Absolutely nothing is visible. Even when the lightning strikes, I can’t see past the heavy fog hugging the house. I stare through the smudged glass until my leg gives out, and I’m forced to sit.
This small room has two doors. One allows the man to come inside. I assume the other is a closet. Instead, I find a tiny bathroom with a toilet and shower but no sink or mirror. The room allows for no escape. Nothing can be made into a weapon to end a life.
I turn on the faucet and am surprised to find clean hot water. The idea of washing away my aches and pains is nearly as tempting as knowing the blood covering me is mostly from other people.
In the shower, I can’t wash my hair but wet it nonetheless. I fear the pain of hot water on my wounds. My leg smells, and my head still bleeds when I press gently on the wound. The water washes away the foulness on my skin. The blood and sweat disappear down the drain.
Having no towel, I dry off using a shirt from my suitcase. A little part of me wonders if the man is watching. Looking around, I don’t see any sign of cameras, yet I don’t care if my nudity tempts him.
I’ve wasted too many years embracing lies. I can’t do it again. Not here when my fate rests entirely in the hands of a stranger. He can do whatever he wants whenever he chooses. Pretending I can avoid a terrible fate if only I remain in dirty clothes is too big of a lie.
Dressed in a white shirt and gray sweats, I sit back on the bloody bed. My brown hair drips onto my shirt, creating damp circles just over my breasts.
My mind wanders but goes nowhere of importance. I think of Neapolitan ice cream on a blistering summer day and the way my family’s old Sheltie licked my scraped knees. Unable to think about John or my sister Athena, who haunts me most days, I am lost in comfortable thoughts detached from guilt and grief.
At some point, the man enters the room and stares at me. Incapable of concentrating on him, I revel in the fantasies of a different Odessa.
Eventually, our gazes meet, and I stare into the unreadable eyes of a killer.
“We’ve both spilled blood,” I whisper.
“Everyone spills blood in the Lost Highway. That or they have their blood spilled.”
“I spilled it before I came here.”
The man shows no reaction. When a tear rolls down my cheek, I’m too exhausted to wipe it away.
“Why did you take the Lost Highway?” he asks a long time after we last spoke.
“I had to get away,” I whisper, leaning over and resting my head on the pillow. “I was on the run. I sound so dramatic.”
The man doesn’t share my smile. He only watches me, and then his gaze is on the light flooding through the window.
“The storm is over,” I tell him as an excuse to end the silence in the room.
Disappearing out of the door, the man shuts and locks it. I close my crying eyes. Outside, the storm passes, and the world goes on, but I only want to sleep and forget.
Chapter Five
Odessa
I dream of hitting the laughing woman. Even after the bat cracks open her skull, I won’t stop pounding her head with the weapon. I turn her to mush in my dream and realize I’m the one laughing. Waking, I feel a smile on my face.
For years, I’d heard the Lost Highway was haunted. I even watched a TV show about the many reported disappearances on Highway 202.
John never believed in the supernatural. He claimed the hills around the highway were home to drug runners, and the missing people likely saw something they shouldn’t. He also said the police couldn’t control the area, so they allowed the haunted rumor to keep tourists from using the highway.
I hadn’t believed John’s theories. I’d preferred the haunted highway idea. Now I’m trapped in a room decorated with blood and suffering. A nameless man holds my life in his hands, and I don’t know how to find my way home.
Forcing my body into a sitting position, I remind myself how I can’t return home. Freedom from here will only be a prison somewhere else.
I stare at the door and wait for the man to return. Where is he right this moment? Is he torturing someone in another room? I wonder if he suffers nightmares from his sins. I even worry he might be dead, and I’ll starve to death in this room.
By the time the door flies open, I’m convinced I’ll never see him again. His expression is no longer unreadable. He reminds me of a hunted animal. On the edge, he nearly drops the tray next to my lap on the bed.
“Eat fast. Drink faster.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, deciding there’s no harm in antagonizing him when my fate is likely sealed already.
The man says nothing. He glances at the tray and then back at me.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” I mumble, biting off a piece of bread.
“What is there to say?”
“You could tell me your name. Or at least give me something to call you, so I’m not forced to think of you as ‘the man’ in my head.”
“I’m called Quill. Does this information improve your situation?”
“Yes. Is Quill a nickname?”
“Stop talking. Eat and drink. I need to put you away while I hunt.”