“Yes. For Miss Peters,” I agree.
While Journey drives, we exchange bursts of conversation, here and there. But there are long bouts of silence, too. The normal state of my brain is a crazy cycle where I’m always trying to stay one step ahead of every situation. But for some reason the air between us just feels easy and comfortable. When I’m with Journey, I can actually breathe and relax. He knows about my past, my investigations. He even knows about the attic … all huge secrets I’ve kept from the people I love the most. It’s hard to believe my fantasy crush has turned out to be the one person I can trust with all of my secrets.
I stretch my legs out, settle back, and actually relax a little while he drives. I don’t think anything of the few unexpected turns he makes until my familiar neighborhood starts to give way to strip malls and shopping centers and then to run-down industrial areas. At that point, I sit up straighter in my seat and begin tracking the changing landscape. My surroundings are becoming increasingly remote and deserted.
Relaxed? Did I just think I was relaxed? Because I’m suddenly tense again. Very tense. My fear is threatening to become full-blown panic. I can’t think of a single good reason he would have for bringing me all the way out here. And now I feel stupid. Deadly freaking stupid. What was I thinking, trusting him? I don’t really know anything about him. And I especially don’t know where in the hell he’s taking me. Spam and Lysa know where I am, but they don’t think I’m in any trouble.
Journey glances over, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re the first friend from school that I’ve brought here.”
“I thought we were going to your house.” Rachel calls me a cool customer because I usually appear calm on the outside, but my voice comes out shaky and Journey definitely notices.
“Don’t let the neighborhood scare you. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
I blink at the trash-strewn curbs, the abandoned sofas, the wrecked car parts. It’s a rusted-out ghost town. I’ve heard stories about this place but I’ve never been here. Iron Rain includes a wedge of Oregon coastline bordered by the Pacific Ocean on one side and the Columbia River on the other. A long time ago, this whole area was one fish-canning operation after another. But as the salmon dwindled, so did the industry. Only one broken-down skeleton of a cannery still remains. The urban legend is that the ghost of an old sea captain haunts the place.
When Journey turns off the main road, it’s clear that’s where he’s headed.
A scorpion tail of fear wriggles inside me. “The Calistoga cannery’s been closed for years,” I say.
“I know it looks bad, but we can’t afford to fix it up,” Journey says.
No lie. The cannery is a condemned hot mess. There’s no way that someone actually lives there. I know Journey didn’t kill my mom or Miss Peters … but what if he knows who did? Aren’t there stories about serial killers working with young protégés? What if Journey is the messenger, bringing me to the real killer, like a gift? My body might never be found.
I squirm, wondering if I can dial 911 without looking at my phone.
Obviously Spam could. She’d be all like, Hey everybody, come on down, and she’d include a GPS link, all while holding her phone behind her back. I’d have to muddle around in my bag for at least five minutes just to even find my phone.
“We?” I manage to get out, my voice barely a squeak.
“My father bought the place cheap. He was going to apply for a grant and turn it into a historic site with a hotel, shops, and a restaurant. But he wound up in prison instead.”
I gaze at the weathered, boarded-up hulk of a building looming at the end of the deserted road. It looks like the set for the latest Saw movie.
“You live in that?”
“We’re not insane.” He attempts to soothe me with his warm gaze. “It’s nice. You’ll see.”
He reacts to my incredulous look.
“I know. But my mother refuses to let it go. She wants my father to have something to come home to.” There’s a sad shadow of a smile on his lips. “She’s been trying to get his case reopened for ten years. All those legal fees don’t leave any room for renovation.”
He’s so warm and sincere I can’t help being drawn in. Gazing into his eyes quiets my brain enough to slow my panicked breathing. Clearly we should have talked more before I agreed to do this. How did I not know he lived way out here? I need to get my head straight and be more careful. But, for the moment, I sense I am safe.
Journey puts the van in neutral and sets the emergency brake. He gets out and unlocks a massive, ten-foot-high, chain-link gate. He slides it open and motions for me to move to the driver’s seat. I unbuckle my seat belt and move over. Then realize there’s no way I can drive this thing.
I gesture, palms up, and shake my head.