“You think so?” I ask.
“I know so,” Dad replies. Standing, we hug. He claps me on the back, and we go back out
into the living room.
Feeling better after talking to my dad, we eat dinner and end up staying the night. For
the first time in months, she doesn’t get any calls or texts from an unknown number. Brynn takes that as a good sign, I, on the other hand, can’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that something terrible is about to happen.
Chapter 20
Brynn
The messenger service turned out to be a bust, unless of course, Wile E. Coyote is after me. It’s been over a week of blessed silence from Mr. Coyote, though. Is it too much to hope he died, and it’s all over? Probably. Brendan thinks it’s the calm before the storm, and I’m starting to agree with him. I have been on edge all week. If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d probably be drinking all the damn time.
After an eventful day at school, complete with a district-wide bomb threat drill, the day is finally over. It’s only April, but it’s already hot out. At least, it is to me. While I am wearing a summer dress, flip-flops, and fanning myself with a flyer, Arabella is bundled up in her coat, wearing jeans and fur-lined boots. I am chalking it up to the hard work of growing a human being. Surely, that makes you sweat a lot… Arabella and I are sitting on a stone bench in front of the school. We are talking while waiting for someone to come pick her up. All the other students have either been picked up, taken the bus, or walked home. Arabella is usually the last to leave. Her housekeeper is always late. Joel and Javier are hovering nearby as always, looking stoic.
“How is Madame Groulx treating you these days, Arabella?” I ask. Anything to pass the
time so that I am not dwelling on the heat.
“She’s great. She still doesn’t know about my eyes, but my solo is progressing nicely.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell her. Marguerite Groulx is one of those bitches you just don’t want to be friends with. She’s terrible to adults as well as the kids, but because she is the best ballet dancer-turned-choreographer in this hemisphere, we all endure her and her wrath.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I am auditioning for Clara in The Nutcracker. The performances start in late October. I have a callback in three weeks with four other girls. I am so nervous,” she says excitedly.
“That’s amazing. The Nutcracker was the first ballet I saw. My father took me when I was nine. I have such fond memories of it. You will be fantastic as Clara.”
“You think so?” she asks hesitantly.
“I know so,” I reply.
“Where did you get your shoes, Mrs. O?” she asks.
“My shoes?” I ask distractedly as my phone dings, and I pick it up. The text message says time’s up from an unknown number. Shit. I can still hear Arabella talking, but I can’t understand what she’s saying.
Suddenly, a black van with blacked-out windows screeches to a halt in front of us. The side door opens, and a gun with a silencer attached appears. Fuck, I think, springing into action, I turn and fling my body on top of Arabella’s, pushing us to the ground. As soon as my knees hit the grass, I feel Joel come down on top of us, covering both of us.
“What’s going on?” Arabella asks into my neck.
“Shh,” I whisper, freaking out internally.
It’s not long, maybe ten seconds, before I hear the gun go off twice. The quick pop, pop, sound the gun makes as it’s fired chills me to my core. Though a silencer suppresses the loudness of a gunshot, it can still be heard, just not eardrum piercing loudness. It’s definitely not as silent as Hollywood portrays it to be. Suddenly, Joel isn’t on us anymore. Before I can move, Arabella and I are both snatched up by a bald, fat man I don’t recognize. We are thrown into the back of the van forcefully. The door shuts, and something is thrown over my head. I can no longer see, but I can hear Arabella screaming. Then everything fades after I feel a pinprick in my right arm.
Gasping, I open my eyes. Blinking into the darkness, I wait until my eyes adjust to it. I have no idea where I am, but it’s getting easier to see with each passing second. The last thing I remember is being at Ballet Prep with Arabella. We were outside waiting for her ride, talking about shoes when everything went down. Suddenly, I remember her screams. Frantically, I look around the room until I see her huddled in the corner on the floor. I have no idea how we got here, wherever here is. As I am contemplating this, a burst of light comes into the room from the doorway.