Chapter 2
Chapter Two
ALICE
I’m riding in a car with a stranger, a guy from the bus station I met five minutes ago. I don’t even know his last name. If my father was a superhero who could sense danger, he would’ve put a stop to this a million times.
I kind of wish he would. Because I’m riding in a car with a stranger.
Once that realization sinks in, I’m done for. Charlie From the Bus Station says something harmless about the view, and I’m too busy looking for escape routes to respond.
There aren’t any, if you’re curious. Escape routes. Just a thin canyon road that’s carved into a mountain. Nothing but rocks on his side of the car and a steep drop-off on mine.
Even if I needed to escape, to fling myself out of his moving vehicle, there’s nowhere to go but down. Nothing to break my fall except miles of empty air before I hit the valley below. It’s the very definition of a last resort, but I tuck it away for later. Just in case.
“You okay over there?” Charlie asks as he eases around a bend in the road.
I nod.
Before he can ask any follow-up questions—or murder me while driving—my phone buzzes with a text. But it isn’t my father. Or my boyfriend.
Marcus: Did you get there safe? How’s our favorite grump? Has he swept you off your feet while scowling yet?
I can’t help smiling. Even trapped in a car, at the mercy of a stranger, my little brother has that effect on me. He’s the youngest Kilpatrick, the only boy I know who could’ve survived the chaos of his three older sisters, and he’s also the only sibling I have who isn’t back at my place in Texas, crashing at my condo. He’s in Virginia where he belongs. And he isn’t mad at me.
Miracle of miracles.
I picture him in his dorm at Virginia Tech, and my smile widens the tiniest bit. I consider keeping things light, glossing over the trickier parts of my day, but this is Marcus I’m dealing with. Usually, I can tell him anything. So I stick to the truth…sort of.
Alice: Jason couldn’t make it to the bus station. But I’m on my way to see him now. (And his sweet, sweet scowl.)
Marcus: He didn’t meet you? Did you have to get a rideshare?
Even over text, I can sense the tension in his response. Our dad isn’t convinced any mode of public transportation is safe enough for his daughters—especially rideshares—and I bite my lip, not sure how much I want to reveal.
Except I’m in a car with a stranger. Nothing around me is familiar, and this guy could be driving me anywhere. If this is my chance to let someone know where I am, I should probably take it.
Alice: They don’t have rideshares out here, but someone from the bus station offered to drive me.
The truth sounds even worse via text. Which is really saying something. My brother responds in record time.
Marcus: Someone from the bus station?
Alice: An employee.
Twice in a row, I’ve avoided saying it’s a guy, that I’m currently riding around with some man I just met, but that doesn’t mean Marcus hasn’t noticed. It takes my brother less than a second before he does what he’s been trained to do. Before he channels the living ghost of our father, the recently retired Major General Jeffrey H. Kilpatrick.
Marcus: What’s his name?
Marcus: Height, weight, license plate number? Any distinguishing features? Did you pack your mace?
There are two types of Kilpatrick daughters: mace girls and taser girls. My younger sisters are taser girls through and through. It wouldn’t even take much to provoke them. They were born ready to bring people to their knees.
But I’m a mace girl. Spray and run, that’s my motto.
I can feel it too, flight mode. I consider throwing myself out of the car again, but my bones veto that option. Apparently, they’re not in the mood to get shattered today.
Instead, I take a few deep breaths before responding to my brother. Hoping to channel a sense of calm I don’t feel.
Alice: His name is Charlie. And he seems nice.
They always do. I can almost hear my father saying that, and Marcus is probably thinking the same thing, that seeming nice means nothing. Though he’s kind enough to let my shameless optimism slide—if it actually counts as optimism.
I’m not even sure if I believe it, that Charlie is a nice guy. He’s either a tabby cat or a tiger; I honestly can’t tell which.
Marcus: Does he have a last name?
Marcus: Please tell me you know his last name.
I do not. And my silence speaks volumes.
It takes another two seconds for Marcus to lose it. For my phone to start buzzing with texts like a robot that got struck by lightning. Although there’s one thing my highly trained baby brother doesn’t do: call me.
Our father used to fly F-117 Nighthawks in the Air Force, and stealth life is the best life. It’s practically our family motto.
So Marcus keeps our conversation quiet. Text only. That way, the man beside me with the dangerous smile never has to know how much we’re both freaking out.
Too bad I’m the family open book. My face is the ultimate snitch.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charlie asks. “You look a little green. Are you car sick?”
Motion sickness has never bothered me, but I’m beyond green. I am every color in the rainbow. Every bad feeling all mixed together like some kind of horrible anxiety smoothie.
It takes everything I’ve got to shake my head. To shrug and pretend I’m fine. “Nope,” I squeak brightly, “I’m great. Better than great. Super-duper great.”
Super duper?
Even seven-year-old me is embarrassed on my behalf. My Ultra Happy response doesn’t even work. Disbelief dances across Charlie’s face, and he gives me a quick glance before focusing back on the road.
“Who are you texting?”
From any other stranger, that question would sound ominous, but Charlie could make anything seem friendly. It might be his deadliest quality.
“If it’s your boyfriend,” he continues, “tell him we’re about ten minutes out. He can meet us by the main lodge if he wants.”
When I don’t respond, he gives me an easy smile. A reassuring smile—except I don’t feel reassured. For lots of reasons.
My gaze dips to my phone, to the litany of texts that aren’t even remotely from my boyfriend. Because I haven’t heard from Jason all day. Why has he been so quiet?
Is he really too busy to text me back?
Maybe I should play it smart, harness my inner Stealth Kilpatrick and keep my secrets to myself. But one look at Charlie, and the truth spills out.
“It’s my brother.” I gesture to my phone. “He’s not thrilled I’m riding around with a guy I just met. He keeps asking for your last name…and any distinguishing features.”
I half expect him to get offended. The world is full of guys who would be. Perfectly nice men who’d feel hurt that I didn’t trust them after they’d gone through so much trouble. On my first date with Jason, I shared my location with my sisters so they could track my phone, and you would’ve thought that man had been mortally wounded when he found out.
But Charlie cracks another easy grin. “I have a sister—I get it. Last name’s Roscoe.”
Before I can file that away— he has a last name —Charlie takes his right hand off the steering wheel and angles his arm toward me. “You can tell him about my tattoos if you want. They make a pretty good distinguishing feature, and Carl keeps his registration in the glove box; nothing beats a license plate number. I think his address is on there too.”
I didn’t ask for most of that information. It’s above and beyond, but I know a safety gift when I receive one. Snapping open the glove box, I go straight for the vehicle registration card and text my brother everything. Then I focus on Charlie’s tattoos.
His left arm is bare, but the right one’s a patchwork of ink. Two thick black bands stretch around the muscular curve of his bicep, circling all the way around. Below them, an intricate phoenix extends to the middle of his forearm, and something spiky curves above his wrist. There’s even a tiny skull above his palm. Right where you’d place your fingers if you wanted to check his pulse.
I describe everything to Marcus in vivid detail. Any police sketch artist would be thrilled, but my brother isn’t satisfied. Not even close.
And he’s ready to make this whole situation worse.
Marcus: Take his picture.