4. Gilli
Gilli
“ W hat the fuck are you doing?”
Suzanne’s strident voice clangs against my ears and I wince. “Can you maybe take it down a notch?” I beg. “I didn’t sleep last night and I’m driving. Don’t you always say not to phone and drive?”
“I know you’re using the hands-free I got you for Christmas,” Suzanne gripes. “And you’re avoiding telling me what’s going on. I know you. I know your tone when you’ve done something bad.”
She knows a lot, apparently.
If I say it’s none of her business, she’ll destroy me. It’s her duty as the oldest.
I’ve got my window cracked, and the chill breeze filtering inside brings with it the scent of cows. This area of Pennsylvania is filled with them and you know where you are by smell alone without having to look.
But I’m on my way. It’s a three-hour drive if I go directly from the trailer to the cabin.
And luckily for me, Ma still had the address in her old black book, one of the many things she left behind when she went to start her new life. Hopefully north New Jersey is going to be far enough away from Baltimore for me .
No one will trace me there.
“You’re not listening to me, Gillian.” Suzanne’s tone goes Arctic.
I press my foot down on the accelerator to pass someone who has no business hogging the left lane. “I’m more concerned with the fact that Bill called you to say I was crashing at the trailer.”
“I shouldn’t have to hear it from him. If you’ve got issues, then call me directly. You never reach out anymore.”
“If that’s what this is about, I’m sorry.”
She pauses, then goes in for the kill. “You’re only twenty.”
I bristle automatically.“What does my age have to do with anything?”
“You may still need a shoulder to lean on. And I’m here. You never talk to me,” she replies.
“You’ve done enough for me. Trust me when I tell you, Suz, it’s not personal. I just need to get away. That’s the truth.” Partly .
“Maybe,” she admits reluctantly, “but it’s not the whole truth. I know you.”
Then she’s psychic.
“Why don’t you go talk to Lorie, if you’re so lonely? She’s barely said a peep since she got into her prissy design school.”
We are the epitome of dysfunction and it always meant the world to me how my sisters cared. Genuinely. Even if we fall out of touch with each other for a period of time, we’re still a unit.
The core three. We’ve never needed anyone else.
“Trust me, I’ve been badgering her just as much. She’s taken a page out of your book and she’s stopped answering her phone. Why do you guys like to torture me this way?”
I grin. “It’s a gift.”
The traffic is moving along decently but my paranoia keeps checking the rearview mirror like I’m going to find some car jetting out of nowhere to tail me.
Keeping things from Suz feels awful. Taking off on my boss at the clinic feels even worse.
My poor old piece-of-shit car is hopefully going to make it to the cabin on the lake in Jersey. My shoulders might be tight enough to be earrings but I’m on the way.
This might be temporary or it might be a fresh start. I’ll decide when I get there.
“Everything is gonna be fine. I just don’t want you freaking out when you haven’t heard from me,” I finish lamely.
“Why would I not hear from you?” She sucks in a breath. “You really are in trouble! Gillian…”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist again. “But I’ve got to go. The traffic is getting heavy and requires my full attention.”
“Where are you going?” she presses.
“I can’t tell you.”
She groans, and then, “You are taking years off of my life. Please .”
“You just focus on the B&B and getting those customers in. Stop worrying so much about everyone else and start taking care of you.”
Suzanne sighs loudly to bookend her point. It’s the long-suffering sound of the put-upon. “I shouldn't have to hear it from Bill,” she repeats.
“I know you shouldn’t. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” I pause, swallowing. “I love you.”
She waits a beat before parroting the words back to me and then I hang up. The call ends with three beeps and I glance down at the now black screen before turning my attention where it belongs. The traffic.
Leave no trace.
I can’t take the chance that whoever is out there will go to my sisters and look for me. The less they know, the better. I shouldn’t have answered Suz’s call .
What if they figure out where I’m going by tracking my cell phone? Fuck!
In a move I may regret later, I take the cell and roll down the window, throwing it into the median.
My heart lurches into the back of my throat and swells, choking off my air supply. I just have to make it to New Jersey. If I get there then I’ll be okay. I’ll find someone who will listen, who will pay attention and know what to do to fight this weird enemy.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel in an erratic beat. I’ve never had an enemy before.
I’m the type to accidentally rub people the wrong way but never to the point where they want to hurt me.
All this because I refused to do something vile? Something that would maim me for the rest of my life?
What the hell is wrong with people?
Too much to dissect .
The last few hours slip by easily enough. I stop once to use cash and buy myself a coffee and a map at a roadside joint just over the state line. The stale bitter liquid tastes like worn rubber and leaves me shaky.
I need to add map reading to my list of skills.
Tracing a path across the thin lines becomes a way to steady myself. To pull away from the swirling mess inside my head because without the map, I’m lost.
I tossed my cell phone out the window, and the car is too old to have a built-in GPS.
And this area of New Jersey is basically wilderness.
How did I not know before? When you hear the state name, you think about the cities. You think about pavement and yellow skies, pollution and traffic. Not tall trees and backroads.
Not small towns with farm stands empty yet prepped for summer produce.
Holly Brook is just outside of Sussex and about as quaint as a postcard. Which makes my skin crawl because things aren’t supposed to be this cute or perfect. Surely the white mailboxes, trees blossoming for spring, and winding roads aren’t real.
I’ve stumbled into a fantasy hiding nothing but secrets.
I slow the car at a stop sign and the brakes grind. Maybe those fuckers killed me and I’ve been taken someplace much nicer than anything I’ve experienced.
It’s a nice thought. I’m not smiling.
The main street winds over a small rise in the land before dipping down toward a park on the left and a row of shops on the right. There’s even a fucking gazebo painted white, like it’s ready to become a grandstand at a Fourth of July bash.
I pass a coffee shop, a small country store, a restaurant, a bookstore, an odds-and-ends shop, and a veterinarian clinic.
Oh, gosh.
My heart gives a little flip at the sign with the silhouette of a dog and a cat nuzzling together in neon, straight out of a greeting card and oozing quaintness.
I flick on the turn signal and take a left down some historically named street.
The distance between houses in the suburban paradise outside Holly Brook’s downtown area begins to grow and the trees get thicker. The vibrant green of fresh spring growth…I can see why people move to the country.
Why they want to escape the crowded sidewalks and conveniences of a fast-food joint on every corner. Once you live with the stench of hot garbage long enough, you appreciate it.
Right?
A few more turns and the road turns to gravel, then dirt. A sign marks the end of state road maintenance and I grind to a stop again.
“Where the hell am I?” My painted fingernail trails over the map toward my destination, circled three times in red ink .
Nope, I’m definitely headed in the right direction.
I push the car past ruts and bumps toward a small turnoff marked by a weathered post in the road.
Savage Gardens
A smile teases my lips. Corny name. But cute. I wonder who picked it, father or son.
I don’t remember much about Alistair beyond his impressively loud laugh and a trim figure, to counter Bill’s failing physique.
Soren I remember for the stick-up-his-ass haughtiness and the blond hair which seemed so off-putting to me, smack dab in the middle of my family of brunettes.
Oh, and the pocket square.
This last stretch of road is nothing more than a trail through the woods. Finally the press of timber opens up to the glint of sunlight on water as the lake looms ahead. Situated on a small flat rise near the edge is the one-story cabin I remember seeing photos of years ago.
I made it . Relief floods my system and eases a bit of the constriction in my chest. At least I got here in one piece. There are no cars parked, and the shades are drawn on all of the windows.
It’s perfect.
Maybe I should have called Ma. Just to let her and Alistair know I was planning on using the place.
I dismiss that notion. When politeness might get you sliced and diced, you have some leeway.
I park and shove open the door, waiting for my glasses to adjust to the glare of the sun.
The front door is locked as expected.
I hike around to the side and find a sliding glass door locked as well, also expected. There must be a key for invited guests who arrive early. It’s a cabin on a lake, likely used by family and friends seeking relaxation and sport.
Or, as in my case, a hideaway.
I head back around to the front and spy an ugly as sin frog statue with a grimace instead of a grin. He’s holding a butterfly in one webbed palm and a net in the other.
I remember some story about that frog. Something about a neighbor trying to buy the ugly thing to scare a grandkid…
But I don’t see any neighbors around, and the memory is tatters in my mind, at best. The thing has a stupid name too. Ferdinand, I think.
Ferdinand the Frog, concierge of Savage Gardens, and hopefully the keeper of the key.
“Aha!”
The key is where I thought it would be. I slide it into the lock and give it a twist. The door swings open into a large living room–dining room combination.
At least the place is clean. Lived-in and loved. The furnishings might be a little dated, but the Formica countertops are free of debris and dust, and the air is scented with some kind of apple and vanilla freshener.
It’s homey. The walls haven’t been touched since the original builder put the place together, and the honey-colored wood is offset by the lighter stain on the floor. Several rugs break up the space from the cozy open floor plan toward the galley kitchen to my left.
I cross through the living room toward a closed door facing the kitchen. It’s a large bedroom, thankfully, but looks like it’s part of an addition, with an attached bathroom that’s huge, done in black and white tiles with a rainhead shower and a soaking tub. Nice.
In this room, the wood floor is covered by dove-gray carpeting. A queen-size bed rests beneath a row of high windows set into the upper portion of the wall. The linens look fresh, too.
Probably someone local comes out a couple of times a month to make sure the place is clean and ready for use. Ready for me to use as a getaway, courtesy of the blanket invitation Alistair extended eight years ago.
A quick tour of the remaining rooms reveals two more bedrooms, original to the cabin, another bathroom, and a small mud room near the back door.
I head back out to my car for my bag, and paranoia strikes again, so I decide to park the car around behind the cabin so it isn’t immediately visible should anyone drive up.
The cabin will still look empty at first glance. Better safe than sorry.
Inside, I lock the door and drop my bag onto the bedroom floor without bothering to unpack anything. I flop down on the inviting mattress. It’s soft as a cloud with a firm center to keep me from sinking in too deeply.
This one makes mine at home, a used mattress picked up at a Salvation Army thrift store, feel like a piece of cardboard over a bed of nails.
Between the comfort of the mattress and my mental and physical exhaustion, I’m toast. My last coherent thought is to take off my sneakers and maybe soak my scratched-up feet.
Later. Too tired to think anymore. To even move. Tired…
A throat clears. A male throat.
A male close enough to grab my ankle and give it a sharp tug.
I jerk awake, scrambling against the touch. They found me .
The scream is automatic and visceral.
How in the world did they find me? I’m away from my home territory. I chucked my cell phone out the car window. And I don’t have a weapon handy.
There’s no baseball bat for me in this place. No lights on in the room. The man still has a hold of my ankle and I lurch and kick out at him.
“Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!” Freaking out is an understatement.
I scratch at the man’s skin and he hisses but refuses to let go.
In the next breath he’s got me on my feet, my back pressed to his chest. His arms band over my torso and breasts to keep me from attacking him. With my arms glued to my sides, I’m effectively paralyzed.
“Easy, now.” He tugs me toward him roughly. Hard enough to force the breath from my lungs. “If you don’t fucking stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”
He smells like pine and sunshine. The thought bounces around my brain without landing, but there’s something familiar about his voice that stops me dead in my tracks.
My pulse thunders in my ears and when I try to swallow, my mouth is bitter and coppery.
“Are you done fighting?” he asks.
I twist around enough to catch a glimpse of blond hair hanging down to broad shoulders. I know that blond hair. I’ve seen it before.
“Soren?”
He gives a dry chuckle in answer. “You were expecting someone else, I take it?”
The place was empty when I arrived. He’s not supposed to be here any more than I am, and on my look through the cabin, I didn’t see any luggage other than the bag I packed.
He’s not letting me go. His muscles are an imposing wall of hardness and heat against my back.
I try to free myself but he doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip until my bones protest and my voice is a wheeze. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Never mind that, Gillian. Why are you here? And what the fuck were you doing in my bed?”