The Car Won't Start

The car sat in the garage like a sleek, black coffin.

I pressed the starter button.

*Click.*

The dashboard lit up. *System Check.*

Then: *Safety Mode Engaged. Authorization Required.*

I hit the button again. Harder.

*Authorization Required.*

I slammed my fist against the leather steering wheel. The sound was dull, muffled by the soundproofing I had admired when we bought it. Now, it just meant no one could hear me scream.

I wasn't supposed to be driving. Graham had made that clear. "Your reflexes are sluggish," he'd said over the morning smoothie. "Dr. Aris is worried about your spatial awareness."

But I needed to get out. I needed to see a face that wasn't looking at me with pity or suspicion. I needed to see a horizon that wasn't filtered through smart-tinted windows.

I pulled out my phone.

*Graham: I saw the car ping. Are you trying to leave?*

He knew before I even opened the garage door.

I stared at the message. The little blue bubble was mocking me.

*Me: I need tampons.*

A lie. A stupid, mundane lie. But sometimes the mundane was the only shield I had.

*Graham: I'll pick some up on my way home. Rest, sweetie.*

Rest. The command that sounded like care.

I got out of the car. I kicked the tire. It hurt my toe, a sharp, specific pain that felt grounding.

I walked to the keypad on the garage wall. I punched in the code to open the main door.

*Beep-beep-beep-buzz.*

*Code Invalid.*

He had changed it.

Of course he had.

I looked around the garage. It was immaculate. Graham’s tools hung on a pegboard in size order. His golf clubs stood in a corner, gleaming. My old bike—a dusty Schwinn I hadn't ridden in two years—was hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

I couldn't reach it. And even if I could, the tires were flat.

I was trapped.

But not entirely.

I walked to the side door. The one that led to the garden.

It had a deadbolt. A manual one.

I turned it. It clicked.

I opened the door.

The air smelled of cedar and damp earth. Sylvan Hills smelled like money trying to buy nature.

I stepped out.

I didn't have a plan. I just started walking.

I kept to the edge of the driveway, avoiding the gravel because it crunched too loudly. I felt like an intruder on my own property.

I reached the street. It was empty. The houses sat back from the road, hidden behind tasteful landscaping and security gates.

I started to run.

Not a jog. A run.

I ran past the Sterlings' house. Past the Millers'. Past the empty lot where they were building another glass-and-steel monstrosity.

My lungs burned. My legs felt heavy, uncoordinated. Maybe he was right. Maybe the "meds"—the sugar pills—were doing something. Or maybe it was just the atrophy of a life lived in containment.

I ran until I reached the main gate.

The guard booth was manned by a new guy. I didn't recognize him. He looked bored.

I slowed to a walk. I tried to look casual. Just a resident out for a stroll. In jeans and a hoodie. Without a phone or a wallet.

"Afternoon," I said as I approached.

He looked up. He frowned.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

"Just going for a walk," I said. "Outside the perimeter."

"Do you have your fob?"

"I... left it at home."

"I can't let you back in without a fob, ma'am. Or an ID."

"I live at 402," I said. "Merritt Coe. My husband is Graham Coe."

He typed something into his computer. He looked at the screen. Then he looked at me.

His expression changed. It went from bored to... alert.

"Mrs. Coe," he said. "Right. There's a note here."

"A note?"

"Says you're a flight risk. Says if you try to leave on foot, I should call the house."

My blood ran cold.

*Flight risk.*

Like a criminal. Or a dog that digs under the fence.

"That's a mistake," I said. My voice was tight. "Please open the gate."

"I can't do that, ma'am. Protocol."

He picked up the phone.

I didn't wait.

I turned and ran back the way I came.

I didn't run home. I ran into the woods.

The "green belt" that surrounded the development. It was thick with ferns and old-growth firs. It was dark, even in the afternoon.

I scrambled up a bank, my sneakers slipping on the pine needles. I pushed through a thicket of blackberry bushes. Thorns tore at my jeans.

I found an old deer trail. I followed it.

I needed to get to the road. The county road that ran behind the development. If I could get there, I could flag down a car. I could hitchhike.

I walked for what felt like an hour. The woods were silent. Too silent.

Then I heard it.

*Snap.*

A twig breaking.

Behind me.

I stopped. I held my breath.

Nothing.

Just the wind in the trees.

I started walking again. Faster.

*Snap.*

Closer this time.

I spun around.

"Who's there?" I shouted.

A squirrel darted up a tree.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Paranoia. Graham was right. I was seeing monsters in the shadows.

I turned back to the trail.

And I saw him.

Not Graham.

A man. Standing on the trail ahead of me.

He was wearing a gray hoodie. His hands were in his pockets. He was looking at me.

He looked familiar.

"Toby?" I whispered.

It was him. My studio partner. The man who had texted me to stop "harassing" Graham.

He took a step toward me. He didn't smile.

"Merritt," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm leaving," I said. "I'm getting out."

"You can't," he said. "He'll find you."

"Why did you text me?" I demanded. "Why did you tell him?"

"I didn't," Toby said. He looked confused. "I haven't texted you in days. Your number is blocked on my phone."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Graham came to the studio," Toby said. "He showed me the emails. The ones where you threatened to burn the place down."

"I never sent those!"

"I know," Toby said softly. "I know that now."

He reached into his pocket. I flinched.

He pulled out a phone. Not his phone. A burner.

"He blocked me," Toby said. "So I got this. I've been waiting. I knew you'd come to the woods eventually. You always liked the quiet."

"You... you believe me?"

"I listened to the mixes," he said. "The ones you uploaded to the cloud before he locked you out. The 'soundscapes.' I heard the background noise, Merritt. I heard him on the phone."

I felt a sob rise in my throat.

"You heard him?"

"I heard him practicing," Toby said. "Practicing the eulogy. 'She was a light that burned too bright.' It was... chilling."

He held out the burner phone.

"Take this," he said. "It has my number. And a lawyer's number. A real lawyer. Not one of his."

I reached out. My hand was shaking.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't go to the road," Toby said. "He has a tracker on your phone. He knows you're out here. Go back. Act normal. Wait for Saturday."

"Why Saturday?"

"Because I'm going to be there," Toby said. "I'm going to crash the party. And I'm bringing the police. The *real* police. State troopers. Not Vance."

"He'll stop you."

"He can't stop everyone," Toby said. "Just... survive until Saturday. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I said. "I can do that."

I took the phone. I hid it in my bra.

"Go," Toby said. "I hear a car."

I listened. Far away, the sound of an engine.

Graham.

I turned and ran back toward the house.

I scrambled down the bank. I slipped through the fence.

I was back in the garden.

I walked to the patio door. It was still unlocked.

I went inside.

I locked the door.

I went to the kitchen. I drank a glass of water. My hands were shaking so hard the water sloshed onto the floor.

I heard the garage door open.

He was home.

I sat at the island. I tried to slow my breathing.

The door opened. Graham walked in.

He looked at me. He looked at my muddy shoes. The scratch on my cheek. The leaves in my hair.

He didn't look angry.

He looked... validated.

"Oh, Merritt," he said softly. "Did you get lost again?"

He walked over. He picked a leaf out of my hair.

"I went for a walk," I said. "In the woods."

"I know," he said. "The guard called me."

He sighed. He opened the fridge. He took out the milk.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"What?"

"It means the house isn't safe enough," he said. "It means we need to upgrade the security."

He poured a glass of milk.

"Drink this," he said. "It will help you calm down."

I looked at the milk. It was white. Pure.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Drink it," he said. His voice had an edge.

I drank it.

"Good girl."

He leaned in close.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, "the contractors are coming. To put bars on the windows."

My stomach dropped.

"Bars?"

"Decorative grilles," he corrected. "Iron. Very chic. But... secure."

He smiled.

"No more wandering, Merritt. You're staying right here. Until the end."

He walked away. Up the stairs. To change out of his suit.

I sat there. The milk tasted sour in my mouth.

I touched the phone in my bra. It was warm against my skin.

I had a lifeline.

But now I was in a cage.

And the bars were coming tomorrow.