Page 39 of Unhinged
I bolt to my room, yanking open drawers and stuffing what I can into my duffel bag. My hands shake so badly that half the clothes fall to the floor. I don’t bother picking them up.
“Judge!” I shout. “We’re leaving, honey. Hurry up.”
“But Mom!”
“Don’t argue with your mom, boy,” Ike says firmly. “Just listen to her.”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Judge mutters, appearing in the doorway with his Ghostface plush tucked under his arm. He grabs his backpack and hurriedly shoves his clothes inside.
“Okay,” I say, breathing hard as I zip my bag. “Let’s go, baby.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But we just... we just gotta go, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers.
I take his hand in mine, holding it tight as we head for the door. My heart pounds, but there’s no time to calm down.
We just have to get away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRYDGETT
A heavy weight settles on my chest as I shove my bag into the passenger seat, barely noticing how it slumps halfway off. My hands shake, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt as Judge climbs into the back.
“Buckle up,” I say, my voice tighter than I want it to be.
The click of his seatbelt barely registers over the thunderous pounding in my chest. I jam the key into the ignition, twist hard, and slam my foot on the gas. Gravel spits out from under the tires as I tear down Ike’s driveway. My knuckles ache from how tightly I grip the wheel, my heart racing faster than the speedometer’s needle as it climbs.
I just need to get us out of here. Away from Ridgeville. Away fromhim.
The afternoon sun glares down, baking the pavement and shimmering off the hood of my car. Even with the A/C on, sweat clings to the back of my neck, and my shirt sticks uncomfortably to my skin. Judge sits quietly in the backseat, his gaze flicking between his lap and the view outside the window.
“We just need to get out of Ridgeville,” I murmur, half to him, half to myself. “We’re almost clear.”
The houses get farther apart, replaced by sprawling fields and patches of dense trees. The golden light makes everything feel too bright, too exposed—like there’s nowhere to hide.
I glance in the rearview mirror for what feels like the hundredth time—nothing but empty road behind us.
“You okay back there?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Judge says, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Where are we going?”
“Just… away.” I try to smile, but my face feels tight, stretched too thin. “Start thinking of places you wanna visit.”
Judge nods, but his fingers keep tugging at the hem of his shirt—a nervous habit.
Minutes drag by, and still, there’s nothing behind us. My chest loosens a little, the tension easing just enough for me to breathe. I can almost believe we’re in the clear.
But as we approach the four-way stop near the “Welcome to Ridgeville” sign, I see it.
The silver Yukon sits at the stop sign to my left, its chrome grille catching the sunlight like a flash of teeth. My stomach knots, cold and hard.
I wave the driver through, urging him to go. My hand shakes, but I try to act casual.
“Go, you fucking moron,” I mutter under my breath. “You have the right of way.”
