“Better than Godzilla.”
“Alright, Darbs, I’m sick of talking around it.” Ashley kept his voice low, controlled, watching Sandi in the corner of his eye. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to make you an offer.”
She listened, but in the back of her mind she was counting seconds, like steady clockwork: Sixty seconds for Ed to walk to his cousin’s truck and back.
Fifty seconds, now?
“This offer is going to stand once, Darbs, and then it’ll be gone forever. No second chances. So think hard, please, before you make a decision—”
“What’re you doing with that little girl?”
He licked his lips. “We’re not talking about Jay right now.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
“That’s not important.”
“It’s pretty goddamn important to me—”
“Darby.” He was getting aggravated now, baring his perfect Colgate teeth, his voice a strained whisper: “This isn’t about her. Don’t you understand? This is about you, and me, and my brother, and everyone else caught in the crossfire at this rest stop. This is about the decision you’re going to make, right now.”
Forty seconds.
She thought about Lars, guarding the door behind her, and her stomach tightened with queasy horror. His mooning grin, the shiny scar tissue peppering his hands, his flat little eyes. She didn’t think she could say it aloud — but then she did: “Is he . . . is Lars going to rape her?”
“What?” Ashley rolled his eyes. “Ew. Gross. Darbs, you’re not listening—”
“Answer me,” she said, glancing over to Sandi. “Or I swear to God, I’ll start screaming bloody murder right now—”
“Do it.” He leaned back. “See what happens.”
She still had her Honda keys in her knuckles, on her lap. The sharpest one — her Dryden Hall dorm key — was gripped between her thumb and index finger. But she couldn’t trust herself to clear the table fast enough. Ashley would see her attack coming; he’d raise a hand to protect his face. It wouldn’t work. She wasn’t strong enough or quick enough.
“I dare you,” he whispered. “Scream.”
She almost called his bluff.
Then Ashley glanced over Darby’s shoulder. He nodded again, and she realized with a shiver of panic — Lars was now standing directly behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach, but now she heard the crinkle of his ski jacket flexing, just inches behind her. Like the moment they’d first met. She flinched, half-expecting those scarred hands to clamp around her throat and squeeze — but Lars knelt instead, snatching her purse from the floor beside her ankle.
“Yoink.” He carried it back to the door.
Ashley glanced back to her, sucking on his lower lip. “Darbs, so we’re clear, I’m giving you a chance to undo all of this. A big, red reset button. It’s easy, too, because all you have to do is nothing. Just keep your mouth shut.”
Twenty seconds.
“See, Darbs, we’ll all agree that this little accident never happened. We — my brother and I — we’ll pretend you never broke into our van. You’ll pretend you never saw Jaybird. We’ll all just . . . just erase the last few hours from our brains, and when the snowplows rumble up here at the ass-crack of dawn, we’ll all just hop into our cars and go our separate ways. A peaceful resolution for everyone.”
Pop-pop. Lars opened the buttons on her wallet. Credit cards click-clacked to the floor. He sniffed, checking out her Utah driver’s license, and unfolded a crumpled twenty, which he pocketed.
Ten seconds.
“I’ll be honest.” Ashley leaned forward. “I’m really, really hoping you’ll just look the other way. Get some rest. You’re tired. You look like boiled crap. You won’t stand a chance against Lars and me. So just . . . let the monsters do their thing, okay?”
Five seconds.
“Please, Darbs. It’ll be easier on all of us.” He glanced at Sandi as he said this, as if his threat wasn’t already clear enough.
Darby felt her cheeks burn. “I can’t.”
“We won’t hurt Jay, you know.” He cocked his head. “Is that it? Is that what you’re afraid of? Because if so, I can promise you—”
“You’re lying.”
“No one will get hurt tonight, if you cooperate.”
“I know you’re lying.”
“She’ll be fine,” Ashley said, waving his hand. “Hey, by the way. I saw a bunch of papers in the backseat of your car. Black papers. What’s all that?”
“Why do you care?”
His eyes hardened. “You peeked into Garver family business. So I peeked into yours. Answer the question.”
“It’s . . . just papers.”
“For what?”
“Gravestone rubbings.”
“What’re those?”
“I take . . . I use crayons to, uh . . . to take an imprint of headstones.”
“Why?”
“Because I collect them.”
“Why?”
“I just do.” She hated being studied by him.
“You’re kind of a damaged girl,” Ashley said. “I like it.”
She said nothing.
“And you have a scar over your eyebrow.” He leaned over the table, inspecting her in the fluorescent light. “That must have been . . . what, thirty stitches? It’s only really noticeable when you furrow your brow. Or smile.”
She stared at the floor.
“Is that why you don’t smile much, Darbs?”
She wanted to cry. She wished it would be over.
“Smile,” he whispered. “You’ll live longer.”
It’s been over a minute.
Where the hell was Ed? Possibilities cycled through her mind. Maybe he couldn’t find the camping coffee. Maybe he was sneaking in a drink. Or maybe . . . maybe he’d detected some subtle clue, pieced together the kidnapping plot, and now he was attempting to find cell signal to contact the police right now? Or, what if Jay cut through the kennel bars and ran to him? He’d be a second witness. That would give Ashley and Lars no choice but to start shooting.
Every second felt volatile. She glanced up at the Garfield clock, and Ashley noticed. “That’s an hour fast, you know.”
“I know.”
“It’s only one o’clock.”
“I know.”
He licked his lips, studying the clock. The image on it; of a love-struck Garfield offering roses to Arlene. “Hey, what’s that cat’s name? The pink one?”
“Arlene.”
“Arlene. That’s a pretty girl’s name. Like yours.”
“Yours, too,” she said.
He smirked, enjoying the back-and-forth, glancing back at her eyebrow. “How’d you get the scar, anyway?”
“A fight,” she lied. “In junior high.”
She’d crashed her bicycle into a garage door. If it could be called a fight, the garage door had won. Twenty-eight stitches and an overnight at Saint Joseph. The other fifth graders had called her Frankengirl.
She couldn’t tell if Ashley believed her. He licked his lips. “I should warn you, Darbs, if you’re . . . you know, planning on fighting us tonight. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Planning to fight us?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Well, if you are, you should know. I’ve always been kind of special.”