Page 113 of Silas

“When you left the structure, which way did you go?”

“Um.” I think back. “If I’m on the road facing the building, it would be on my right. I drove a few miles before I called you, though.”

“That’s good, Naomi. Putting distance between you and your last location is always the best first step. Can you drive one-handed and stay on the phone with me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Keep going the way you are, and tell me when you get to the county highway. It’ll be a four-lane road, two lanes going in each direction, no median in the middle.”

I pull away from the side of the road and drive forward, steadily increasing my speed until I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable. Only a few minutes pass before I reach the intersection.

“I’m here. It’s a big road. There are some streetlights.”

“Good. Turn left.”

I do as instructed—on this road, I feel safe going a good bit faster; the speedometer reads 55.

“I’m driving!” I say, excited despite the situation.

“Yes, and that’s great, but you need to focus right now. Watch your mirrors. If you see headlights behind you, let them get close and then change lanes. If they change lanes too, you put the phone down and hit the gas.”

Minutes pass, and I decide to make conversation. “Are you married, Inez?”

The ensuing silence feels awkward. “No, I am not.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No. You need to focus.”

“You just don’t want to answer personal questions.” All the action lately has given me a decided sense of confidence that I’ve never felt before.

“Yes, that’s quite true. No, I’m not married, nor do I have a boyfriend—or a girlfriend, for that matter. I’m married to my job, you might say.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

A tense pause. “Yes. Once. A long time ago. It…did not end well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me what happened?”

“If and when you make it to Sin in person, Naomi, I will tell you that story. None of the men have ever asked—nor have their women, either. They’re all too afraid of me, I think.”

“Are you a scary person?”

She laughs, a dry chuckle. “Yes, to most people, I am. I’ve told you more about myself in the last sixty seconds than I’ve told anyone in at least six years.”

I know her name, that she’s not in a relationship, and that she was in love once, and it didn’t end well. Not a lot of information.

“You don’t talk about yourself very much, then.”

A soft snort. “No, I do not.”

“Tell me one thing, then,” I say. “Anything. Doesn’t have to be important.”

“Why?” Her voice is quiet, perplexed. “Why do you want to know anything about me? You’ve never even met me.”

“You’re helping me. I feel like I should know you, a little bit.”