2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Shelby
Despite knowing that Ben is in no position to stop me, I still feel the icy trickles of sweat sliding down my spine while I sit in his truck and stare out the windshield.
Years of having something drilled into your head does not fall away in an instant but I’ve come this far, and it may take me three tries to put the key in the ignition, I finally get it right.
Ignoring the burn in my chest, I avoid the rearview mirror as I put the truck in gear and proceed to lurch forward before letting up on the gas. Get it together, Shelby.
Right. I’ve been saying that for years. Now it’s time to truly suck it the fuck up.
Dust fills the road behind me as I ease down it, obscuring the old house turned prison. We live on four acres, miles from town, with no one around to ask questions, just the way Ben liked it.
The narrow path, surrounded by trees, opens up to a field on my left and I admire the vibrant grass blowing in the breeze when I pass through the open fence. At the main road, I slow to a stop and look both ways. I don’t know where to go.
The friends I once had all faded from the picture after Ben came along.
Even Marissa, the last to hang on, finally gave up when I ignored her pleas of worry because all the while she gave me a pretty speech in the dank bathroom of the local bar, I stared over her shoulder, visions of Ben clouding my sanity.
That was a year ago. I haven’t seen her since. Although to be fair, I haven’t left the house in all that time, either. I never told Ben what she said but he must have sensed that something passed between us that night because his ever-tightening rules became a noose around my neck.
My parents live in North Dakota. When they moved away, I lied with a smile and said we’d visit. It was the last thing holding me to my past and with their absence, the tiny piece of thread disappeared altogether.
I speak to them every few weeks, with Ben hovering behind me. The last time was a few days ago. Mom complained about some man at the grocery store who came in gangbusters and proceeded to attack the checkout girl.
She was really shaken up, but I couldn’t process her panic with Ben breathing down my neck. While she babbled about taking Dad to the hospital over some kind of bite, rabies, she said, I stared into the eyes of my captor and pretended to listen.
I’ll call them when I’m safely away. Far enough that I can breathe and finally reveal my truths. For now, I need to determine the best route to avoid Randy and the authorities who will no doubt be searching for me soon.
The two-lane road leading east will take me further into smaller farming communities where if I have to stop, people are more likely to ask questions. If I go west, I’ll pass through Oregon City before reaching the turn off to downtown Portland.
Maybe I can get lost in the city and disappear without leaving a trace? If I just keep going, I could eventually make it to my parents.
Do I want to bring trouble to their door? I don’t know but they’re the only link I have and right now, I’m hanging on by the tips of my fingers.
After banging my head against the steering wheel, I finally press my foot to the pedal. Left it is.
Before I met Ben, I had never been farther than my home state of Arizona. Despite living here for almost three years, the perpetual green of the trees still takes my breath away, a marked change from the desert landscape of my youth.
Coming up on the right is another old home we toured while considering property and I fight back the memories that crowd my vision.
Those were the better times. When we were newly married and just coming off our honeymoon.
Ben looked at me like I hung the moon, and I know I did the same.
He was the best thing that ever happened to me until he became my deepest regret.
When a small red car races by on the opposite side of the road, I bite back a gasp before releasing my death grip on the wheel. I’ve got to freaking relax, or I’m going to crash before I ever really get away.
Hoping to turn my focus, I switch on the radio, but the smoky tone of Van Morrison burns my ears, and I change my mind.
Van was one of Ben’s favorite musicians.
He listened to this album constantly when we first met.
I always thought it romantic that he sang Brown Eyed Girl to me, despite the fact that my eyes are blue.
However, the farther I move away from the house, the harder my pulse pounds and I hardly need to add to my building panic.
Around the bend, I glance to my right and spy a lone man walking through the field.
The cows previously munching on grass break away as though spooked and bumble into each other while he stumbles through with an unsteady gait.
The plots of land out here are so vast that I don’t know many of the people who live around us.
Still, there’s something about the visual that remains as I move through the twists and turns.
Just a few miles more and I expect to see the “new builds” popping up to house the ever-increasing numbers of people moving into the area.
This will lead me to the winding trek down the hill where I can meet up with Highway 99.
From there, it gets a little more complicated and I’m considering the route I want to take when my foot slips off the gas.
The flashing lights of a police cruiser blocking traffic ahead mock me and I touch the pounding pulse in my neck with a laugh. It was foolish to think I could ever be free. How stupid am I?
When the police officer steps around the vehicle and into the road, holding up his hand, I ease to a stop, contemplating the lost taste of freedom. Maybe this is my penance for thinking I could be strong. Perhaps the asshole was right all along.
Biting back tears that cloud my vision anyway, I reach for the door, only to pull back when he approaches with his hand on the butt of his gun.
Oh . . . shit.
Sweat slicks my spine as I raise my hands palms up and wait for him to tell me what to do.
Beyond his shoulder, the cruiser sits at an angle blocking another vehicle traveling in the opposite direction.
The small hut positioned at the end of the parking lot to my right appears to be empty despite the line of cars waiting for their hit of caffeine.
My fingers itch to grab the handle and push the door open. I could run but how far would I get?
When the officer wrenches on my door and leans inside, I flinch away as he asks, “You bit?”
“Huh?” I say but he waves me backward. After scooting across the bench seat, I press against the opposite door while he follows me inside before mumbling, “Wait . . .”
When he puts the truck in drive and maneuvers around the police cruiser, the lights still flashing, I sink in the seat.
Not that I have any idea what I would say, but before I can protest, he accelerates down the road while, in a daze, I catch a glimpse of something in the back of the state issued vehicle. Is he leaving that man behind?
If I’m under arrest, this is the strangest version of apprehension that I’ve ever seen. My skin prickles at the thought and I study him from the corner of my eye.
He handles the truck easily, but his fingers are curled so tightly around the wheel, the knuckles pop. A dark flop of hair curves over his brow. From the side, I spy a firm chin and a knot in the bridge of his nose where he must have broken it once upon a time.
I would guess he’s a few years older than me and he’s big and strong, filling the seat with his broad shoulders and long legs. So much so, I curl against the passenger door as though if I make myself tiny, invisible, he’ll forget I’m here.
However, when the radio on his shoulder crackles, I jump, inspiring him to glance over.
Eyes the color of melted chocolate meet my mirrored ones, and I shrink away.
. . again. In my last act of defiance, before I said goodbye to my now dead husband, I stole Ben's aviators to cover my bruise.
Despite the barrier, it still feels as though he can see into my soul.
“Where’re you headed?” he asks, his deep baritone sliding over me like ice. Ben was of average height. He worked out but didn’t give much thought to his physique. In comparison, this man is bigger in every way which doesn’t inspire warm and fuzzy thoughts.
“Um,” I finally whisper, clearing my throat. “Portland.”
It’s not a lie because I do have to pass through the city, but I’m wary of saying anything to this man who essentially hijacked my vehicle with me in it. Is this even legal?
Although his brow crinkles he doesn’t question me, thank God. I don’t know where I’m going beyond as far away from here as possible.
“Portland’s a shit show,” he says. “Besides, most of the roads heading that direction are closed or blocked. You’ll have to go around.”
Closed? blocked?
“Huh?”
“The highway is closed,” he says, tapping his fingers on the wheel before checking the rearview mirror. “If you want to go to Portland, well, ma’am, it’s probably a cluster fuck.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t considered it but why would I? I haven’t exactly been cruising around town.
“Construction?” I ask and he makes a weird noise in the back of his throat.
“You been living in a cave? They’re everywhere.”
Although his hypothesis isn’t far off the mark, I ignore the statement because I’m not about to spill my truth. Instead, I say quietly, “They?”
“Yeah. The fucking walking corpses, undead. Whatever. Look, I just need to get home. You can take your truck after that.”
I don’t bother to respond because what could I possibly say? I just shoved my husband’s dead body into a closet to avoid my brother-in-law's wrath and arrest. Now my truck has been hijacked with me in it by a delusional cop. Could my life get any more ridiculous?
I didn’t have time to clean up my mess, but I’m hoping Randy won’t initially check the closet behind the stairs. It’s where we normally store our Christmas stuff so there’s no reason to.