Chapter 4 – Camille
Erich wasn’t the extrovert I had pegged him to be. As we walked, I found he had no desire to tell me about himself, and he couldn't care less if I said more about myself. There wasn’t much else to talk about, and the silence was deafening.
His attitude and character didn’t change, but I kept questioning whether I had made the right decision.
Unable to hold a conversation with my unlikely savior, I was left alone with the scenarios running through my head.
He could easily throw me over his shoulder and kidnap me.
Even in a physically healthy state, I wouldn’t put up much of a fight against someone at least a head taller than me.
There would be no reason for him to stay polite once he had me following him to another part of the street.
Every late-night crime show told me never to go to a second location, yet there I was.
The silence was eating me alive. As we stopped in front of the car, a chilling breeze forced a shiver up my spine. Agonizing. I gave in to the unspoken rule of no small talk and tried to involve myself more with my new companion, hungry for clues to better understand him.
“Why did you stop to help me?” I asked. “What’s your motive? What do you plan on getting out of this?”
I had no control over the nerves in my fingers. I tapped the passenger-side door, feeling the smooth paint beneath my fingertips before tensing and cringing at the nail-on-chalkboard sound as I scratched against it.
I couldn’t see the glance Erich shot me over the hood of the car because I was avoiding eye contact, trying instead to peer through the window to check for anything suspicious—like a trash bag or a handsaw. When he answered, I imagined the look he gave me didn’t match his tone.
“Unless you know how to buff that scratch off my door, no motive.”
I pulled my fingers away as if I had touched a hot stove, staring down at my nails and the tiny black paint chips clinging to them.
Even though it wasn’t entirely my fault his car was old enough for the paint to peel at the slightest touch, I chose to offer an olive branch instead of defending myself.
“Thank you for stopping for me.”
“Sure.”
Erich opened the driver’s side door and climbed in, reaching across to rummage through the glove compartment until he pulled out what appeared to be a first-aid kit—a small red box, stained with oil, probably from doing his own repair work.
The heat of my embarrassment faded, replaced by the cold. The night air cut through the stolen jacket like an icy blade. I crossed my arms, trying to steady my shivering, cursing my rushed choice of clothing.
The driver’s side door shut, and with it went any warmth I had managed to gather. Erich reappeared moments later, setting the first-aid kit on the hood and opening it, digging through for antiseptics.
“Where are the cuts?” he asked, turning to face me. His voice lacked the smooth southern drawl I was used to. I was beginning to suspect his accent came from somewhere I couldn’t place.
We stood directly beneath a streetlight, so I knew he could see my face more clearly now than when we first met.
“Are you just an aimless traveler, or do you have somewhere you’re trying to get to?” I asked instead, ignoring his question. The only visible cut I could point to was my split lip, and antiseptic wouldn’t do much for that—or for the bruises and bite marks spreading across my neck, chest, and arms.
“Both,” he answered simply, offering no explanation.
One hand still held the antiseptic while the other lifted my chin, making me flinch at the lack of warning.
I held his gaze as he studied my cheekbones, tilting my head to examine the exposed skin along my neck where my hair had been tucked into the cap. I tried to guess what he was thinking. Why was he here in Belham? I knew he wasn’t local—his accent gave that away.
His jaw tightened slightly as he found no real lacerations. I couldn’t tell if it was confusion or if he was starting to piece things together. When he dropped my chin and turned away, putting the antiseptic back, I braced myself for questions that never came.
Ideas rushed through my head anyway—stories I could tell if he asked.
I was walking home from work and got attacked in an alley.
I slipped and fell, busted my lip on the pavement.
I wandered into a circus tent and found myself squaring up with one of those aerial dancers.
You wouldn’t believe the damage she can do with those hanging sheets.
None of it mattered in the end. My ridiculous stories were never needed.
“There’s not much to do for bruises, and I don’t have any ice packs,” he said, closing the first-aid kit. “Best option is a gas station. Bottle of water on it for the swelling. Maybe some Tylenol.”
Why wasn’t he pressing me for answers? He had to have some kind of theory. Was he seeing through my disguise? Or did he just… not care?
Once the kit was put away, he left the driver’s door open and leaned over the roof of the car.
“Are you coming?”
His voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. I had two seconds to weigh a million different outcomes.
“Where are we going?” I asked before I could stop myself, even though he’d already told me he didn’t know.
Erich smirked and gave a half shrug.
I didn’t know what either of us were signing up for. Most girls my age would have been terrified by that uncertainty. But I found a strange comfort in it. Wherever we were going, it would be away from there.
So I reached for the passenger door handle and climbed into a stranger’s car.