chapter EIGHT
• ISABEL •
As long as I kept the speedometer needle above sixty-five, all I saw was the road.
The narrow roads around Mercy Falls all looked the same after dark. Big trees, then small trees, then cows, then big trees, then small trees, then cows. Rinse and repeat. I threw my SUV around corners with crumbling edges and hurtled down identical straightaways. I went around one turn fast enough that my empty coffee cup flew out of the cup holder. The cup pattered against the passenger side door and then rolled around in the footwell as I tore around another turn. It still didn’t feel fast enough.
What I wanted was to drive faster than the question: What if you’d stayed?
I’d never had a speeding ticket. Having a hotshot lawyer father with anger-management issues was a fantastic deterrent; usually just imagining his face when he heard the news kept me safely under the limit. Plus, out here, there wasn’t really any point to speeding. It was Mercy Falls, population: 8. If you drove too fast, you’d find yourself through Mercy Falls and out the other side.
But right now, a screaming match with a cop felt just about right for my current state of mind.
I didn’t head toward home. I already knew that I could get home in twenty-two minutes from where I was. Not long enough.
The problem was that he was under my skin now. I’d gotten close to him again and I’d caught Cole. He came with a very specific set of symptoms. Irritability. Mood swings. Shortness of breath. Loss of appetite. Listless, glassy eyes. Fatigue. Next up, pustules and buboes, like the plague. Then, death.
I’d really thought I’d recovered. But it turned out I was just in remission.
It wasn’t just Cole. I hadn’t actually told Sam about my father and Marshall. I tried to convince myself that my father couldn’t get the protection lifted from the wolves. Not even with the congressman. They were both big shots in their hometowns, but that was different from being a big shot in Minnesota. I didn’t have to feel guilty about not warning Sam tonight.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize my rearview mirror was full of flashing red and blue lights. The siren wailed. Not a long one, just a brief howl to let me know he was there.
Suddenly a screaming match with a cop didn’t feel like such a brilliant idea.
I pulled over. Got my license out of my purse. Registration from the glove box. Rolled down the window.
When the cop came to my window, I saw that he wore a brown uniform and the big weird-looking hat that meant he was a state trooper, not a county cop. State cops never gave warnings.
I was so screwed.
He shone a flashlight at me. I winced and turned on the interior light of the car so he’d turn it off.
“Good evening, miss. License and registration, please.” He looked a little pissed. “Did you know I was following you?”
“Well, obviously,” I said. I gestured to the gearshift, put it into park.
The trooper smiled the unfunny smile my father did sometimes when he was on the phone. He took my license and the registration without looking at them. “I was behind you for a mile and a half before you stopped.”
“I was distracted,” I said.
“That’s no way to drive,” the cop said. “I’m here to give you a citation for going seventy-three in a fifty-five zone, all right? I’ll be right back. Please don’t move your vehicle.”
He walked back to his car. I left the window open, even though bugs were starting to smack themselves against the strobe lights in my mirrors. Imagining my father’s reaction to this ticket, I fell back into my seat and closed my eyes. I’d be grounded. My credit card taken away. Phone privileges gone. My parents had all sorts of torture devices they’d concocted back in California. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I should go see Sam or Cole again, because I would be locked in the house for the rest of my senior year.
“Miss?”
I opened my eyes and sat up. The trooper was by my window again, still holding my license and registration, a little ticket book beneath them.
His voice was different from before. “Your license says ‘Isabel R. Culpeper.’ Would that be any relation to Thomas Culpeper?” “He’s my father.”
The trooper tapped his pen against his ticket book.
“Ah,” he said. He handed me the license and the registration. “That’s what I thought. You were going too fast, miss. I don’t want to see you doing that again.”
I stared at the license in my hands. I looked back at him. “What about —?”
The trooper touched the brim of his hat. “Have a safe night, Miss Culpeper.”