Chapter 4
CAILIN
It could be worse.
I keep repeating it like a mantra in an attempt to stave off the panic.
The panic blossoming bigger and more powerful with every step into the dark.
The panic that’s clawing at my chest from the inside out.
It could be worse.
Dario could have killed me and buried me in an unmarked grave on his property.
He could have injured me so badly I’d never fully recover.
I could be bleeding out in the dirt beside the ramshackle trailer I was supposed to deliver to, unable to move as the life drained out of me.
Or that man could have dragged me inside to do unspeakable things that make me sick to think about.
The last moments of my life could be spent on desperate what-ifs.
What if I’d just said no to the deliveries? I didn’t have to explain why. I could have just said I didn’t feel comfortable doing it. Will is a bit pushy, but he’s not an unreasonable manager. I’m sure he wouldn’t have fired me if I’d refused.
But if I’m being honest with myself, there was a stubborn part of me that wanted to prove I could do it—to prove I was the strong woman I used to be before Dario took me.
I don’t feel very strong now, though.
As I scurry along the deserted road, my feet sliding on the sand and loose stones to the side of it, my footsteps unbearably loud in the vast emptiness, I feel the complete opposite.
I’m terrified.
And I so badly wish Memphis was here.
Everything would be okay if he were. I have no doubt. Memphis would swoop in and take care of everything.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine it.
Memphis would come speeding down the road, his window down as he calls my name.
His voice is rough with worry, and perhaps even, fear.
As soon as I hear him, I wave my arms as I shout to him.
The suffocating fear subsides as I realize my nightmare is over.
Then he stops the car in a squeal of tires and races out to meet me. In the moonlight, his features are like stone and his gaze is dark and intense. He closes the distance between us in long, purposeful strides. His arms would come around me, pulling me into his embrace.
“What happened?” he would ask. “Are you hurt?” As he draws back slightly to inspect me, his expression shifts from desperate to grateful. “I was so worried. I just knew you were in trouble. Thank God you’re okay.”
And only once he had me safely in his car, his presence a reassurance that no one could hurt me, would I explain how my night ended up going so horribly wrong.
Like the day I went to the casting call, I would have never imagined it ending up this way. I was scared to make the deliveries, yes. But I didn’t really think anything bad would happen.
As I made my way to the first delivery, a ranch not far from my apartment, I reminded myself of what Memphis told me last night. Not the part at the end, when he rushed off like my kiss had burned him. But earlier, the part about how PTSD can make you see danger when there isn’t.
The first uneventful delivery certainly seemed proof of it. When I rang the doorbell, a woman who looked to be around the same age as me greeted me with a friendly smile. “You’re not the usual delivery guy,” she remarked.
“He’s out sick,” I told her. “I’m just filling in for the night.”
“Well, I really appreciate it,” she replied.
“I’d have gone to pick it up myself, but my husband’s out of town and I finally got the baby down after hours of crying.
” She handed me a twenty-dollar-bill as she added, “I know it’s not fun making deliveries, especially as a woman. I hope this makes up for it a little.”
So that was nice.
And as I headed to my second delivery, I felt much more optimistic.
It would go just as smoothly as the first and I’d be back at the restaurant in half an hour.
I’d pick up a few more tables before the end of my shift, and then I’d head home for a much-needed shower before settling in for some junk TV and maybe even a glass of wine.
It might help me sleep, I told myself. Because I had a feeling I’d be laying awake in bed otherwise, agonizing over the failed kiss and Memphis’s quick departure afterwards.
A creak in the distance jerks me back to the present, and I let out a tiny meep of alarm. My heart rockets to triple speed, rather than the double it’s been since my panicked escape into the dark.
Instinctively, I fling myself to the ground. A sharp stone jabs into my palm. I press myself flat to the sand and hold my breath. Frightened tears leak down my cheeks.
Please, I beg silently. Just keep on going. Please don’t notice me.
I’m not sure how long I lay on the ground before daring to move. Long enough for my muscles to start cramping. Long enough for the perspiration on my body to cool and shivers to take over.
But eventually, I climb to my feet and look around.
Everything is just as it was before.
The road is still empty.
The utility poles scattered across the landscape still cast eerie shadows as the moon catches them.
The sand still shifts with the wind, bringing with it an almost inaudible murmur.
And I’m still the only one out here.
The relief is so overwhelming, I start crying again.
On my second visual sweep of my surroundings, I notice an oil tower not too far away.
I clamp my lips shut to stifle the burst of laughter that nearly escapes.
An oil tower. That’s what was creaking. Given where I am, I should have guessed that right away.
Well, I sort of know where I am, at least. I’m somewhere in the oil fields outside of Bakersfield, although I’m not sure how far I am from the city. Hopefully, I’ll spot the lights of civilization soon, where I can find someone to help me.
I wish I’d paid closer attention when I first started running. But I was just so scared.
When I arrived at the address for the second delivery, the rundown trailer made me uneasy.
It was clear it wasn’t taken care of, with overgrown grass all around it and plywood over one of the windows.
But the porch light was on, and after checking the address Dillon had given me, I was sure it was the place I was supposed to be.
Don’t judge, I scolded myself as I walked to the door. Not everyone can afford to replace broken windows. The owner might not be able to afford a lawn mower. Or maybe it’s broken.
So I set my shoulders, tried to swallow back my fear, and knocked on the door.
Then.
I shudder at the memory.
The wind picks up, sending a rush of goosebumps across my skin.
I couldn’t have been at the door for more than twenty seconds or so when a deep voice came from beside me. Not inside the house, but emerging from the side of the porch, where an out-of-control shrub encroached on it.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered. “Don’t make a sound.”
Out of the corner of my eye, something metal glinted.
Then I heard a tiny click that I recognized all-too-well as a trigger cocking.
“Drop your keys on the ground,” he said. “Your money. And your phone.”
“Please don’t do this,” I pleaded. “Just let me go.”
He chuckled. It was a dark, oily sound. “I don’t think so. Now, do what I said. Or I’ll have to shoot you.”
So I did. How could I not?
I could almost hear Memphis in my head, saying, “Cars, money, phones—they can be replaced. You can’t, Cailin. So do what he says.”
As the man bent down to collect my things, I actually thought he might let me go. I hadn’t seen his face, after all. I couldn’t identify him. And who knew, maybe this trailer wasn’t even his.
It would make sense, my inner voice of logic reasoned. Why would someone give their own address to the restaurant if they intended to rob the delivery person? It would be much smarter to find someplace vacant to use as a trap.
Then the man stood back up and took a step towards me.
I saw his eyes.
They were dark. Flat. Predatory.
That’s when I knew he wasn’t going to let me go.
That’s when I realized he had something much worse than robbery in mind. And I needed to act fast to keep him from doing it.
So I cast my mind back to all those true-crime documentaries I’d watched.
I tried to remember what some of the surviving victims said in their interviews about how they escaped.
I scanned the porch with a desperation I hadn’t felt since I was back in Dario’s basement, hoping to find something to use.
Then I saw it—a faded planter half-filled with dry soil—and I had an idea.
I pretended to sway, like I was about to pass out. As I let my legs fold beneath me, I pitched forward, so my hand landed in the planter. Grabbing a handful, I turned and flung the soil in his face. And as soon as he yelped and flinched away, I ran.
At first, I paid no attention to where I was going. Terrified, panicked; all I cared about was keeping to the shadows and getting as far away as I could.
Eventually—after ten minutes or an hour, I’m not sure—I finally began to notice my surroundings, or at least what little I could see of them in the dark. I made my way close to a road and followed beside it, not too close, though, in case the man was looking for me.
And I’m still following it, however long later. Like my time at Dario’s, time is funny out here. For all I know, only thirty minutes have passed, or it could have been hours.
Straining to see in the distance, I search the horizon for a hint of light. For some glimmer of hope that safety is in sight.
And Memphis.
Oh, I wish he were here, like he was in my fantasy.
But I’m sure he’s back in Salem by now, watching one of those outdoor shows he likes, or possibly working on one of his giant jigsaw puzzles.
He’s sent me pictures of them—massive five-thousand piece puzzles that he works on for weeks.
I even had one custom-made for him with Gus printed on it.
Even though it still hurts that he left, I can’t bring myself to be mad at him.
No, I love him too much for that.
If I get out of this, I decide, I’m going to tell him. Even if he turns me down, at least I’ll know for sure.
With a fresh burst of determination, I start jogging faster.