to sell every second of it.

With each step I took away from the safehouse the more the fear mounted. Tears welled in my eyes. These might be the last steps I ever took.

I kept waiting for Connor to appear from the bushes or for a bullet to take me down, but nothing came. So I kept running. Maybe he wasn’t here, but he had been. I’d seen it from the cameras. Someone was watching me. Tracking my actions. Reporting back. I could feel it. I couldn’t be seen going back to the safehouse now. I had to put distance between me and Malcolm.

At the end of the driveway, I had a choice. Left or right. I had no idea which direction we’d come from as I’d been out cold. To the right was all uphill, to the left was down. I opted for the easier path to run.

While the road was quiet, I wondered if I should attempt to stop any car that might pass by. The logic of my actions now would put Malcolm in danger if I played my hand wrong.

Would stopping cars for help make sense in this fictional story I was weaving? Ignoring a possible path to safety in this narrative seemed foolish.

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