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57

WHEN A BLACK Mercedes that I knew all too well pulled up in the driveway at an alarming speed which was likely to leave tire marks, I got in before the driver could get out.

Al stared at me for a good minute and when he finally opened his mouth to say something, I cut him off.

"Just drive. We have to be quick."

One of them may come home soon.

He must have sensed the urgency in my tone because he immediately started driving away from that cabin-like house that I'd started to consider my safe haven. I looked at it until the last of the brown wood it was made of was camouflaged into trees.

That's what I liked about Al—he saved the questions for later because he trusted me, and it made me feel worse about not telling him about all this.

He drove at top speed for a few minutes before he pulled up at the side of the road; curiosity brimming.

"What happened?" he asked, looking ahead. He must have anticipated that it was something bad. "Did they hurt you? Because if they did—"

"No," I whisper
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