Chapter 3
Liz
The knocking was relentless. It wasn’t the sharp rap on the glass; it was the heavy, muffled thud of someone using their palm.
I didn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t. My brain felt like it was submerged in gray sludge, a parting gift from the three hours of adrenaline-soaked sleep I’d managed after fleeing the woods.
I’d shoved my silver sunshade into the windshield and draped some clothes over the side windows to keep the world out, turning the interior of my car into a dark, fabric-lined tomb.
The thud came again, vibrating through the frame of the car.
“Go away,” I croaked.
It didn’t go away. The person outside shifted, their shadow cutting off the sliver of light peeking through the gap in my makeshift window curtains.
I forced myself upright, my spine popping and my shoulder protesting the movement. My neck ached like it had been fused into a permanent ‘C’ shape. I pushed my ignition button to turn on ‘accessory mode’ and rolled the passenger window down a crack.
The shirt I’d hung there fell, and the sudden burst of morning light was blinding. I squinted, trying to blink through the glare before grabbing my sunglasses out of my cupholder and putting them on.
The silhouette outside solidified into a man. A really tall man built like someone who spent his free time moving boulders for fun. With dark hair, gray eyes, and an expression that suggested he regularly dealt with problems like me and was already tired of it.
“You can’t sleep here.” His voice was deep and rough, the type of voice that carried across mountaintops without trying.
“It’s an RV park.” I rubbed at my cheek where I could feel a crease from it resting against something. My seatbelt? A new stress wrinkle?
He leaned down, resting one arm on the doorframe. Up close, I could see lines at the corners of his eyes and the subtle gray in his stubble. Not young, but not old. Somewhere in that comfortable middle ground that I used to think I’d occupy someday. At the rate I was going, who knew?
“This lot is for campers and hikers, and there’s a county ordinance against sleeping in your car.”
“Right.” I stopped myself from going on a rant about that. It’s not like I was parked in front of someone’s home or business.
His eyes swept over my car—my very obvious, very sad, not-an-RV car—and something shifted in his expression. “You good?”
I almost laughed as the memories of last night came flooding back. The naked man. The running. The completely irrational decision to flee into the dark woods. “Oh, uh, I was camping, and there was a bear, so I came back to my car.”
He looked skeptical. Why did he look like he didn’t believe me? “What kind of bear was it?”
“Um… a big one?”
Was it my eyes still adjusting, or did his lips twitch? “Was it a grizzly?”
“Of course not. I probably wouldn’t be sitting here if it was. I even used my bear spray.”
I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t. Because now that I was awake and the sun was out and there was a perfectly normal, fully clothed man standing at my window, I was wondering if I’d hallucinated the whole thing.
Maybe it had been a bear. Maybe my brain, desperate to make sense of the shape in the darkness, had invented a person. A very naked, very muscular, very real-looking person.
Was this another manifestation of my brain sensing things like burned toast when there was literally nothing?
“Bears usually stay far away from here, but I’m glad he didn’t attack you.” He straightened and backed away from my car. “Feel free to use the facilities before you leave. Unless you’re heading out on a hike or camping at an approved campsite.”
“Thanks.” There was no way I was staying.
“Make sure you replace your bear spray too.” He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment, and then he turned and walked toward a small building near the entrance of the RV park.
I sat there, neck throbbing, hip aching, and replaying the previous night in my head. The knife. I still had the knife. Whatever had happened out there, it had been real enough to leave something behind.
I got out of the car, grabbed my toiletry bag, and trudged toward the shower building. The facilities were clean, and I took my time, letting the hot water work on muscles that had betrayed me. When I emerged, feeling slightly more human, I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I looked like hell. There were actual bags under my eyes that were big enough to hold groceries. I hadn’t slept so badly, even during the height of the Scott disaster, and that had been a six-month stretch of anxiety and nausea.
Maybe the naked man had been a stress-induced hallucination. Maybe I was finally losing my mind, the way my mother always said I would if I kept working so hard.
Not that I was working now.
I went back to my car, threw my toiletries into the passenger seat, yanked the sunshade down, and cleared the rest of the laundry from my windows. I wanted to be gone before the oversized park ranger—or whatever he was—came back to check my pulse or give me another lecture on local laws.
I usually loved being outdoors, but I’d had enough nature to last me a lifetime. I needed a grease-stained paper bag full of breakfast and a place with actual walls.
The gravel crunched under my tires as I drove toward the exit, and my eyes darted toward the tree line one last time. Nothing but pine trees. I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until I turned onto the main road toward Ashford.
The town was cute in that way mountain towns always were, with wooden signs, flower boxes, and a general store that probably sold everything from local honey to hand-knitted socks.
I found a parking spot in front of a hardware store called “Nuts they’d be able to tell you if it’s real.” She handed it back carefully. “You should keep it.”
“We’ll see.” I tucked the knife back into my purse. “Where’s a good place to get breakfast around here?”
Her face lit up. “You have to go to Stacks. Best pancakes and coffee you’ll ever have. They also have a small selection of books.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
After thanking the woman, I left the store, put my spray in the car, and headed across the street.