The moment the lock clicked, Libby moved.
She didn't pack. She didn't grab her laptop or her clothes. She grabbed nothing but her phone, slipping out of bed with trembling legs and pulling on the first pair of jeans she found in the closet. She threw on a hoodie, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She made it to the front door, her hand fumbling with the handle. The heavy oak felt cold under her palm. She twisted it, and for a second, she was free—the morning air hitting her face, the driveway stretching out before her.
Then the phone in her hand vibrated.
A text from Victor.
Where are you?
Her stomach dropped. She didn't reply. She ran.
She hit the main road, her Converse slapping against the pavement, her breath coming in jagged gasps. A black SUV appeared
