His eyes roll around frantically. I pull out my phone and type in 911. “I need to report an accident. Hit-and-run. There’s a . . . a boy. He’s hurt. It’s at Merritt and Bantam. Please hurry.”
I hang up before they can ask any questions.
My stomach churns. I should have been paying attention. I shouldn’t have fiddled with the radio. I shouldn’t have taken the car out just before a rainstorm. I should . . . but the list of what I should or shouldn’t have done goes back and back for what feels like forever. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and when I open them again, my hands are steady. I don’t want to leave him here in the middle of the street, in the rain, but I have to go before the police get here. If Aiden finds out I talked to the cops he’ll lose his mind.
The boy’s eyes sink closed. I watch him for a moment. There’s something about his face that I don’t know how to describe—something gentle. Though maybe that’s just because he’s in repose. Maybe everyone looks kind in their sleep. For a fleeting moment, I wish I could stay. I want to hold my umbrella over him, keep him from the rain. But the faint echo of sirens cuts through the night. I have to go. I jump up and run back to the car.
* * *
? ? ?
Back home I let myself in the front door as quietly as I can. I’m still jittery with adrenaline, but I keep my movements careful and controlled.
“Where’ve you been?” The question pounces on me the moment I open the door. Aiden glowers from the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of tea.
He’s traded in the mustache for a full beard, and he highlights it with silver every few weeks. It does a reasonable job of making him look even older than he is. He’s taken out his contacts for the night, so I can see the gleaming hazel of his eyes, like coins under water.
I put down my umbrella and bend to untie my shoes.
“I wanted ice cream,” I say.
His eyes narrow.
“Where is it?”
“Oh, I just got a bar. I ate it on the way.” I give him what’s left of my smile. It’s a ragged, paltry little thing now, but I try to make it convincing.
He disappears back into the hall and comes back with one of our thin thrift-store towels. Instead of handing it to me, he wraps it around my shoulders.
“Don’t go out like that without telling me,” he says. He rubs my hair a little too roughly with the towel. I flinch.
“I should’ve left a note. I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks down into my face and finally smiles. “It’s okay. I just worry,” he says. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” The words are automatic. I don’t even think about them anymore. Like many things, it’s easier that way.
When he kisses me I fight the urge to pull away. I close my eyes. The image of the skater floats back up to my mind, and I imagine what it’d be like to be with someone like that. Someone my age. Someone I’m not scared of.
But it’s useless to imagine something like that. I made my choice a long time ago. I’m stuck here, and there’s no way out.
“Let’s get you out of those wet things,” Aiden says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
FORTY-ONE
Gabe
It’s a forty-five-minute drive to the Hill Country Motel, just outside Austin. I put Caleb’s jeep through its paces, stepping on the gas all the way. The roads are narrow and rough; scrubby ranchland alternates with shaggy cedar and mesquite trees. As dusk comes, I see more and more deer bounding along the side of the road. I send up a silent prayer to whatever saint looks out for deer that they stay out of my way. I don’t want to hit Bambi—but I’m not about to slow down.
Please hurry.
I don’t know what “hurry” means to her—don’t know what the timetable is, don’t know what might be happening even now. I texted her before starting out but I haven’t heard another word. Is she in trouble? Is she hurt? Every second feels like a fully encapsulated panic attack. My fingers are tight on the wheel, and I rattle over potholes and cracked pavement without slowing down.
The sun slips behind the curtain of trees and leaves a bloody smear along the horizon as I catch sight of the sign nestled against the forest’s canopy. Hill Country Motel. It’s a long, low building, paint peeling away in strips. The parking lot is gravel. Trees fringe the little clearing. There’s nothing else around.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the truck. Then I sit there for a moment.
I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.
But I didn’t drive all this way to sit in my car. So I climb out, legs stiff, and take stock of my surroundings. There aren’t many cars in the lot. It’s the off season, and while it’s not cold enough here to deter all travelers, it’s definitely not outdoor-recreation weather. Most of the windows in the motel are dark. The trees crowd in around the property.
Almost by habit I pick Orion out from the stars above. Over to the east I see Andromeda. I remember the myth we learned about in astronomy last year—Andromeda, the princess chained to the rock. Sacrifice to a monster. The thought steels me. I start toward the motel—and then turn around. I get the tire iron out of the back.
The window for room eleven is brightly lit. I pause outside, trying to listen for sounds from within. I can hear the mutter of a TV inside. I rest a palm lightly against the door . . .
. . . and jump backward as it swings inward.
Open, all along.
“Hello?” I crane my neck to see around the door. The lights are all blazing. There’s an old black-and-white movie I don’t recognize on the TV. There’s no luggage, save a sooty bag propped on the floor next to a dresser. I recognize it right away; it’s the bag Mr. Barstow went back for in the fire.
“Hello?” I hold my breath and listen for any sign of life. “Catherine?”
Nothing. I step into the room and shut the door gently behind me. I peek in the bathroom. There’s a bunch of dirty towels lumped on the counter, but no one’s there.
I grab the messenger bag.
Inside is a thick bundle of paperwork. I frown, leafing through, trying to see what was so important that he’d risk his life for it. At first glance it just looks like a bunch of legal documents. It’s not until I find a bundle of cards, held together with a rubber band, that I understand.
There are four different driver’s licenses, all with Catherine’s face—all with different names. Catherine Barstow. Sarah White. Emily Woods. Olivia Roberts.
I turn quickly through the other pages. Passports, birth certificates, social security cards. All in different names, but with the same pictures. Identities for her father, too—he’s gone by Louis, James, Mark. My pulse pounds in my ears; the pages trickle from my fingers and scatter across the threadbare carpet.
Who are these people?
Then I notice something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
There’s a faint red smear on the doorjamb.
I walk back to the door, almost in a trance. My fingers clench and unclench. The red is bright against the white paint. Closer up I can see the swirls and whorls of the handprint, too small to be a man’s. The blood is fresh.
My hand feels far away as it pushes the door open again. I float out into the dark parking lot, my eyes darting right and left, my breath coming quick. I look for some sign. I pray, desperate, for some sign. Out beyond the motel’s yellow lights it’s dark; the moon is hidden behind pale clouds. There’s no way for me to know where they went if I don’t have a sign.
I stand frozen for a long time. Then I see it; there, on the edge of the ice machine. Twenty feet to the right. Another smear of blood.
The tire iron is a comforting weight in my hands. I follow the trail: flecks of red along the siding, on a windowpane. It takes me around the side of the motel—to the woods, black and fathomless in the moonless night.