Page 88 of Fight Or Flight

Ethan shook his head. “I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“I don’t know. You’ve been a mess. Three weeks pretending you don’t exist has primed you to make a terrible decision.”

Ethan laughed. “Actually, I believe it’s brought me a lot of clarity.” He stretched his arm over Adam’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re a good friend, Adam.”

“Yeah, just returning the favour,” he said.

They exchanged a knowing look before Ethan’s gaze moved back to his truck and settled there.

“Want to go in?” Adam asked. “Get a decent beer? I’ll even give you back the remote.”

Ethan nodded. “Yes, to the beer. But forget the remote. I need your help with something.”

“Name it.”

“I’m going to sell the truck.”

Adam’s arms shot out in victory, and he tipped his face up to the heavens. “Finally!”

Ethan laughed. “Come on.”

twenty-two

Natalie made her way down the crowded Toronto street, dragging her suitcase like a dead weight behind her. She passed a homeless encampment and several questionable characters until she finally arrived at the address Speeler had given her. She pulled out her phone and checked the address—twice—then let out a sigh.

She’d never been there before, but it was a familiar sight.

The building was five-storeys high and dilapidated. It had rusty bars covering the ground-floor windows, a broken front door, and every visible window had sheets or flags for curtains. With a glance at the broken keypad on the wall, she pushed the unhinged door open and walked in.

The smell hit her first, a mix of mould and stale cigarettes that flooded her mind with memories. She took in the brownish-gray walls, which had likely once been white, and the crusty geometric carpet and was transported back to the apartment she’d been living in across town when Elizabeth had picked her up to take her to Mapleton.

She passed the elevator, knowing better than to trust it, went to the stairwell, and climbed to the fourth floor. By the time she made it down the dark, damp hall to Chelsea’s front door, she felt sick to her stomach with guilt.

This was what Elizabeth had been trying to help Chelsea out of. She probably worried that Ben would grow up the way Natalie had and wanted to do something about it. And instead of helping, Natalie had let Anne scare her off. She steadied herself and knocked.

Time to face it. Make it right.

Soft footsteps slapped the floor on the other side of the door. And disappeared. She knocked again, this time louder. But no more signs of life came from inside the apartment.

“Chelsea!” she yelled, knocking again. “Open up!”

Nothing.

She was about to pound on the door and yell when she heard a faint, “Go away.”

“I’m not leaving.”

When no response came, she banged harder.

“Open up. I’ll stay here all night, knocking. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

A few seconds later, footsteps were followed by the unlocking of several locks, and finally, the door swung open, and Chelsea stood there, wearing a black sports bra with high-waisted, wide-leg patchwork plaid pants.

Natalie looked her up and down, then shook her head. “How do you pull off all these outfits?”

Chelsea’s eyes narrowed. “It’s called being poor. I wear thrift store clothes and act confident enough to make it work. What do you want?”

Natalie cleared her throat. “You always look beautiful. I want to come in and apologize.”

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