Page 6 of Escaping Our Reality

And then it happens. A small iota of an idea grabs the corner of my mind. It tugs annoyingly at my subconscious, twisting and turning reality into a distorted vision of horror.

That can’t be right.

My mind is playing tricks on me.

It has to be. It just has to be.

I increase my speed as my heart thunders in my chest, and I find myself racing for answers.

And racing back to Caleb’s apartment as fast as my $100,000 vehicle can legally carry me.

Chapter 4

ELLA

Caleb barely has the apartment door open before my loud words push against him violently. “Why does my sister go to that crap-hole gas station!”

It takes Caleb a few seconds to recover. Dressed in gym shorts and a T-shirt with a beer bottle in hand, he glances self-consciously over his shoulder to the group of friends scattered around his living room, playing video games. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Ella, I already told you. I don’t know.”

His eyes shift back and forth as he stares at the concrete threshold, and then he takes a long swig of his beer, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

My head cocks to the side, deep in concentration. “But you have an idea?” That comment sparks some interest.

Eventually, he sighs, shifting his body to the side so I can enter his second-story apartment. He nods to the back balcony door, indicating the need for some privacy. I recognize several of the guys in his living room, not only from the times that I hung out here with Carrie, but from the searches that we did for her right after she went missing. As I approach, a handful of them catcall to me, inviting me to join the play on the newest and latest video game.

“Not now.” Caleb’s firm tone leaves nothing for debate, and they quickly turn their attention away from us.

I take a seat in one of the chairs on the back balcony.

“Just a second. I’ll be right back.” Caleb returns a few moments later and passes a bottle of water and a blanket to mebefore taking the seat next to mine. He’s holding a long-sleeve shirt in his hand and quickly pulls it over his head, adding an extra layer to fight against the cooler temperature of the night.

Settling into the chair, he twists the lid off his fresh beer bottle and tosses the cap into a small trash can stashed in the corner. Neither of us speak; we just stare in silence, looking out through the black metal slats of his balcony railing.

“So, you have an idea of why she goes to that gas station? Why she drives thirty minutes when there are fifteen gas stations less than five minutes from our house?”

Caleb’s solemn face is sobering. He’s always been so jovial and happy. I just knew that one day he would be my brother-in-law. I knew it the minute I saw him and Carrie together. They met the week she started college, in her American History class. He was basically a member of my and Carrie’s little nuclear family. Until he and Carrie stopped dating.

Completely cold turkey.

They stopped calling one another, stopped seeing one another, stopped... everything. Carrie refused to talk about it. Even to me. I thought she just needed time, so I didn’t pressure her.

Why rush? We had all the time in the world.

Until we didn’t.

He nods and takes a long, deep drink from his bottle. I mindlessly run my fingertips around the back of my neck and finger the raised edges of my scar, patiently waiting.

“Carrie’s a drug addict, Ella.”

My heart stops. My breathing stops.

Drug activity became my educated hypothesis upon observing the gas station cashier and patrons all afternoon, but I refused to believe that Carrie was directly involved in that. The whole ride back into town, I marinated on a myriad of possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.

Maybe Carrie somehow got roped into being an informant for the police and she goes to the gas station to keep tabs on the comings and goings of criminals. Maybe she got recruited by an overzealous reporter to act as some undercover spy to detail what happens in the drug underworld. Hannah is a journalism major, I think, so it’s completely plausible.

But all of my fantasies dissolve into a bitter pile of acid with Caleb’s one simple statement.

“Wh—what?” My voice is raspy and dry.

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