“Mindy?” I cried. “It’s me!”
For a moment there was no answer, but then a form emerged from the shadows. Her eyes were wide, her pigtails tangled and wild. She stared up at me through gray, teary eyes. “Lizzie?”
I ran to her and dropped to one knee, wrapping my arms around her. She was cold and trembling, her muscles limp beneath my grasp.
“It’s okay, Mindy.”
Her arms hugged me in return, but timidly, as if she were afraid I would change into something else. “You promised no one would get me.”
I pulled back, looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Mindy stared back at me a moment, and then her eyes scanned the darkness. “The bad man was here.”
“No, it wasn’t him. It was just . . .” I didn’t want to say his name. I didn’t want to think it. “Just some pomp. He’s gone now.”
But I still had no idea why the old man had disappeared, or if he was coming back. So I stood and took Mindy’s hand.
“Let’s go home. We’ll be safe there.”
She nodded, her hand small and cold in mine, and let me take her down into the river.
* * *
When we came up into my bedroom, I peered through my open door into the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there, and the pot of water hadn’t boiled over yet.
I wondered how long I’d been away. Those minutes in the basement had seemed like ages.
“I have to go make dinner,” I whispered. “But you can watch if you want.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to Anna’s closet.”
I nodded, letting myself slip across into the real world. With my heart beating so hard, it was instantaneous. Colors bled into my room, and the smell of rust and blood faded from my nostrils.
Mindy still stood there, looking up at me.
“I’ll never let that happen again,” I said softly. “I promise.”
“You can’t promise.”
“Mindy . . . ,” I began, starting to explain that she was safe from Mr. Hamlyn, who didn’t want little girls like her. But she was right—there were other bad men, old and young, living and dead and some halfway between. Too many to make promises.
“But you came and saved me.” Mindy stood on her tiptoes, and gave me a real hug this time, her cold arms tight around me. “That’s what matters.”
I heard the sound of my mother coming down the hall. But I let Mindy stay wrapped around me even as I heard the hiss and sputter of the pot boiling over in the kitchen, my mother’s arrival in the kitchen, and her annoyance that I’d left the water to burn.
CHAPTER 31
THE TOUR CONTINUED FOR SIX more days—intense and insane, unreal and unforgettable. The pendulum swung from the boundless energy of public events to the muted stasis of airports and hotel lobbies. From exhilaration to exhaustion, from the heights of human connectedness to sitting in traffic jams.
But then it was over, and Darcy and Imogen found themselves at Chicago O’Hare saying good-bye to Stanley Anderson. It was as heart-shredding as the tearful end of summer camp, and as they walked down the jet bridge, Imogen said to Darcy, “The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity, but separation from one’s new book-tour buddies is unbearable.”
The plane urged itself into the air and back to New York City, where Imogen and Darcy fell into bed for several days, the echoes of a thousand zealous readers in their ears. Before long they were back to work, because there was a new ending of Afterworlds to write, and both Phobomancer and Untitled Patel to begin at last.
* * *
“This is your worst idea ever,” Darcy said.
“Research!” said Imogen, walking around to the back of the rental car. She squeezed the key fob in her hand, and with an obedient beep, the trunk popped open. “That’s weird. I don’t even know what to call this thing.”
Darcy crossed her arms against the early November chill. “It’s called the trunk. Duh.”
“No, this.” Imogen opened the trunk a little wider, then closed it halfway again. “This thing in my hand, the thing that moves. Is it the door to the trunk? The hatch?”
Darcy realized she had no idea. Writing often did that—made her aware of all the different parts of things, and how many words she didn’t know. “Great question. Let’s go home and google it.”
“Very funny.” Imogen zipped up her leather jacket. “I’ll look it up while you’re driving around. My phone should work in there, right?”
“We’re not going anywhere with you in the trunk! I haven’t driven since I left Philly!”
“Bad driving is good. The guy who kidnaps Clarabella is drunk, remember?”
“Bad driving is not good! I mean, do you want me to tie your hands behind your back too? We might as well go all the way.”
After a moment’s thought, Imogen shrugged. “Didn’t bring any rope.”
“Can’t you find someone else? At least if they kill you it won’t be my fault.”
Imogen smiled. “It’s your fault anyway, because you stole my closet scene.”
This statement was true enough to silence Darcy. If Phobomancer still began with Clarabella stuck in a closet, Imogen could have researched the scene safely at home.
For two months now, she’d been complaining that her opening lacked realness, because she’d never been locked in a trunk. So tonight she’d lured Darcy out into the mid-November cold with the promise of a new twenty-four-hour ramen place. It had all been a ruse.
“What if I have a wreck?”
Imogen shrugged. “Just go slow. It’s safer in a trunk at twenty miles per hour than in the passenger seat at fifty-five.”
“You’re just making that up.”
“Yeah, but I thought it sounded pretty good.”
Darcy let out a groan. Imogen would not be dissuaded by personal danger. This was a woman who’d climbed buildings at college, and who still rode on the shifting platforms between cars when the subway was too crowded. Darcy had only one card left to play. “If we get into a wreck and you die, they’ll arrest me for kidnapping. Probably murder!”
“Nope. I left a video explaining the whole thing on my laptop. You won’t get worse than involuntary manslaughter.”
Darcy hesitated. “Does this mean I get to look in your computer if you die?”
“Only the video folder! If you so much as peek in my diary, I will haunt your dreams.”
With these words Imogen climbed into the trunk, and Darcy was forced to come around to the back of the car. It was one of those roving rentals that occupied special parking places on the street. Imogen had unlocked it with her phone and found the keys waiting in the glove compartment. The whole process had been dangerously efficient, too swift for the brakes of sanity to take hold.
Imogen was curled around the laughably small spare tire, her neck at an angle that already looked broken.
“Maybe I should have gotten a sedan.”
“Imogen. Do not do this. Please.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if this jack wasn’t jammed into my spine.”
“I am not helping you kill yourself!” Darcy shouted. A man walking a large black dog glanced at her from across the street. The dog looked intrigued, but the man only turned away and coaxed it back into motion.
“Just a few miles. Ten minutes in here is all I need.”
“I refuse,” Darcy said. “I was promised noodles.”
Imogen shrugged, or at least tried to in the confines of the trunk. “So you want me to ask the next person who walks by? It’s three a.m., the hour of weirdos. I’m sure I can find someone who’d be into driving a stranger around in a trunk.”
Darcy stared at her. “I can’t believe you.”
“And I can’t believe how long I’ve banged my head against this scene!” Imogen unwound herself from around the spare tire, managing to kneel. “And it has to be perfect. If this book isn’t f**king amazing from page one, Paradox won’t publish it!”
“What do you mean? They bought the whole trilogy.”
“They can still cancel the rest of the contract.” Imogen slumped a little. “I got a call from my agent today. Pyromancer’s tanking.”
“That’s crazy, Gen. I saw you sign hundreds of copies.”
“Yeah, there was a spike while we were on tour. But it’s not selling at the chains, or anywhere else. They have two months of data now, and everyone’s freaking out. My agent was at this big meeting at Paradox on Monday, with blame flying in all directions—too much red on the cover, the weird title, the mention of cigarettes on page one.” Imogen let out a sigh. “And of course the girls who like girls.”
“That one kiss?”
“And the famous dribble of candle wax. But it doesn’t matter where they put the blame. The book’s in trouble, which means the series is in trouble!”
Darcy shook her head. “But the middle book, whatever you call it, comes out next. Phobomancer doesn’t come out for two years. By then, everyone will have realized how awesome you are!”
“I don’t have two years. My agent wants me to give Nan a first draft in a few months, a really solid one, to show her what she’s fighting for.” Imogen gripped the front edge of the trunk. “And I’d be doing this anyway. This is where Clarabella starts to control her phobias.”
Darcy stood there, unbelieving. All those booksellers and librarians, all those Standerson fans—they’d all loved Imogen. Since then, at least fifty rave reviews of Pyromancer had appeared online, and another half dozen in actual printed magazines and journals. Two of them with little stars beside them!
What more had Paradox been expecting?
“Okay,” Darcy said. “I’ll do it.”
Imogen’s smile lit up the darkness beneath the trunk door, or hatch, or whatever it was called. She tossed Darcy the keys and curled up again.
“Watch out for bumps.”
“I’ll watch out for everything.” A slow, deep breath. “You ready?”
Imogen gave her a thumbs-up, and Darcy softly closed the trunk. She walked to the front of the car, wondering if anyone had been watching from an apartment window above. They must have thought this the world’s oddest abduction.
Darcy sat for a moment in the driver’s seat. The car was much smaller than anything she’d driven before. Her parents always said that big was safe. Though, as Nisha liked to point out, what they meant was safe for the Patels and not the other people on the road. But with her girlfriend curled up in the trunk, Darcy would have been happy with that kind of safe.
The pedals seemed too far away, but the driver’s seat wouldn’t budge. She gave up and started the car, then guided it forward at crawling speed.
It was strange seeing the city from the front seat instead of the back of a cab. Even stranger, driving evoked memories of high school. Her mind flashed back to senior year, to drunken passengers and arguments over radio stations. To making people hold their cigarettes out the window, and her father checking the odometer when she got home. To Nisha demanding trips to the mall, because with great automotive power came great sisterly responsibility. Darcy wanted to turn to Imogen and tell her everything.
But Imogen, of course, was in the trunk.
“Can you hear me?” Darcy shouted.
There might have been a thump from the back. But had it been an answer? Or was it just the death flailings of carbon monoxide poisoning?
At the next red light, Darcy pulled her phone from a jacket pocket. But as she brought up Imogen’s number, she noticed a car in the rearview mirror.
A police car.
“Oh, crap,” Darcy muttered.
The police had no reason to stop her and search the trunk, of course. She’d hardly gone above fifteen miles an hour. Could they pull you over for driving too slow?