Another branch lands on me and I stifle a whimper.
Only maybe I didn’t stifle it enough because he pauses. The long shadow slides across the hole again and I press one hand against my mouth, convinced he can hear my breathing. That’s when I notice how the mud’s been smeared.
By dragging my leg to me, I left a long line in the dirt. Did he notice?
Waiting. Waiting.
He moves. The shadows retreat and I heave my right leg out, pull my knees under my chin, and tuck myself into a ball.
Another branch. He starts pacing again . . . stops . . . retreats.
Leaves.
His footsteps recede and I exhale hard, waiting for him to be far enough away that he won’t hear me crashing through the tree branches. A minute passes. Another. The sun’s lowering in the west, inching me into darkness. I should wait—
Screw it.
I kick my feet under me and start pushing. The limbs snag on everything—my hair, my clothes. I shield my eyes with a forearm and the branches dig into my skin until there’s blood.
I keep pushing—even more freaked now than I was in the house. Why would he cover a hole? Surely if he knew I was in there . . . I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about that. But I know something’s wrong.
And, somehow, I know he’ll be back.
I balance both feet on the lowest branch and push up. A branch claws my stomach, ripping my T-shirt, and I manage to scramble a little higher. The ragged ledge is almost within reach. If only my freaking phone worked!
I brace my feet on a branch’s bend. One foot slips and I flail, clawing both hands into the soft earthen walls. My fingers catch and I drag myself higher, vowing I’ll drive straight to Carson’s. He’s off tonight. He should be there.
Except . . . shit. My car. I left it by the road. What if someone reports it? That would place me in the local area of the crime.
Worse, what if he finds it? If he found out who it was registered to . . . I shudder, forcing my hands to dig deeper into the dirt. I hit something hard.
Tree root? It curls around my fingers and I jerk back, exposing the long, delicate bones of a hand.
12
Vomit surges into my mouth. That’s what he was covering up? A body?
I kick harder, powering onto the forest floor in jerks; then, crouching, I press both hands onto my knees and try to catch my breath. In. Out. In. Out.
A fucking body!
I push to my feet and take off at a dead run. Even so, it still takes me almost twenty minutes to reach my car. I keep stopping, leaning against trees to listen. Nothing. No one’s following me. I’m alone.
Or maybe not.
Because when I break through the woods and emerge on the street, someone’s already been there. My car is still parked up on the curb, but there’s a line of footprints—orangey-red and heading out of the woods—leading to the driver’s door.
They’re the same color as my filthy fists and clothes.
I take a few steps closer, tell myself that, possibly, this doesn’t matter. When it rains in Georgia, everything turns orange-red. It’s from all the clay. Maybe it’s someone out for a walk, a jogger cutting through.
Then comes the low, lilting whistle and my heart rams into my throat.
He’s close.
And that’s when I notice how the footprints don’t go past the car. They go around it. They circle the vehicle and walk back to the woods.
He checked my license plate.
He’s going to figure out who I am.
I drive straight to a gas station—ignore the attendant’s stares—and buy a GoPhone, dialing Carson’s cell from memory. He doesn’t pick up.
I sit on the curb next to my car and try again. Still doesn’t answer. He probably doesn’t recognize the number. He’s waiting for a voice mail that I’m never going to leave. Too risky.
Kind of like staying here. I scan the gas station’s parking lot again. Empty. So why do I still feel exposed?
Maybe it’s the head injury. I’ve had so many by now I’m going to end up stupid. My left eye is swollen, but still open enough for me to realize my vision’s gone funny, blurry. I probably shouldn’t be driving.
I dial Carson’s cell again and get his voice mail. While I’m listening to his message, I count the bubbles of light drifting in the corner of my vision. Six. Six is a nice number.
Or not.
I disconnect and lurch to my feet, bracing one shaking hand against the Mini’s hood. Good. I haven’t passed out or started screaming.
Now where to?
Home. I angle myself into the car and start the ignition. I need to get home and check the security system and locks.
What if he’s already there?
I shift the car back into park and redial Carson. This time, he answers on the second ring.
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Why the hell are you calling—”
“I need you to get to Judge Bay’s house.” I lean my head against the steering wheel and close both eyes so the bubbles disappear. “I just found a body.”
I hang up with Carson and go straight home, check the alarm system, check the locks, check the windows.