Chapter 3 #2
She pauses to splash cold water on her face, knowing that she is going to have to go back to the bar and tell Trent thanks
for the drinks, but she has no intention of sleeping with him. When she walks out of the bathroom, the bartender has once
again taken his place behind the counter, and Trent is nowhere to be seen.
Seeing the surprise on her face, he hitches his thumb toward the door and says, “He left.”
Huh, Lucy thinks, weirdly offended. She wants to be the one to slip out the door, to be the ditcher rather than the ditchee.
She moves to the door and peers through the glass. The dark lot is now empty except for two vehicles, Lucy’s truck and what
must be the bartender’s four-door parked in the far corner of the lot. She sees no sign of Trent or his vehicle.
“See you,” Lucy calls over her shoulder and steps out into the night.
There are no stars or moon, and the air has cooled like only May nights do.
Lucy climbs into her truck and sits for a moment trying to decide her next move.
Find a motel in Nightjar—what a stupid name for a town—or head toward her final destination?
A motel sounds like the smart idea. She’ll be sober and clearheaded by morning.
She starts the truck, cranks the radio, and pulls onto the road heading toward town. Lucy drives for about a mile when she
feels the truck pull right, nearly sending her into a ditch. She swings the wheel to the left but can feel an unmistakable
vibration coming from the undercarriage. She flips off the radio, and The Eagles are replaced with a rhythmic thumping. Fuck.
She slows the truck and pulls off to the side of the deserted road. Pissed, Lucy leaps out and, using the light from her phone,
stomps to the rear of the truck to assess the damage.
A flat tire. “Fuck,” she says, her voice too loud in the quiet night. What to do? Lucy wonders. Lock herself in her truck,
try to catch a few hours of sleep, and change the tire in the morning? Or wrestle the spare from beneath the truck’s carriage
in the pitch dark and do it now?
In the distance a set of headlights appear, pinning her into place with their brightness. “Oh shit,” Lucy murmurs. It’s never
good to be alone on a deserted highway in the middle of the night, and her pocketknife suddenly seems entirely inadequate.
The gun seems like overkill. Her only other weapon, the lug wrench, is snug in its spot beneath the front seat. She might
not be able to reach it in time.
As the approaching vehicle slows and comes to a stop behind her, Lucy presses her phone to her ear, pretends to talk. Laughable,
because Lucy no longer has anyone to call. She’s burned all those bridges.
And lo and behold, it’s Trent who steps from the truck.
“Looks like you’ve got a flat,” Trent states the obvious.
“Mm-hmm,” Lucy says, pointing to her phone, letting Trent know she is talking. “Yeah, I’m out on County Road 12.” He crosses
his arms, leans against her trailer. “I got this,” she says. “You can head out.” She keeps her voice calm, even. She doesn’t
want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s scaring her.
“I don’t mind waiting,” Trent says and smirks. “I’d hate for you to be out here all alone.”
“Probably a nail or something,” Lucy says into the phone giving Trent a dismissive wave. “Thanks, sweetie. See you in five.”
Trent’s hand shoots out and snags the phone from Lucy’s grasp. “Actually, sweetie, you don’t worry one bit,” he says into
the phone. “I’ll take good care of Lucy. Hello? Hello?” His eyebrows rise in mock concern. “I think we lost the connection.”
“Give me my phone,” Lucy says, reaching into the truck for the lug wrench, her fingers snagging on the cool metal.
“Sure,” Trent says. “But why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re up to first.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucy says. He is ballsy. Or a psychopath. Lucy is betting on the latter.
“The bar,” Trent says. “You coming on to me? What were you planning on doing? Get me drunk and then rob me? I felt the knife
in your pocket.”
He takes a step toward her.
“Back the fuck up,” Lucy says, raising the tire iron. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he calls her bluff. Trent is bigger
and stronger than she is and turning out to be as clever.
Another vehicle comes into view, its high beams spotlighting them both.
“Jesus,” Trent breathes. “It’s the sheriff. Put that thing away.”
Lucy doesn’t go as far as to put the wrench back in the truck but lowers it to her side.
The lightbar mounted to the top of the approaching SUV flashes as it pulls in behind them. It’s quite the little caravan they’ve
got going here.
The man inside the SUV kills the engine and steps from the vehicle. “Trent,” he says, with a nod. He looks Lucy up and down.
“You okay here?” he asks. He wears a brown sheriff’s department uniform and a grave expression on his acne-pocked face.
The entire truth is out of the question, so Lucy decides to go with the abridged version. “Flat tire. He’s giving me a hand.”
A small uptick of Trent’s mouth lets Lucy know he thinks he’s won this round.
The sheriff sweeps his flashlight across her truck, examines her mud-splattered license plate. “License and registration,
please.”
Lucy’s stomach flips. She can only hope that her ex hasn’t filed a police report about his stolen items.
“They’re in my glove box,” she says. “Can I grab them?” The sheriff gives a stiff nod, and he follows her as she walks back
to her truck and climbs inside. She considers making a run for it but decides it will be useless. She leans across the seat,
opens the glove box, pretends to riffle through the contents.
“Huh,” Lucy says, sitting upright. “I can’t seem to find them. It’s a mess in there, and it’s so dark.”
Trent paces impatiently at the side of the road. “You know who I am,” he grouses. “Can’t I be on my way?” The sheriff shoots
him a look that shuts him up.
“Keep looking,” the sheriff says.
It’s no use—she has to give him the paperwork. If she plays it cool, maybe everything will be okay. Lucy grabs the registration, slides from the truck, and pulls her driver’s license from her back pocket.
“The truck is under my husband’s name,” she explains. Trent gives her a look that says You’re married? Lucy ignores it.
The sheriff clicks on his flashlight, examines the paperwork, gives Lucy a quizzical look. She doesn’t speak. The less she
says, the better.
She waits for the sheriff to take her license back to his car. If he does, Lucy is done for, but he simply hands the card
back. It can’t be this easy, she thinks.
“You work yesterday?” the sheriff asks, turning to Trent.
“Me?” Trent is taken off guard. “Yeah, until about four. I put in about sixty hours this week, and they let me off. Why?”
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard what happened earlier,” the sheriff says, leveling his gaze on Trent.
Lucy’s heart starts to thump. Confusion or maybe fear skitters across Trent’s face. “No. What happened?” he asks cautiously.
“You definitely weren’t there last night?” the sheriff asks.
“Dad,” Trent says with exasperation, “what’s going on?”
Dad? Lucy repeats to herself. Dad? The sheriff is this big lout’s father?
The sheriff stares a long while at his son before speaking. “The Drakes went and blew themselves up with that damn gender
reveal thing. Lots of injuries, at least one dead.”
Lucy holds completely still. Her limbs have gone numb.
“Who died?” Trent asks, panic rising in his voice. “Who was it?”
The sheriff glances over at Lucy as if not wanting to say more. “Take care of this nice lady’s tire and then you better head
over there.” Of course he can’t tell them who died. Not in front of her anyway.
Lucy has to say something. Now. They would find out soon enough who she is, why she is a thousand miles away from where she is supposed to be. She has to say the right things, act the right way. “Did you say the Drakes?” Lucy manages to ask.
“That’s right,” the sheriff says, looking at Lucy with new interest. “You know them?”
“Yes,” Lucy says, her voice shakes on the word. “Madeline Drake is my sister. Is she dead?”