Page 101 of Concealed

“Would you like to stop halfway home?” Matt asks.

I need to be very careful.

When he asks my opinion, it could go either way – he could assume I’m lying about what I want and do it out of spite, or he could assume I’m telling the truth and do the opposite. He could even pretend to be nice and considerate and do what I ask with ulterior motives.

I opt to piss him off and hope for the best.

“Whatever is easiest for you. Maybe we should stop so you don’t get too tired. I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep while driving.”

“I wouldn’t fall asleep while driving, Rebecca. I’m an excellent driver.”

“Oh, I know, but accidents happen and–”

“Not to me, they don’t. We’ll just go right home. I want my own bed anyway. And you in it.”

Oh, shit.

Wyatt is a savior and has the same hero complex as every other good cop. He’ll send help. He has to. Maybe he knows a decent cop from the Vegas PD who will arrest Matt for breaking the law rather than looking the other way.

I’m guessing California police officers don’t have jurisdiction in Vegas. Given who Matt’s dad is, this case would have to be handled very carefully – if it will even be a case.

Maybe Wyatt thinks I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

The hours tick by while I rack my brain for a plan.

The only thing that I can think of is making a run for it when we stop for gas or food, and then not telling anyone where I am. But it seems that Matt isn’t going to stop at all, and I wish like hell this stupid beast vehicle had a smaller gas tank.

Plus, I don’t have access to any money, so how far could I get?

Pulling into the driveway of the house where I was a prisoner is equivalent to jumping into an icy cold lake. I can’t breathe, think or move.

Going back in there is suicide. I look around the area, desperate to find signs of a police presence, but there’s nothing.

The street is silent and dark.

And I am absolutely fucked.

“Rebecca, it’s time to go inside,” Matt whispers, and chills shoot down my spine.

No, no, no.

But what choice do I have?

My hand shakes when I reach for the handle, and I wonder if there’s even a point to running. If I scream loud enough, neighbors will be alerted and someone might call the police. But Matt hasn’t done anything yet, and no one would believe me that he was planning to.

He would just make it seem like I’m insane – again.

And the punishment would be so much worse.

Pretending to be a gentleman, Matt finishes opening the passenger door for me, wrapping his arm around my waist before slamming it closed.

“You weren’t thinking about running, were you?” he asks.

“No,” I lie, still debating if I could scream loud enough to be heard, or if anyone would even give a shit.

At this time of night, most suburban folks are asleep before their workday starts tomorrow morning.

Would they assume it was just their imagination if a woman screaming entered their dreams? Maybe they would think it was someone’s television. And how many people would simply ignore the disturbance, deciding it was none of their business, even if they knew the screams were real?

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