Page 8 of Offside Angel

I should be halfway to Oregon by now. I even stopped at a library today and looked up “Things to do in Portland” on the public computer. As if I’m on a sightseeing trip instead of running from my deranged brother.

But as I scrolled through the list, I couldn’t help but wonder what Aiden would make of a ride on the aerial tram or which books he’d choose from Powell’s. I imagined holding hands with Zane while we walked along the waterfront.

Now, I’m alone in another shitty motel on the outskirts of Phoenix because I don’t have the heart to face any of that alone. I can’t even imagine being further from Zane and Aiden than I am right now.

Which is a problem.

“I just have to go,” I mutter, testing out my voice for the first time today. The most interaction I’ve had in weeks is the motel clerk who told me he was glad I hadn’t killed myself.

It could’ve been worse, but it could also be…

Well, actually, I don’t think it will get better than the life I was building here in Phoenix.

“There’s nothing for me here,” I say more forcefully, trying to drill that reality into my own head.

I can’t be with the people I want to be with, and the longer I stay, the more danger I’m in.

The more danger they are in.

So I shove the few items of clothing I have into my duffel bag and get ready for check-out.

This time, I’m going to leave.

This time, I’m really going to start over.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk to the door. But as I’m reaching for the handle, someone pounds on the other side of it.

I barely manage to bite back a yelp as I throw myself away from the door.

I wait for them to announce themselves—maintenance or housekeeping or room service to the wrong unit. I wait for my sign that I’m just being paranoid and this isn’t the nightmare I’ve been running from for the last six years.

But there’s nothing. Only an eerie, all-consuming silence.

My heart is in my throat, but I quickly grab my bag and retreat to the bathroom. Running is a finely-tuned instinct. I don’t need to think about it.

As soon as I checked in late morning, I tested to make sure the bathroom window opened. I can use the trash can for a boost and climb over the sill. It’ll dump me behind the building. I can run into the ravine behind the motel and hide there until I can get to my car.

Or ditch the car.

If Dante is here, he might know what I’m driving. But there’s a Greyhound station not far up the road. I can take a bus and?—

Something heavy thuds against the door, and I jolt so hard, my shoulder bashes against the bathroom door frame.

This is it. He’s found me.

I push through the panic and lift the windowsill, but it catches. The stupid thing slid open like a dream earlier, but now, the glass is off-centered in the paint-crusted frame. It’s wedged in tight.

“Open,” I beg, pounding the palm of my hand against the metal, trying to straighten it out. “For God’s sake, open.”

There’s another thud behind me. The walls are shaking and tears are pooling in my eyes.

“Please,” I whimper, jockeying the window back and forth to try to loosen it. “I don’t want to die.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when the door explodes open.

I scream and drop to the floor. This is how it ends, I think. In the fetal position in a motel bathroom. This is how I die.

“Mira?”

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