Page 155 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
His stern expression doesn’t change, but I think I see a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“You don’t know where she went.”
He speaks slowly and with authority, studying my face as he does. He’s going to shut me down again. He’ll probably bind me to the chair with my own bootlaces in the name of safety. I’ve always appreciated that behavior when it was out of concern for Sav, but now, when I’m the focus, I hate it. I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to argue, but Sav steps up behind me and cuts me off.
“She’s in my Porsche,” Sav says, her hand reaching past in my periphery, holding something toward Red. “The tracker says she’s heading toward Santa Monica.”
I drop my attention to the phone screen. The security tracker Red put on all of Savannah’s vehicles shows a little red dot heading west on the freeway.
“She’s going home.” My heart sinks, but I steel my resolve. “I’m going, Red. You’ll have to beat me bloody to keep me here.”
“Go with him if you’re worried,” Sav says, but Red shakes his head.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Red,” Sav says, putting her hands on her hips. “This place is crawling with security. It’s been swept twice already. I’m fine.We’refine. Go with Torren or you’re fired.”
A flicker of humor flashes in Red’s eyes. He knows she’s full of shit. She threatens to fire him at least once a week, and we all know she never would.
Finally, he nods, and I follow as he strides out the door.
In a matter of minutes that feel like hours, we’re in the underground garage and he’s tossing me a new set of keys. I follow his lead and swing my leg over a black sport bike, taking a moment to shove the helmet on my head. Red starts his bike, so I start mine, and then I follow him out of the garage and toward the freeway.
Behind Red, I weave in and out of cars, moving onto the shoulder when traffic starts to thicken. It’s late at night, way past rush hour, so it shouldn’t be this congested right now. The coil of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and despite my rational mind screaming at me to stay calm, I can’t. I have to get to her. I just have to make sure she’s okay.
I speed up, blowing past Red and racing as fast as I can down the shoulder of the freeway. So fast that the cars on the road seem gridlocked and at a standstill. Faster than is safe, but all I can think about is getting to Callie. My heart speeds along with the bike. My need to get to her clouding my logic and taking over my instincts.
I can feel it, though.
In my stomach, in my chest, I know something is wrong.
The scene is revealed all at once, but my mind registers it in slow motion, one devastating detail at a time.
The cars are indeed at a standstill. No one on either side of the freeway is moving.
Flashing lights materialize into vehicles, and I slow the bike just enough so I can drop it to the pavement and take off at a run toward them.
A fire truck blares on its horn in the distance. A cop car parks on the shoulder thirty yards away. It’s like scanning a junk yard. It’s like a still from an apocalyptic movie, and I know. IknowCallie is here somewhere.
The smell of burning rubber and gasoline stings my nose. My eyes start to water. More horns blare. Sirens wail. People cry out for help.
Among the wreckage, I hear shouts of first responders arriving, andI want to scream at them. Hurry. Find her. Run faster. How am I here first? Why aren’t they helping? Why aren’t they hurrying? A helicopter arrives overhead as my feet crunch over broken glass.
My eyes scan over the wreckage decorating every lane of the freeway. Skid marks and ashes. Car parts and broken glass. Papers blowing about, soaked with water and stuck to the pavement. A shoe. A child’s car seat. I take note of four vehicles, all with varying degrees of damage, before I find the one I’m looking for.
And when I finally see it, all the air is sucked from my lungs.
Sav’s red Porsche is upside down, crammed between two other vehicles, and I take off at a run toward it. Panic lodges in my throat, my feet moving slower than I want them to as I scan my eyes over the wreckage.
It’s like an impressionist sculpture, the way the metals are twisted and skewed. The Porsche is only a two-seater. It’s small to begin with, but now...it’s accordioned. Like a beer can after you step on it.
It’s eerily silent.
There are noises coming from everywhere right now—shouting, crying, sirens–but as I reach Sav’s Porsche, I hear nothing. The hairs on my arms, on the back of my neck, stand on end, and chill bumps cover every inch of my skin.
The car next to Sav’s Porsche is black, and when I’m close enough, I realize it’s a soft-top convertible. A metal rod protrudes from the top, glinting in the red and blue flashing lights, and there is a person in the front seat. They’re slumped over the steering wheel, not moving or calling for help. Briefly, I wonder if I should check on them, if there is anything I can do, but my feet don’t stop. My body has other plans. I walk until I’m at the front of Sav’s car, then I drop myself to the ground.
“Callie. Callie, baby, can you hear me?”
