Runner Girl

Chapter Two

Jacob and the boys aren't there when we stop at the house to get my stuff, and in a way, I'm strangely grateful. If I don't have to actually say goodbye to them, maybe I can pretend that this isn't happening, that I'll be back soon, like it's all some twisted kind of summer camp. Still, my heart throbs with the realization that the man I've considered my father all my life doesn't have the balls to stick around and tell me he'll miss me, and a tiny sliver of fear worms its way into my heart. What if he won't miss me? What if they're relieved?

I'm too busy stewing when I throw my bags in the car to notice the expression on my kidnapper's face, and I don't speak the entire four hour drive to the city. Mr. Emmerson (I refuse to call him my father) gives up on small talk about ten minutes away from the farmhouse, and we lapse into tense silence as he drives through the summer afternoon and into the twilight. Darkness falls around us, and I'm staring out the window, wishing for some magic power to get me out of this stupid car and send me back where I belong, when all of a sudden, I spot fluorescent blue lights. One second, we're driving across the familiar Ohio landscape, and the next, I'm staring at the skyline of a low, dense city.

"Columbus," the guy next to me says unnecessarily.

I grunt in reply, but my eyes go wide and I scoot a little closer to the window, watching the buildings roll by. I want to hate it, I really do, but there's something about the shape of the lit up buildings against the dark summer sky that makes my heart speed up in a way that almost feels like the rush I get at the start of a race. I'm not a city person, I tell myself firmly, but I can't rip my eyes away from the buildings, even as we drive straight into the heart of the skyline, and the looming shapes swallow up any trace of stars in the sky overhead.

The man beside me clears his throat. "I moved back here a few years ago. It's become a fairly neat place."

I glance at him despite myself. "Where did you live before?"

"All over. Most recently, I was in California."

"Why'd you come back to Ohio?" The words slip out before I can stop myself, and I grimace in the darkness. I don't want to encourage him; there's no point in making him think I actually want to have a conversation with him.

"You were born in Columbus," he says, not really answering my question as he keeps his eyes on the road. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and I can't stop myself from wondering what's going through his mind right now.

"Yeah? Well, that doesn't mean it will ever be my home," I say, leaning back against the seat and crossing my arms.

He doesn't rise to my barb, but I swear I see his fingers clench on the steering wheel, and I smile. Good. He doesn't get to swoop in and kidnap me and think I'll just be some passive pushover.

We finish out the drive in silence, and I'm surprised when Mr. Emerson pulls into a huge parking garage on a well-lit side street. Who the hell pays to park in a parking garage overnight? I don't say anything, though, and when he tries to lift my bag from the back seat, I almost shove him out of the way to pick it up, hoisting it onto my shoulder with my face set in the unreadable expression I wear before a race. My game face, Coach calls it, although I'm not usually grinding my teeth so hard before I run.

He pauses. "I'll have your other things sent for," he says after a moment, gesturing to my bag. "I'm sure you'll want the rest of your stuff."

All I've got with me is whatever was stashed on the school bus and the clothes I hurriedly threw in a bag at the farmhouse, and unexpected tears well up in my eyes as I think of the posters on the ceiling of my bedroom, and the dreamcatcher hanging on the wall. Jacob used to take me and the boys to the annual pow wow that the scattered members of some of the local tribes hold every year, and he bought the dream catcher for me the summer I turned eight, before I'd even started to run. It's hung over my bed ever since, and the thought of trying to sleep without it suddenly makes me feel like a baby, ready to break down and throw a tantrum right here on the pavement. Why didn't it occur to me to grab the dream catcher when I had the chance? Instead, I tighten my grip on my bag. "Whatever," I say, as if it doesn't matter that I've left everything, literally everything but my running shoes behind in my old life.