I swallow hard, glance one last time at my car, still smoking faintly by the wall, and pray to every god up there that Chrissy, Winnie, and the yet-unnamed fetus will be okay.
And then, I drive.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Let Go
We’re silent for almost an hour.
I listen each time he tells me to make a turn, change lanes, merge onto a different road. Every bone in my body aches to the point of distraction. My mind searches for possible escape plans, but everything I come up with ends with me meeting a very gruesome end, either staring down the barrel of The Hulk’s gun or bleeding out in a flipped SUV.
Neither of which sounds very appealing, at the moment.
I can only hope Chrissy is with the police, by now — that she’s safe at the hospital.
Eventually, we leave the highway and merge onto a winding back road, the trees growing denser as we move ever eastward. The coast can’t be far off, now, and I feel dread stir to life in my stomach as thoughts tickle at the back of my mind. Thoughts of another car ride, not so long ago, when Chase told me a story about the house he grew up in.
When we pass an ornate wooden sign that readsMANCHESTER-BY-THE-SEA WELCOMES YOU,I feel the pit in my stomach morph into a bottomless cavern of anxiety.
I know exactly where we’re going.
I hear Chase’s voice echoing through my mind…
They were driving home one night, to our summer house in Manchester...It was raining out, really miserable. The roads were slick…
My hands clench tighter around the wheel.
“Why are we here?”
The Hulk looks over at me, surprised I’ve broken my resolute silence, and readjusts his gun where it lays against his knee.
“Brett wanted you to bring me here, right?” I try to keep my voice calm, but it starts to fray as hysteria creeps in. “He did, didn’t he?”
He looks out the window, as though thoroughly bored by my questions.
“Why?” I ask. “Whyhere?”
He doesn’t say a word.
But I worry, deep in my bones, that I already know the answer.
***
When we round a bend and the bridge comes into sight, I pump the breaks. Hard.
It’s smaller than I thought it would be — maybe forty feet across, fifteen feet wide, constructed of wood planks and a stone foundation. Thin, plywood railings on either side are all that separate cars from plummeting into the inlet below, where water rushes in with the evening tide.
A small, overgrown sign peeks out from the foliage at the side of the road.
CROFT ESTATE
Shit.
The Hulk looks over at me. “Keep going.”
“No, I don’t think so.” My hands tighten around the wheel until my fingertips turn white.
His gun hand twitches slightly, but he doesn’t lift it. Instead, he reaches out, punches a few keystrokes into the built-in navigation system, and leans back in his seat, waiting.