INSTALOVE

Chapter 48: Losing Grip

Chapter 48: Losing Grip

M A D D O X

I don't recognize this stretch of road. In all my years at Winthrop, I've never traveled this direction. I've hardly left the safe perimeter of the wrought-iron gates surrounding campus. When I have, it was only to make my way to the Greyhound bus stop that lies the other way.

But today we turned right instead of left, heading uphill along this winding road—the kind of road that makes your heart clutch in your throat as tires screech and scramble on rain-soaked pavement. Two narrow lanes, barely wide enough for a pair of cars to pass abreast, writhing their way upward with a sheer wall of granite on one side... and on the other, nothing but a guardrail and a wide expanse of mist.

I stare into that blankness out the backseat window. Every so often, a break in the milky white allows a glimpse of the dark water of the lake below.

The car whips around another hairpin turn, and I grip the edges of the leather seat with all my strength. Too fast. Out of control. The police officer at the wheel must know what he's doing. He must've driven this route before. But like this? Like now? In the wind and rain, with his siren blaring?

I rake a hand through my hair, annoyed by its shaggy presence on my forehead. It keeps falling in my eyes, blocking my view, as I strain to see... to see anything. Any sign of human movement. Any reason for hope.

There's only silence and tension in this car. Dr. Carlyle sits up front in the passenger seat. My gaze travels to his face, reflected in the rearview mirror, but we don't make eye contact. He has his head bowed, hands clasped, lips moving in a wordless murmur.

Praying?  I never knew he was religious...

Maybe he's not.

Maybe I should be praying too, instead of staring uselessly into the inscrutable fog.

The thought fills me with dread. I look to the driver instead. He has his eyes trained forward, concentrating on the road. I long to ask him if we're almost there, but I clamp my lips closed, swallow my words.

Something tells me that my voice in the backseat won't be welcome. I shouldn't be here. They shouldn't have brought me. I could tell that's what they both were thinking a few moments ago, as the terse phrases of the dispatcher buzzed across the squad car's two-way radio:

...incident in progress...

...10-20...

...all units...

...major injuries...

...victim in distress...

...two possible fatalities...

Two? Which two? Can't this car go any faster?

I squeeze my hands into fists and press hard against my thighs. The muscles in my forearms bunch and gather. At last my eyes fall on something other than granite, fog, and trees. A line of vehicles stand in the shoulder of the road up ahead with flashers blinking. I force myself to breathe in rhythm with the lights. The car glides slowed, and I can see a break in the guardrail up ahead. A steep trail leads downward through the gap.

Down to where? The Overlook?

We're still rolling slightly, but I don't wait. I whip off my seatbelt and thrust the backseat door open. Dr. Carlyle's voice cries after me, but I can't hear what he says. My feet skid across the pavement as I hurtle forward into the mist.

***

E L L I E

Emerson's grip on my arm loosens, but it's too late to regain my balance. The caution tape snaps as my legs pass through. It barely slows me down.