“Wayne? Wayne? What are you doing?” I asked when instead of taking the straight shot to school, he pulled onto the I-95 south. Alarm curdled my stomach. “Where are you going?”

Wayne didn’t answer, just raised a glass partition I didn’t even know he had.

I banged on the glass, but Wayne just ignored me. Unfortunately, the back windows were tinted, so there was no way to flag someone down in the next lane. Maybe I could call Jacoby. Ask for just a little bit more time to get there. Or the police.

I pulled my iPhone out of my bag. But zero bars, even though we were still in the city. I pulled out my secret phone and the same thing. All the curse words came flying out of my mouth.

There must have been some kind of cell blocker in the car. Something that wasn’t allowing me to call for help.

I lowered the phone, realizing that this was the plan. It had always been the plan. Victor wanted me to suffer. He was never going to allow me to get my MFA, but he’d strung me along, to make me believe that he would.

I reviewed his words about my thesis showcase. His exact words.

He had promised to take me out at eight after my showcase. But he had never stated clearly that I could actually go to my thesis presentation. That had been me, believing what I wanted to believe in order to take his devil deal.

The cruelty had been letting me get close enough to see what I’d worked so hard for, to almost touch it, and then yanking it away.

Oh, God…oh, God.

Tears of frustration replaced my determination to get out of the car in one colossal whoosh. I sobbed as we drove further and further away from my dream. And eventually, I cried myself to sleep.

* * *

I came awake slowly a few hours later. I was still in the car, but it was no longer speeding along a highway. More like stuck in stop-and-go traffic. Also, it was dark, even though that didn’t happen until later these days.

I sat up to look out the window and found….

Washington D.C. again. But this time, the cherry blossoms were all gone.

We slowed, pulling into a long line of black cars, and I somehow knew even before I checked the time on Wayne’s dash that it was getting close to eight o’clock.

Eventually, the car stopped in front of a huge red brick structure. It wasn’t a building I recognized. But there were signs around the entrance, declaring it the National Building Museum, and well-dressed people were streaming through its open front doors. Many women were dressed in black cocktail dresses, and the men all wore suits or tuxes.

I shook my head, not understanding.

But Wayne said, “This is where you get out, kid.”