Page 5 of Saving Sophia

Mr. Roscoe’s eyes swiveled from the dead man to lock directly onto me. Somewhere across the distance of a thousand miles, he said the command that compelled me earlier. “Come here.”

But this time, I didn’t obey.

I turned around and sprinted out the door, those stupid shoes still dangling from my hand.

2

SOPHIA

A gun.

In Mr. Roscoe’s hand.

The dark, spreading stain on the blue velvet.

Had I seen a wisp of smoke coming from the barrel? Or was my imagination filling in awful details?

I ran blindly through the club, pushing past patrons, my bare feet making decisions for me while my brain tried to wrap itself around what just happened. I managed to get out of the building on simple luck and adrenaline, bursting out and racing along the sidewalk into the dirty haze of nighttime streetlights and smog.

Where should I go?

Was I being followed? At any moment would a hand fall hard on my shoulder? Turn me around to face the barrel of a gun?

I was panting, half-running, bumping into people and earning glares and curious looks. I needed to calm down and make a plan. Where could I hide? Where could I go?

I turned down a side street into a big outdoor shopping mall, busy with shoppers. Maybe I could lose myself in the crowd, tuck into the corner of a vendor’s stall and stay out of sight. At least get my ridiculous shoes back on my feet.

I ducked behind a huge pile of Persian rugs.

“Looking for a carpet this evening?” a thin, nasal voice asked, so close it made me flinch.

“Oh, no thank you … just looking,” I babbled, tracing my finger over the pattern of the nearest rug as though I had a clue what I was looking at.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The merchant’s voice had a permanent wheedling tone as though he might have swallowed a bee. “Do you have a particular room in mind?”

Why couldn’t this guy leave me alone? I didn’t exactly look like someone shopping for carpets. I searched the crowd, terrified of who might be pursuing me. “I don’t … have a room.”

The merchant’s eyes narrowed, assessing my skimpy costume, complete with sandals still dangling in my hand where a purse should be.

A purse.

Shoot.

I’d left my bag with my money, keys, phone, and ID in my locker at the club.

“Perhaps you might care to?—”

“Excuse me,” I squeaked and darted away.

I ran down a few stalls toward a dress vendor, with several racks of huge, fluffy dresses for proms, quinceanera celebrations, and weddings. Maybe I could fade into the sequins and lace.

I bent over, trying to catch my breath as I strapped those miserable, beer-soaked sandals back on my feet. What should I do?

I needed my stuff. I had to go back to the club.

No way.

But they wouldn’t expect me to do it? My mind grasped for every chase sequence of every movie I’d ever watched—it was a common tactic to double back to the scene of the crime.

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