Chapter 2 Louise
LOUISE
Acrow called out from atop a fence post, its long black feathers illuminated by the headlights at my back. An eerie blue glow had settled on the trees, soon to fade into a moonless night. The crisp scent of snow was on the air, although not a flake had fallen.
Yet.
I yanked at the brown plaid scarf around my neck, suddenly suffocating. My breath came out in puffs, lingering a moment before evaporating in the icy wind. Frigid had nothing on that night. It was the kind of brutal cold that cut through to your bones, no matter how many layers you wore.
Three rusted old gas pumps stood in front of an abandoned gas station.
Brown streaks marred its formerly white brick facade, and dead vines snaked up the sides.
Trees, bare and dormant in the winter, crowded the rusted metal roof.
The windows had been busted out, and broken glass and stacks of old tires littered the gravel lot.
It was perfect.
My hair whipped around my face, tickling cheeks that had gone numb. I adjusted my camera’s focus, crouched, and—click. Shifting my weight, I quickly took another picture and another, frustrated that I was losing the light.
As I shuffled to the side, my flip-flop caught on a gnarled root, sending me stumbling forward. My two-thousand-dollar camera flew into the air as I face-planted onto the frozen ground.
“Good grief, Lou!” Miles, my old friend and partner on this unexpected journey, jumped out of the vehicle. “You okay?”
Frantic, I scrambled forward, dragging myself through the dirt to pluck the very-expensive camera from the ground, turning it over in my hands. She was still in one piece. Thank God for small blessings. My photography had become my life lately.
Miles grabbed my arm and yanked me up with the grace of a silverback gorilla. “Are you wearing flip-flops? Your toes are going to fall off. Who wears flip-flops in the dead of winter?”
“I do,” I muttered, rubbing my lower back as I straightened.
“You’re crazy, Lou.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” And won’t be the last.
I dusted off my coveralls, the left knee now sporting a two-inch rip. Just as well. Now both knees match.
“Don’t you have other shoes?”
“My boots are in the car.”
“Why aren’t you wearing them?”
“I don’t like to drive with cement blocks on my feet. Flip-flops are more comfortable.”
“I’m pretty sure flip-flops are a driving hazard.”
“I’m pretty sure sitting next to you for three hours is a driving hazard.”
“Good one.” Miles rolled his eyes then nodded to the camera I was wiping down. “You gonna try to sell those pictures?”
“I’m not freezing my toes off for nothing. Might as well make myself useful while we wait.”
“I still can’t believe you own your own business.”
“Now, that’s just insulting.”
“No, I’m proud of you, Lou.”
Our gazes shifted in the direction of the distant sound of tires on gravel.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back in the car. I don’t want to be the victim of a drive-by shooting tonight.”
“We’re more likely to get shot by tobacco spit out here.”
“Even worse. Come on, Gumby.”
I hobbled back to the car. The left thong of my flop—no flip anymore—had popped, but I wasn’t going to tell Miles that. God forbid the guy have a coronary.
After setting my camera in the back seat, I settled behind the cracked wooden steering wheel of the driver’s seat. My car—Ansel, that’s what I’d named him—was a fifteen-year-old burnt orange and brown 4Runner that had been my travel buddy for as many years.
He was a classic, a battle-ax that refused to quit. I admired that. Took pride in it. No luxuries like power seats or power windows, but he got me from point A to point B, and that was what mattered. Ansel was temperamental and unpredictable. I loved him.
“Turn the heater up.” Miles shut the passenger door and focused on the headlights approaching in the distance. “You think that’s them?”
“Zip up your coat. And I don’t know.”
“It is zipped.” He flashed his palms. “I also have gloves, a scarf, and three pairs of underwear on.”
“Thanks for the visual.”
“You seriously don’t even know what the people we’re supposed to be meeting drive?”
“Brace yourself, my friend. I don’t even know their last names.”
Miles gaped at me a moment, then shook his head. “Of course you don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you haven’t changed much.”
“And?”
“And . . . you’re not exactly known for dotting your t’s and crossing your i’s.”
“Switch that. And you’re not exactly the best road-tripper.”
“This trip isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“Exactly. So quit your whining.”
Swirls of dirt spun up from the tires as the truck drove past, its taillights fading into the trees behind us. It was the third vehicle to pass by the abandoned gas station in over an hour—each truck rustier than the last.
Miles ran his fingers through his perfectly layered brown hair, causing wafts of spicy cologne to circulate through the vents. He was wearing a pair of spotless khaki pants—pressed—an obnoxious blue all-weather coat, and brown hiking boots with bright orange laces, not a scuff on them.
Not much had changed with Miles. The guy still liked his cologne like his clothes—expensive and loud.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and resisted the urge to cringe.
My long brown hair was a tangled, matted mess, and the bangs I’d given myself on a particularly boring night looked more like a Yorkie’s unbrushed coat than anything intentional.
A brown beanie from the local feed store half-covered the damage.
No makeup—partly because nothing could hide the dark circles or the fresh wave of zits that had exploded across my face overnight. Motel sheets, I decided, were to blame.
I wore insulated coveralls over white long johns, topped with a red puffer jacket—basically New York Fashion Week’s worst nightmare. And Miles’s, too, apparently.
I grabbed my socks and boots from the back seat, tugging them on while he styled his hair for the third time. If he didn’t approve of flip-flops, he definitely wouldn’t love the duct tape holding the toe of one of my boots together.
Pleased with his reflection, Miles sat back and sighed. “God, Lou, this place is creepy.”
I looked up at the black sky. No moon. No stars. “Sorry it’s not up to your usual search-party standards.”
“I’m just saying, couldn’t you have chosen a meeting place in town? You know, around civilization and not in the middle of freaking Deliverance.”
“Thought you’d want to see your mom,” I said with a wink.
“You’d have to go way farther south than that, sweetheart.”
He winked back, and I chuckled.
Although it had been years since I’d last seen Miles, there were two things the guy couldn’t let go of: his football championship ring—from high school—and taking jabs at his mom who’d dated half the town while he was growing up.
Back-Seat Betty, she was dubbed by the time Miles was eight.
His dad, the town doctor, had turned a blind eye to his wife’s many indiscretions for years.
Miles loathed his mother and rebelled by spending his father’s money on frivolous things like hair gel and nice cars.
And most recently, on a medical degree that I assumed he was studying for just to pass the time.
If the past was any indication of the future, Miles would graduate with straight As, just like his dad, whose book smarts he’d inherited.
His common sense, on the other hand? From his mother.
“I’ve told you ten times,” I reminded him. “We’re meeting here because this is the midway point between Berry Springs and the meeting point for the search. It made sense to meet here.”
“It makes sense to meet somewhere with electricity, a heater, and a working bathroom. Hot coffee would be nice too. And I really don’t want to be out here when the snow hits.”
As if on cue, pellets of sleet began to ping the windshield.
He thrust out his hand. “See? Winter Storm Barron is upon us. Side note, I don’t think your heater is working.”
“It only works when I accelerate.”
This comment was so disturbing to Miles, he couldn’t even look at me.
I grinned. I’d forgotten how fun it was getting under his thin skin.
I clicked on my phone, checking for a missed call or text. Another minute ticked by as we stared at the dirt road ahead of us, growing darker by the minute.
“Let’s go,” he said. “They’re going to start the search without us.”
“Let’s give it five more minutes.”
I clicked on the radio to drown out Miles’s groan.
“. . . storm has already produced two inches of ice under eight inches of snow in Oklahoma and is moving slowly into our area. The first snowfall is expected around midnight tonight and will pick up over the next twenty-four hours, accompanying freezing temps. Remember, folks, this is only the first round of two strong systems over the next week. Get your groceries and any medical supplies you might need now, and please have a plan in place as electricity outages are expected. We’re monitoring these storms closely. Stay tuned for further . . .”
While Miles groaned again, inconvenienced by the weather, my gut clenched. It was a bad time to go missing.
I grabbed my slushie from the console and took a sip.
A moment passed as he looked out the window. “I’m hungry.”
“You just had a bag of Doritos.”
“You ate half.”
True.
Miles twisted in his seat and rummaged through the bags in the back. “Holy crap, Lou. You feeding an alpaca back here?”
“Hey.” I turned around and slapped his hand. “Stay out of my stuff. And watch out for my camera—”
Three flashes of light bounced around the inside of the car.
I blinked, bright dots blinding my vision. “Dammit, Miles.”
“Sorry. Guess I hit the button.” He turned back around. “Can I please have one of those fifty packs of peanut butter crackers you’ve got back there?”
“Yes, you can have one.”
“Thank you.”
Truth? I stress eat.
Headlights twinkled in the distance.
Moments later, an old extended-cab red Chevy with a dent in the hood the size of a body came into view. Considering our current location, the latter was a bit unsettling.
“It can’t be . . .” Miles shook his head. “No way that piece of crap could make it three hours in these mountains.”
“Mine did.”
“Sheer luck.” Miles flicked the visor, broken at the hinge for I don’t remember how long. It swung back and forth, squeaking with each slap.
The Chevy slowed as it pulled into a small gravel lot on the opposite side of the road.
“Why are they stopping over there?” Miles shivered, rubbing his palms together. “Take a picture.”
“Of the truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“In case it’s the String Strangler, looking for his next victim.”
“Not funny, Miles. Not funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” he deadpanned.