I rub his head. “What’s up, boy?”
And then I see what’s in his mouth. It’s a set of keys.
Graham’s keys. The car keys and the keys to open the front door.
I can get out of here.
Chapter 36
I don’t have much time. Graham is upstairs in his office, and I’m sure it won’t be long before he discovers his keys are missing. If I’m going to leave, it has to be right now.
And I’m not sure I can do it alone.
I slide my phone out of my pocket. I bring up the text messages from Harry, which I never deleted. Hell, I’ll be in enough trouble if Graham discovers the phone—the text messages are the least of my problems. I quickly type in a message to Harry:
I found Graham’s keys. I’m leaving this place and I’m never coming back. Meet me at the McDonald’s we always used to go to.
He’ll know what I mean by that. Back when we first bought the house and were feeling broke from the huge mortgage we signed, we tried to save money by eating at McDonald’s. A lot. I would order six chicken nuggets and a small french fries with a Diet Coke. Harry would get a quarter pounder with a Sprite and large fries. We always used to sit in the far corner, at the same table if we could snag it.
If I still remember, I’m sure he still remembers too.
I grab the sneakers that I abandoned at the front door. I have to be quick. Graham could come out of his office at any moment. After I tie the laces, I check my phone again. This time, Harry has responded:
This is a mistake. Don’t do this. I can’t meet you.
I type my answer:
I’m going anyway. Whether you meet me or not. But I have no money and no driver’s license. I could use your help.
The three bubbles appear at the bottom of the screen. I can’t wait for him to make up his mind. I have to leave. If I don’t go now, I’ll have missed my opportunity. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get another one.
I imagine waking up tomorrow and remembering today. That would be nice.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and grab my jacket. As I’m unlocking the front door, I hear whimpering next to me. I look down and Ziggy is by my side.
Shit. I can’t leave him behind. Graham hates Ziggy. God knows what he’ll do.
“We’re going on a little trip, Ziggy,” I tell him.
Hopefully, Ziggy is good during car rides.
I’ve got my fingers and my toes crossed that Graham does not drive a stick shift, because I have no idea how to operate one of those. He’s exactly the kind of guy who would drive a stick shift. But thank God, his BMW seems to have automatic transmission.
This morning, Graham told me something about how I couldn’t drive because of having seizures. But truthfully, I don’t believe a word he says anymore. I don’t know if I have seizures or not. But I know how to operate a car. And I know how to get to that McDonald’s. And despite what he said, I think Harry will be there, waiting for me. I’m counting on it.
I herd my dog into the backseat of the car, then I slide into the driver seat. The seats are leather, and there are so many controls, at first I’m scared I can’t drive this car. But it’s got an ignition and a gearshift to put the car in the drive. There’s a gas pedal and a brake. That’s all I need to know.
The roads are crowded as I make my way down the familiar twenty-minute route to McDonald’s. It’s rush hour, after all. But that might work to my advantage. Nobody will notice me. Harry and I can take off from here and nobody will even remember us.
I hope he shows up. I think he will.
Maybe.
By the time I reach McDonald’s, my hands are shaking. I don’t know what to expect anymore. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe this was a mistake. I spent the day being suspicious of Graham, but it’s obvious I did have a head injury. There’s a giant scar on the right side of my skull. Maybe I’ve got this all wrong.
I pull into the parking lot of the McDonald’s. Ziggy lets out a yelp from the backseat. I crane my neck to look at him. “Listen, you’ve got to stay back there. I promise I’ll be back soon.”
He whimpers again like he’s trying to tell me something. Unlike me, Ziggy remembers yesterday. If only he could talk—that would be such a big help.
I crack the window open a bit for him, then I lock the doors and head into the McDonald’s. The restaurant is appropriately crowded for the dinner time rush, and the smell of grease permeates every corner of the fast-food restaurant. There’s a low thrum of activity throughout the room—families eating, orders being taken, fries being salted. I scan the room, my heart thumping in my chest. There must be at least thirty people in this restaurant.