Atlantis Academy: The First Element

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I take one more peek at the SUV—still no sign of the cult followers—then race back upstairs to my bedroom.

My phone's still dead, as I expected. I run a hand through my hair, and it gets stuck in the knots. If I'm gonna walk into a police station with this crazy of a story, I better not look like I'm on drugs. Because I'm already gonna sound like I'm on drugs.

I take the quickest shower of my life, sure the whole time that Chloe and Ethan are gonna barge into the bathroom.

As I rush back to my bedroom, wrapped in a wet towel, my brain starts Walter Mittying the worst.

I imagine the SUV following me... being kidnapped again. Being taken to that cult-slash-school... Atlantis Academy. Disappearing forever.

Then I see the cops in my mind's eye... getting a tip about Amanda's body. A tip saying I killed her. I'm sure my DNA's in that cave, right?

Fear shoots through me, and I feel like I'm gonna be sick.

Running away might be smarter than going to the police.

But running will make me look guilty.

I should prepare for the worst. In case I never make it to the station. In case I decide it's better to run and hide.

The piles in my room are filled with dirty clothes I haven't had time to take to the laundromat, so I quickly dig in the back of my closet for something. I grab a warm long-sleeve shirt, clean jeans, my farm store boots, and my winter raincoat. My windbreaker needs a good washing, and it's too light anyway. If I end up on the run... If this all goes badly... I'm gonna be happy I chose warm clothes.

Panic rushes through me, making me shake as I get dressed. I'm covered in scratches and several big bruises, solid evidence that I've been through a lot since last night.

I wish I had a weapon. I should've grabbed a knife from the kitchen. Chloe and Ethan could be back any minute. They have my house keys.

My backpack is tossed on a high shelf in my closet, so I hop a little to reach the strap and pull it down. It's well-worn, dirty-looking blue canvas, and the seams are coming apart, but it works. I stuff it with an extra change of clothes, socks, underwear, and my wallet.

I blow out a breath and check my phone again. Still very dead.

Like Amanda.

I swing the backpack over my shoulder, pulse thrumming in my ears, as I grab my ADHD meds from the bathroom and throw my wet hair up in a messy bun.

Then I race to my mom's old bedroom.

Dust motes fly through air as I enter, stirred up from the thick layer of dust on the bare floor. The wood is faded where her bed used to be. I sold all her personal items at the pawn shop, and what the pawn shop wouldn't take, I donated. A truck came from the next town over for the mattress.

But some of it went out with the trash. All her belts. All the wire hangers from her closet. She'd beaten me with those more times than I could count. Good riddance.

Maybe I should have tossed my mom's urn out with them.

I hurry to the window and take a quick peek through the blinds. The Tesla is still right where it was before. Still no sign of Ethan or Chloe.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

I rush to my mom's closet, a bitter taste in my mouth. It's empty, dark, and too small, so I have to squeeze myself into it and feel around to find the loose board. Under the floorboard is a heavy metal box.

I found it after my mom died, full of papers and some old pictures. I've been storing my rare leftover tip money in it. The box isn't locked, because I had to break into it to begin with... If my mom had a key, I never found it.

I drag the box to the center of the bedroom floor and turn it over, letting everything fall out in a pile. Dollar bills tumble everywhere, along with a bunch of change.

There's a small envelope full of pictures and a gallon-sized plastic zip bag full of my mom's papers. My birth certificate is one of those papers. I might need that someday, so I leave the papers in the plastic bag and start shoving the cash and coins in on top of them until it's stuffed full. Then I zip it shut and shove it to the bottom of my backpack.

Something glints at me from the box, stuck in the lid.

It's a necklace. My necklace, given to me by my childhood friend, though my mom always claimed I must have stolen it. It's the only thing of potential value I have left that I haven't pawned. I hurriedly lift the silver chain, and the moon-shaped pendant hanging from it spins. The moon's made of ornately carved metal and some kind of clear glass. Sparkles glint from within the clear orb. I toss it into my backpack and survey what's left.

Just the pictures.

I start to close my backpack, but... it feels wrong to abandon them for some reason. I pick up the envelope, feeling like it's crawling with bugs. Of course, it's not. It's just infested with memories of my horrible childhood.

The envelope breaks as I try to shove it in my backpack, and a few pictures fall to the floor. My heart's in my throat as I hurriedly gather them up, trying not to look at the ones of my mother. Of me as a baby in her arms.

I pick up the last picture and pause. It's me and a boy. My neighbor, Liam.

The picture was taken at a distance, and he and I are standing in front of the Christmas tree in my living room.

I can't remember the last time I celebrated Christmas... before my grandmother passed away. No reason to do holidays, my mom said. Just a waste of time and money.

I'm maybe three years old in this picture. And I'm laughing, smiling at the camera, my hair curly and almost blond like it was back then. I'm holding hands with Liam. He's got tan skin and brown hair, and I just stare at him, faint memories trying to surface in my mind.

My chest feels warm, and my stomach does a little flip-flop. I squint at the photo, at our little hands. Is that...? It looks like someone has tied our wrists together! Probably to get us to stay put and take a cute picture. Must have been my grandma. My mom would've been drunk, and she wasn't the sentimental type.

I flip it over, looking for a date, but of course my mom didn't write anything.

Where did he go?

What would my life have been like if he stayed? If my mom wasn't a drunk? If my grandma hadn't died so young and left me alone with my mother?

If I would have skipped work yesterday, gone home? None of this ever would have happened.

Move, Lyric.

Adrenaline surges through me as I drop the picture into my backpack and zip it shut.

My eyes start to burn as I reach my mom's doorway, and I freeze.

What is that smell?

Smoke.

I dart into the hallway just as a thick, black cloud of it reaches the top of the stairs.

My house is on fire!