“Me neither.” He smiled. “But I’ll let you know, okay?”
She laughed.
It didn’t make her feel any better. But she pretended it had, like a rushed little pep talk in a restroom had been all she needed. She smiled, letting her scar materialize on her eyebrow. “I’ll hold you to it, Ed.”
“You bet.”
As he returned to the lobby, she felt something still lumped in her right pocket — Ashley’s keychain. She pulled it out and inspected it, fanning the keys in her palm. A black USB drive. A key to a storage unit place called Sentry Storage, and, lastly, the all-important key to the kidnappers’ Chevrolet Astro.
Then she closed a fist around them, and before she could reconsider, hurled them out the window. A soft thump as they landed outside.
Call it a peace offering.
A chance for Ashley and Lars to cut their losses, take their Astro van and attempt a getaway before the sun came up. Before the snowplows arrived. Before the cops came in with their guns drawn.
Take your keys, she wanted to shout.
No one has to die tonight.
Please, just take your keys, Ashley, and we’ll all go our separate ways.
It was a nice fantasy. But somehow she figured there was no chance this standoff could end without bloodshed. The Brothers Garver had too much at stake to simply walk away. She’d already sat across the table from Ashley tonight, looked him in the eyes, and seen the ruthless clarity in them. Like light refracted through a jewel. A young man who saw people as meat. Nothing more.
And the witching hour was approaching. That time of evil, of demonic entities, of crawling things that live in the dark. Just superstition, but Darby shivered anyway as she typed another draft text.
Hey, Mom. If you find this message on my phone . . .
She hesitated.
. . . I want you to know that I didn’t stop fighting. I didn’t give up. I’m not a victim. I chose to get involved. I’m sorry, but I had to. Please know that I always loved you, Mom, and no matter what, I’ll always be your little girl. And I died tonight fighting to save someone else’s.
Love, Darby.
2:56 a.m.
On her way back into the lobby, she folded Jay’s cryptic little DON’T TRUST THEM napkin and tucked it in her back pocket.
Why? She wondered, a sore pit growing in her stomach.
Why shouldn’t I trust Ed and Sandi?
She wanted to ask the girl, but Ed was too close. “Jay, did those assholes mention where they were driving you?” he asked. “Before they got stranded up here on the pass, I mean?”
“No.” Jay shook her head. “They’re here on purpose.”
“What?”
“They were looking for this rest stop. They were looking at maps today on the road, finding it—”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just know they wanted to be here.”
Tonight, Darby thought, tying her hair up into a ponytail. Another loose puzzle piece. Another unsolved fragment. It made her stomach hurt. She couldn’t imagine why Ashley and Lars would intend to trap themselves up here with their hostage, at nine thousand feet, among a handful of travelers.
Unless they’d planned to kill everyone here all along? The homicidal brothers had been traveling with a handgun, five gallons of gasoline, and a jug of bleach. Maybe Ashley had something evil in mind. As she considered this, Ed asked Jay something else that caught her attention: “Did they take your meds? When they took you?”
Darby’s ears perked. Meds?
Jay wrinkled her nose. “My shots?”
“Yeah. Meds, shots, pens. Whatever your parents called them.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.” He sighed, pushing his thinning hair back. “Then, tell me, Jay. How . . . how long have you gone without them?”
“I keep one in my pocket for emergencies, but I used it.” She counted on her fingers. “So three . . . no, four days.”
Ed exhaled, like he’d been gut-punched. “Wow. Alright.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No. It’s not your fault.”
Darby grabbed his elbow. “What’s this about?”
“Apparently . . . well, she has Addison’s.” Ed lowered his voice and pointed at Jay’s yellow bracelet. “Addison’s disease. It’s an adrenal condition with the endocrine glands, where they don’t produce enough cortisol for your body to operate. One in, like, forty thousand people has it. Requires a daily medication, or your blood sugar plunges and you . . .” He stopped himself.
Darby touched Jay’s wrist and read the bracelet: ADDISON’S DISEASE/STEROID DEPENDENT. She turned it over, expecting more details, like dosage instructions, a doctor’s phone number, or a recommended emergency treatment — but that was it. That was all. Four stamped words.
Steroid dependent.
“So, what then?” Darby asked. “Ashley didn’t know how to medicate her?”
“They’ve been medicating her incorrectly, I think. Dumbasses probably Googled it, then broke into a drug store and grabbed the first thing with steroid in the name. Just made her sicker—”
“I thought you said were a veterinarian.”
“I am.” Ed forced a smile. “Dogs get Addison’s, too.”
She remembered the sharp odor of vomit in Lars’s van. Jay’s tremors, her exhaustion, her pale skin. This explained all of it. And now Darby wondered — if you’re prescribed a daily steroid shot, how bad can missing four of them be?
To Ed, she lip-synched: How serious?
He mouthed back: Later.
“Ashley and Lars are still by their van,” Sandi called out from the window. “They’re . . . they’re doing something. I just can’t tell what—”
“Preparing to attack us,” Darby said. No point in sugarcoating it.
She paced the room, inventorying weapons. Two carafes of hot water. Sandi’s pepper spray. Ed’s lug wrench.
It was a hasty battle plan, but it made sense. When the assault came, Sandi would monitor the locked front door and barricade with Jay, calling out the attackers’ movements. Darby would guard the men’s room window. If the brothers attempted their entry there, as she anticipated, she’d surprise-attack Lars or Ashley from the blind corner with a splash of scalding water. And Ed, with his wrench, would be a roamer, moving to whichever side of the visitor center he was needed.
“What’s . . .” Sandi wiped her breath off the glass, squinting outside. “It’s been ten minutes. Why haven’t they tried to get inside yet?”
“To mess with us,” Darby guessed. “To make us nervous.”
“It’s working.”
In the building silence, her ears began to ring. The air felt pressurized. The ceiling rafters felt lower. The floor was bare, blotted with loose napkins and mop tracks. Somehow, moving the table had actually made the room feel smaller. The air was stuffy, all recycled carbon dioxide and sweat.
Darby kept waiting for someone to make a joke to relieve the tension.
No one did.