Page 3 of Behind These Four Walls
“If I was going to kidnap you, I’d have done it by now,” Isla reminded Holland and put her phone away. “How about we use your phone, huh? We’ll set you up so you don’t have to tell me anything private. Sound good?”
Holland produced her phone quickly and waited expectantly. Isla could barely contain her disbelief. She thought people Holland’s age came out of the womb tech savvy.
Isla asked, “Can I see?”
Holland held her phone in Isla’s direction, and Isla went to reach for it. The phone slipped through her fingers when Holland released too early and Isla grabbed for it too late.
“No!” Holland screamed. The phone hit the ground hard with a sickening smack and immediately went black. Holland dove after it. Isla winced at the thick crack snaking the length of the screen.
Holland attempted every resuscitation effort she could. She groaned “No” over and over. She tapped hopelessly at her spiderwebbed screen in disbelief. Isla didn’t point out the tiny specks of glass on the ground where the phone had landed. That would be rubbing salt on an open wound.
“I can’t see anything. Nothing’s coming up, and it’s so hot,” Holland said. “Maybe if we call my phone, it’ll wake up from its coma? Right?”
“More like from the dead,” Isla said dubiously. But she handed Holland her phone anyway. “Don’tdrop this one, or we’re both screwed.”
The call went straight to voicemail. Isla could hear Holland’s teeny, bubbly voice telling them to leave a message.
“I’m gonna die,” Holland moaned, her eyes watery again. This time the tears were well earned and very real. “What am I gonna do?”
Isla had no time for histrionics, already pulling up the rideshare app. She stopped, matching Holland’s sorrowful gaze with a pragmatic one. “Address?” she said again.
This time, Holland gave it up without a fight.
Chapter Two
They arrived at the guarded gate to the Corrigan estate, a fortified division between Holland’s world and Isla’s. Who didn’t know about the outrageously wealthy family that lived on Bowen Mountain, best known for Monticello, where the famous Thomas Jefferson (or infamous, depending on which side of history one belonged to) had built the home for which another mountain was renamed? The Corrigans lived above Monticello, in an area where other gated communities and large mansions were hidden behind walls of dense forest. This was where wealthy business magnate, investor, and philanthropist Victor Corrigan, chairman and CEO of the Corrigan Group, had built his palatial estate, which rivaled most of the celebrity and wealthy homes Isla had seen in LA.
Hasaan, their Uber driver, and Holland had become fast friends and chatted nonstop the whole trip up the mountain. All the while, Isla had tried to figure out how she’d been roped into escorting Holland back home. Had it been the sad puppy dog eyes Holland had hit her with when Hasaan pulled up in his little silver Camry and Holland got shy again, acting as if she couldn’t ride alone with a man she didn’t know? It could have been when Holland had promised she would pay the entire fare, which meant Isla didn’t have to take the bus, even though her ride time was now nearly tripled. Isla had always thought she was pretty good at getting what she wanted, but Holland seemed to have her own tricks up her sleeves, and Isla liked that.
She’d learned a lot about the two in the nearly hour-long ride and didn’t mind the corny jokes passing between driver and passenger, or when Holland tried to tease her about her name.
“So Isla’s . . . different.”
Isla paused what she was doing. “And Holland isn’t?”
Holland scoffed, “You’re named after a body of land.”
“So are you,” Isla deadpanned, staring out her window into the darkening skies. “Though it’s the Netherlands now. Maybe I’ll call you that.”
Holland acknowledged her defeat with grace.
Isla had been invested in Holland’s explanation of the items she was pulling from the back seat of her coupe: a slender black canvas bag, a face shield, and a half-zipped duffel bag with a white pant leg sticking out. Hasaan helped her put them in the trunk of his car.
“Fencing gear. I’m on the team at my school,” Holland had replied as Isla offered to hold her backpack so Holland could focus on moving her stuff. Isla fingered the school lanyard sticking from the outer pocket, reading “Mary Washington” etched on it.
Isla paused getting into the car, genuinely impressed, filing that information away for further thought. “A Black girl who fences. Who would have imagined?”
“Thanks,” Holland said, with a pride that matched the sudden burst of feeling Isla had in her chest. “There aren’t too many of us, but we’re growing. Olympians, even. Lauren Scruggs won silver this year. Ruth White is a pioneer, Nikki Franke, all my idols.”
Isla had never heard of those women and felt an immediate need to look them up, feeling as if she’d been missing out on some well-deserved Black Girl Magic. She was proud to see girls like her in all sorts of unexpected spaces. “That’s cool as hell.”
Isla and Hasaan even had a moment of older-sibling worry after he casually tossed back a pack of unopened almonds when Holland’s stomach growled loudly in the confines of the car.
Holland moved to pick it up, took one look, and pushed it away quickly. Isla assumed Holland’s actions were because as nice as Hasaan was, he was still a stranger offering food, forgetting rideshare etiquette and letting his good upbringing and care of others shine through.
“No big deal,” Isla said under her breath, a little put off by Holland’s dramatics. She didn’t have to make the guy feel bad. “Just say thanks and throw it away later.”
“I didn’t think,” Hasaan said, realizing his mistake.