Chapter 5
Four days. I only had four days.
I chewed my toast slowly, keeping my expression blank while my mind raced. Saturday was too soon. Marcus wouldn't be on Ridgemont Road until Wednesday.
I needed a new plan.
After breakfast, I washed the dishes and thought. Grandma hummed in the living room; Mom was upstairs getting dressed for her weekly lunch with her friends in town — one of the few times she left the estate.
Mom's lunches lasted three hours. She always left at eleven and returned by two.
Wednesday was Marcus's delivery day. If I could stall the buyer until Wednesday, and time everything during Mom's lunch...
No. Too many variables. I needed something simpler.
Then it hit me.
Mom's car. The one she drove to her lunches. It sat in the garage with the keys on a hook by the door. I couldn't drive — I was five. But Dad could.
If I could free Dad during Mom's lunch on any day before Saturday, he could take the car and drive. The gate code was 7-7-1-9-0-3. He'd be on the highway before Mom finished her second glass of champagne.
But Dad still didn't trust me. He'd never follow my instructions.
Unless he had no choice.
...
That night, I crept into the storage room. Dad was awake, sitting against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The painkillers had done their work — his hand was flexing again, slowly regaining strength.
I knelt before him in the dark and spoke quickly, my voice barely above a breath.
"Daddy, listen to me. Don't speak. Just listen." I held up my hand before he could curse me away. "They're selling me on Saturday. After I'm gone, Grandma will convince Mom to get rid of you too. You'll be dead within a month."
Dad stared at me. His mouth opened, then closed.
"Tomorrow, Mom leaves at eleven for lunch. I'll unlock your chain. The car is in the garage. The gate code is 7-7-1-9-0-3. Drive east. Don't stop until you reach the highway."
Dad's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?" His voice was hoarse, barely human. "Why would you help me? You chose them. You always choose them."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the car key I'd swiped from the hook that afternoon. I placed it in his hand and closed his fingers around it.
"Because you're my daddy," I whispered. "And I should have chosen you from the beginning."
Dad looked at the key in his hand, then back at me. His expression was unreadable — confusion, distrust, and buried beneath it all, the faintest flicker of something that might have been hope.
"If this is a trap —" he started.
"It's not." I stood up. "Tomorrow. Eleven o'clock. Be ready."
I turned and left before he could argue. At the door, I paused. "Daddy? The bird doesn't have to trust the hand. It just has to fly."
...
The next morning, I watched Mom put on her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She grabbed her purse and her sunglasses.
"Mother, I'll be back by two," she called. "Make sure that bastard in the storage room eats something. I need him functional tonight."
Grandma waved from the couch without looking up from her TV show.
The front door closed. Mom's heels clicked across the driveway. The car engine hummed to life — her other car, the one she used for outings. The gate beeped, opened, closed.
She was gone.
I counted to sixty. Then I moved.
Grandma was absorbed in her show. I tiptoed down the hallway, grabbed the padlock key from inside Mom's lamp, and went to the storage room.
Dad was standing. Waiting. The car key was clenched in his fist.
I unlocked his chain. It fell to the floor with a sound that seemed deafening.
We both froze. Listened.
Grandma's TV blared from the living room. She hadn't heard.
"Go," I whispered. "Garage. Now."
Dad looked down at me. Something broke open in his face — an emotion he'd been suffocating for months. He reached for my hand.
"Come with me," he said.
I chewed my toast slowly, keeping my expression blank while my mind raced. Saturday was too soon. Marcus wouldn't be on Ridgemont Road until Wednesday.
I needed a new plan.
After breakfast, I washed the dishes and thought. Grandma hummed in the living room; Mom was upstairs getting dressed for her weekly lunch with her friends in town — one of the few times she left the estate.
Mom's lunches lasted three hours. She always left at eleven and returned by two.
Wednesday was Marcus's delivery day. If I could stall the buyer until Wednesday, and time everything during Mom's lunch...
No. Too many variables. I needed something simpler.
Then it hit me.
Mom's car. The one she drove to her lunches. It sat in the garage with the keys on a hook by the door. I couldn't drive — I was five. But Dad could.
If I could free Dad during Mom's lunch on any day before Saturday, he could take the car and drive. The gate code was 7-7-1-9-0-3. He'd be on the highway before Mom finished her second glass of champagne.
But Dad still didn't trust me. He'd never follow my instructions.
Unless he had no choice.
...
That night, I crept into the storage room. Dad was awake, sitting against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The painkillers had done their work — his hand was flexing again, slowly regaining strength.
I knelt before him in the dark and spoke quickly, my voice barely above a breath.
"Daddy, listen to me. Don't speak. Just listen." I held up my hand before he could curse me away. "They're selling me on Saturday. After I'm gone, Grandma will convince Mom to get rid of you too. You'll be dead within a month."
Dad stared at me. His mouth opened, then closed.
"Tomorrow, Mom leaves at eleven for lunch. I'll unlock your chain. The car is in the garage. The gate code is 7-7-1-9-0-3. Drive east. Don't stop until you reach the highway."
Dad's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?" His voice was hoarse, barely human. "Why would you help me? You chose them. You always choose them."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the car key I'd swiped from the hook that afternoon. I placed it in his hand and closed his fingers around it.
"Because you're my daddy," I whispered. "And I should have chosen you from the beginning."
Dad looked at the key in his hand, then back at me. His expression was unreadable — confusion, distrust, and buried beneath it all, the faintest flicker of something that might have been hope.
"If this is a trap —" he started.
"It's not." I stood up. "Tomorrow. Eleven o'clock. Be ready."
I turned and left before he could argue. At the door, I paused. "Daddy? The bird doesn't have to trust the hand. It just has to fly."
...
The next morning, I watched Mom put on her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She grabbed her purse and her sunglasses.
"Mother, I'll be back by two," she called. "Make sure that bastard in the storage room eats something. I need him functional tonight."
Grandma waved from the couch without looking up from her TV show.
The front door closed. Mom's heels clicked across the driveway. The car engine hummed to life — her other car, the one she used for outings. The gate beeped, opened, closed.
She was gone.
I counted to sixty. Then I moved.
Grandma was absorbed in her show. I tiptoed down the hallway, grabbed the padlock key from inside Mom's lamp, and went to the storage room.
Dad was standing. Waiting. The car key was clenched in his fist.
I unlocked his chain. It fell to the floor with a sound that seemed deafening.
We both froze. Listened.
Grandma's TV blared from the living room. She hadn't heard.
"Go," I whispered. "Garage. Now."
Dad looked down at me. Something broke open in his face — an emotion he'd been suffocating for months. He reached for my hand.
"Come with me," he said.