"Emilie," Melissa says sweetly, forcing me to concentrate. "It is Emilie, isn't it? I'm so used to calling you Cinderella."
My blood boils instantly. Caleb's ex has grown some serious brass balls. Coming at me like a coward from behind a public computer and using a teenage girl to do her dirty work was one thing. Getting all up in my personal space and pretending like we're old friends is just dangerous. For her.
But I have to rein that shit in. None of the five trillion emotions I'm feeling right now are allowed to show on my face. This isn't like when I'm reading her threats all alone or with Caleb. I can't cry, shake with fear, or scream with rage. Melissa can't know that she's getting to me in any way.
"I need to get home. Can you move, please?" She's currently leaning against my driver's side door, not budging. "It's cool. I can walk," I say, turning away, knowing full well it won't be that easy.
"Stop, you little whore," she hisses.
Oh, the contempt! Caleb was right—she's not nearly as good an actress as I am. Either that, or she forgot to change her crazy-filter this morning. By the time I turn back to her, she's plastered a serene smile on her flawless face. "Would you like to come for a drive with me?"
Fuck no. "My parents are going to be home soon, and we're having dinner—"
"You're going to want to come with me, Emilie." Her voice stays calm, but her words leave no room for argument. Plus, she has her phone in her perfectly manicured hand and turns the screen in my direction, showing me that she literally has the means to ruin my life at her fingertips.
Seeing the image of me on the drafting table, my legs in the air and Caleb between them, is nothing new. I saw it a hundred times the day it was first sent to me, and another hundred since then. Seeing Melissa's thumb poised over the "send" button above the image, a hair's breadth away from putting that video in the inboxes of... hell, I don't even care who. It doesn't matter. It just can't happen.
"Ok... Sure. I would love to go for a ride with you." The words come out slowly, each one fighting to stay in my mouth.
"Oh, good! You can leave your bag in your car. You won't be needing it." She steps aside, allowing me to open the door and do as she says. I tuck my tote bag under the driver's seat, cursing myself for wearing a dress that has zero pockets for stashing my phone in.
"Where are we going?"
"Does it really matter?" she asks as she opens the door to the sleek, white BMW parked next to my twenty-year-old, unwashed Jeep.
As soon as she's seated next to me, she reaches over and pops open the glove box. At first, I'm worried about her skin coming into contact with mine. Who knows how contagious her strain of psychosis is? Then I'm more concerned about the small handgun she's pulling out of the compartment.
That's a gun. Like, a real fucking gun. Those things should only be on TV or in movies or on the not-so-local news. Not in real life, and definitely not inches away from my very mortal body.
This completely changes things. There will be no more attempts to get away from her. There will be no sassy backtalk. There will be...
There'll be no walking away from this, will there?
She tucks the weapon into her purse, acting like the most frightening moment of my life didn't just happen. She's not making any overt threats. Heavily implied, sure, but she hasn't said anything like, "This will be the instrument of your death."
The rest of the drive passes is total silence. It's a nice break from trying to keep up with her lunacy, but it's also incredibly unnerving. I focus on which streets we're taking and try to guess where we're headed. She takes us to a neighboring town that was affluent a long time ago, but not so much anymore. A lot of buildings here are well over a hundred years old, and they all show their age. Melissa pulls into the parking lot of one such building, whose current incarnation is an indie movie theater.
My heart races. Of all the places she could've taken me, she chose one that gives me a chance of escaping. It's a slim chance, but it's there. My brain runs through a dozen scenarios. If Eric's brother Kyle is working today, I need to be prepared with a plan. A few plans, really, just in case.
My overriding emotion is still fear, though, so it's easy to mask the hope bubbling up inside me.
"No, we're not going to see a movie, silly," she says, answering a question I hadn't even thought to ask. "I'm taking you to one of my favorite places in the whole world. It's where I come to clear my head."
She must come here a lot, then, because she's only got a few marbles left rattling around up there.
My hope dies a little when we approach the box office at the entrance to the theater. This is where Kyle's usually stationed. Instead it's just some pimply kid who looks younger than me. Melissa purchases two tickets to a movie with some formerly big-name actors trying to make comebacks in a no-name Cannes film wannabe, and we head inside.
The odor of decades of spilled soda and popcorn butter assaults my senses as soon as we step into the lobby. Do these ugly, red rugs ever get shampooed? Or is that against the rules of the historical—
Oh, thank fucking goodness! Kyle's working the concession stand. See, this is why I prepared for multiple scenarios. This one calls for Plan B. Not the morning after pill, but the thing that's going to save my ass. Besides, I'm guessing it's a little late for pregnancy prevention.
"Hey, Melissa?" I ask, putting my plan into action.
"Yes, Emilie?" She looks at me, but she's clearly distracted and on edge. I mean, I would be, too, if I were holding someone hostage and had a gun in my purse.
"My mouth is really dry, and if we're going to be talking about everything"—please, please, please let us be talking and not skipping straight to the murder part—"it would be great if I could have some water. If you don't mind."
"Oh, of course! That's an excellent idea. I'm a bit thirsty, myself."
Oh, look, we have something in common. If it wouldn't sabotage my plan completely, I'd change my mind about the water idea, just so we can go back to having zero things in common. Well, except that we've both been with Caleb, which is way worse than the water thing.
On our way to the counter, Kyle notices me and opens his mouth to say something that'll give me away. That, of course, is not allowed, so I give him a warning glance and shake my head as subtly as possible. He looks at me like I've lost it, but he must've gotten my drift, because he doesn't acknowledge me with anything other than the standard, "What can I get for you today?"
Melissa orders two bottles of water, which comes to nearly ten dollars. She must not carry cash, because she whips out a black Amex card to pay. I've never seen one of these in person before, so I'm momentarily distracted from my mission by what must be a seriously impressive credit limit. When she lowers her head to sign the receipt, I'm back in the game.
I lock eyes with Kyle and mouth, "Get Eric." His eyebrows scrunch together, giving me the distinct impression that he can't read lips and is therefore the most useless person in my life right now.
