Page 68 of In a Haze

“Send her—orhim—a text. Schedule a meeting.”

“What for?”

“For more evidence. Joe, we can’t just go back to the center and pretend like nothing’s happened. We’ve kidnapped my husband, for God’s sake. We’ve committed who knows how many other felonies. Breaking and entering. Stealing,” I say, shaking the burner in my hand to make a point. “Assault and battery.”

“So how do we get more evidence?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I just know that I donotwant to go back to the center—but I don’t think I have much of a choice.

I text the doctor, hoping my clipped tone matches Don’s usual messages. I also keep in mind that it’s unlikely anyone knows yet of our escape—unless, of course, they’ve unlocked our bedroom doors and entered. They don’t start getting us out of bed until between seven and ten. I glance at the clock on the dash to make sure I’m right. It says four fifty-eight, but I remember I need to add an hour, which means it’s almost seven o’clock.

We’re pushing it.

We need to meet immediately. After I press send, I stare at the phone as if willing it to respond.

“So should I head back to the institute?”

I swallow, forcing myself to remain calm, even though going back there is the last thing I want to do. “Yes.”

Finally, after several minutes, I get a response.Usual place. I’ll be a while.

I read the text to Joe and then ask, “Where do you think theusual placewould be?”

“Probably somewhere at the institute, don’t you think? It sounds to me like she takes in supposed patients, so it would have to be there.”

“Yes, butwherethere? It’s a big place.” I glance in the back of the van, thinking maybe we could ask Don, but he’s still out cold. Or is he dead? I continue staring at him until I see his chest slowly rise, confirming that he’s still alive.

“I doubt it’s near the front entrance.”

After a second, I say, “Maybe the parking garage? It’s away from watchful eyes, right? It would be easier to get someone in there if they’re bound and gagged without arousing suspicion.”

“Agreed. Let’s do it.”

I text backWhen?

A minute later, I receive a response.I’m coming into work at my usual time.

Unacceptable. I text her back, doing my best impersonation of Don:Now.

She doesn’t text back.

The traffic is a lot heavier than it was when we first left the center, but it’s still not bumper-to-bumper yet. Soon, we’re there and Joe drives the van toward the doors for the garage—but, as he gets closer, they’re not moving up like they did when we left earlier in the morning. As he pulls the van near the frozen door, he stops and rolls down the window. “There’s a card reader here.”

“So we can get out but not in?”

“Looks that way.” As he shifts gears, he looks in the rearview mirror, backing up and then turning around, driving several yards into the parking area. After stopping the van in a parking space, he says, “Can I look at that burner?”

Once more, I ask myself if I can trust him. This stupid little thing is all I’ve got, the only evidence that’s not purely circumstantial. If I hand the phone to Joe and he destroys it, I’m done.

But, right now, he’s my only friend in the world. Maybe I can’t trust him, but I know without a doubt that I can’t trust Don or my psychiatrist at all.

I have to take a chance—and he looks like he has an idea.

When I hand it to him, he starts clawing at it, confirming my worst suspicions. I almost start to grab it when he says, “Why the hell does he have a cover on this piece of shit but not on his brand-new smartphone? It’s got a passcode and the burner doesn’t, but he protects it with a cover?”

Ah. He’s not trying to break it. He’s wanting to pull the cover off. I don’t even answer his rhetorical question.

When he pulls it off, he holds it in his palm, handing the phone back to me. Out of the cover, he pulls out a plain white card before tossing the cover to the floor. “Pay dirt.”

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