Page 168 of The Right Sign
What if that credit card wasn’t an apology? What if it was a goodbye gift?
* * *
I’m changing out of my sweaty sports bra in the gym’s bathroom when my watch vibrates. I pounce on my phone, but it’s an unknown number.
I’ve been getting random calls from reporters, news stations and social media exposé sites and I usually send them straight to voicemail. This time, I text the caller back just in case it might be Dare with a new phone.
Unknown:This is Talia.
My eyes widen.
Talia?
Another text comes in with an address and time.
A switch flips in my brain and I jump to panic mode. Is Talia okay? Has she been kidnapped?
It’s not like I can text Dare and ask. He’s not answering his phone at all.
My next text is to Deej, begging her to call the school and check if Talia left with a stranger. As I wait, I chew on my nail, drenched in more sweat than when I was on the deadlift machine.
Deej: I called the school. Talia left with a trusted bodyguard. As far as we know, she’s safe.
I breathe out in relief.
So then… if Talia’s safe… what is this text about?
Curiosity builds like a rickety Jenga tower. I shower and change into a T-shirt and yoga pants. Sprinting out of the gym, I stop short when I see José standing in the parking lot, waiting.
I frown as I sign, “I told you to go home. I can get to places on my own.”
“My job is to accompany you everywhere.” He gestures to the door he’s holding open.
I roll my eyes and slide into the backseat.
After giving José the coordinates, I send Dare another text.
Still nothing back.
His sudden silence after we’ve been texting non-stop is alarming. Plus, the cloak and dagger-ness of Talia’s message makes me antsy. It doesn’t help that, when I glance through the back window, I notice a black car shadowing us.
What on earth is going on?
Nervously, I tap José on the shoulder. He glances at me in the rearview mirror and I jerk my chin to the side, indicating he should pull over.
He does.
When I check behind me, I see the black car stopped too.
“Is something wrong?” José signs.
“Someone is following us.” I point behind me.
José looks way too unbothered by that fact.
“We should call the police,” I sign. So far no reporters have come to my home, but I always felt it was a matter of time before they harassed me.
He shakes his head. “No need.”
