CHAPTER TWENTY
D
ead. Not just me. My phone died.
I had enough time to glimpse the significant number of missed calls and texts, including a few from my dad, before the screen blinked black.
Using his own phone, Manuel copied directions onto a piece of paper for me, like we’d stumbled into the nineteen hundreds. He saved a pin on my house when he exited the maps app, and I blushed, looking away and trying to shift my thoughts.
“Call me,” he added, squeezing my hand by my Jeep. We both glared at the junky car charger that hadn’t even made my phone blip when we plugged it in. “You know, once you’re home and charged. I’m sure I’ll think of a million questions between then and now.”
I winced. “Okay, but be aware, I don’t have the best track record of following through when people tell me that.”
“That’s honest. I like it.” He patted the door before straightening. He didn’t step away though. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
I grinned. “Absolutely. Driving is my favorite pastime.”
My amusement was infectious. “Oh, you mean when you aren’t chin deep in main character vibes as the star of your own big action movie?”
This time, he eased off, allowing me to shut the door. As I drove down the street, he remained on the sidewalk. For a split second, a dark figure appeared near him, then vanished.
Ghosts.
Goosebumps dotted my arms. Should I double back?
They only seemed to be an actual threat to me, so I pushed the worry from my mind to focus on driving.
I stopped at a quiet, side street intersection to double-check the directions.
Somehow, the next road didn’t line up with what Manuel had written.
By now, I could rule out any saving grace from my phone powering up.
I’d been driving for five minutes, so it would have lit up already if it’d planned to.
I couldn’t count on any Hail Mary’s à la GPS.
The city of Fairview could generously be described as quaint. Honestly, if I drove long enough, I’d learn where I was. Currently being lost only highlighted how out of it I’d been on the car ride between school and Manuel’s house.
Neither of the names at this crossroad matched anything on the paper.
“Okay, so keep going until I find myself it is.”
I stuffed the scrawled notes in the cupholder and focused on my surroundings, jumping at the large black truck that’d crept up behind me at some point.
It looked like it housed a big, nasty engine beneath its hood, visibly purring in my rearview mirror.
It was a wonder that I hadn’t heard it. They must have been ticked at my indecision, because they’d crawled to a stop no more than an arm’s length from my bumper.
I inched forward to give them room to maneuver and waved them on.
The truck sat for a moment before peeling out, zipping around me by such a narrow margin that the wind rocked my Jeep on its suspension.
The windshield and windows matched the black paint. Technically, it was illegal to tint windshields, but people only paid attention to that if cops ticketed them for it. This person didn’t seem eager to get a ticket either—a faded rectangle glared out where his license plate should have been.
Unease pinged lights in my brain, and I made the executive decision to trust that niggling awareness.
“Slight alteration. We’ll go with our plan…
that way,” I encouraged myself, turning in the opposite direction the truck had gone.
It was a small sacrifice for peace of mind because, regardless, I’d eventually find something recognizable.
It just might take me a little more driving in circles to get my bearings.
“No biggie.”
It took me less than three minutes to find one of the main drags and head in the correct direction home.
“Take that, phone. You thought you could get me down. Well, not today, suck-ah. Technology, eat your heart out.”
Once I made it past the dozen or so stoplights, the street spit me out onto a narrower county road. This would deliver me right to the driveway, which was great. I was more than ready to be home. The clock read three in the afternoon, so the bus wouldn’t bring Nick by for another hour and a half.
I was sure there’d be questions about ditching when I arrived.
Hopefully, Mom already left for the day or still wasn’t back, considering Veritas would have approached her at work to get that paper signed without Dad being involved.
Dad would buy my story if I played up being exhausted, especially since he’d only need one glance to verify.
Mom might not, even if she looked for hours.
She had a way of staring through a person.
Goosebumps rose along my arms.
“No, no, no, no. Not right now. I’m drive—”
With no reason to have done so, I jerked the wheel to the left, swerving into the oncoming lane just as a familiar black truck lunged from its spot on a shaded side path.
The intersection was notorious for having accidents due to the number of trees lining both sides of the narrow, gravel road.
However, gravel roads weren’t paved for a reason.
The commissioner dismissed the need for constructing a four-way stop since, in doing so, the inconvenience outweighed the benefit.
I veered so sharply that the speed nearly sent the Jeep careening out of control.
Whatever force made me jerk the steering wheel before, it fled the building. I was on my own, twisting and countering to balance the weight and maintain traction.
The suspension rocked as the tire dropped off the pavement into the rocky shoulder.
A less experienced person might have jerked the wheel in a panic to return to the road, but I readjusted my grip and eased off the gas.
Once the car stopped rocking so much, I edged on the pressure in increments, experiencing a nicely controlled bump.
All four wheels were back on for business with traction to play with, and I wasted no time redirecting into the correct lane.
I’d survived.
Able to take a full breath, I scanned the area and checked my mirrors, prepared for an encore.
Miraculously, or maybe by design, there wasn’t another car in sight, including the aggressive truck.
I wanted to pull over. Tears stung, making the road waver like a mirage on a hot day, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Bile burned my throat, and breathing grew cumbersome and painful, especially since each breath raced after the next until I couldn’t remember if I was inhaling or exhaling.
My attention was so focused on scanning the rearview mirror, I almost dipped off into the shoulder again.
“Focus, Willa. Just get h-home.” I’d have bought into the false cheer more if my voice hadn’t trembled. It was as steady as my hands. Who knew? Adrenaline and terror mixed into an impactful combo. “Ten more minutes.”
The phone sat in the cup holder, still dark.
How did people survive before the invention of cellphones?
This stretch of road had never felt more sinister nor more isolating. It was practically a ghost town during the school day.
Ghosts.
My entire life, I’d been brushing against the spirit world.
I’d delayed processing in the face of recovery and prioritizing Manuel’s reaction, but had I internalized that I could see dead people? Some perhaps, but not enough.
Ironically, I was now using the same trick of deflection to ignore the fact that someone had tried to run me off the road—someone who knew my Jeep and where to wait—a black panther crouched in the perfect hiding spot.
Denial, thy name was Willahelm Walker.
“Just get home. Deflect until we aren’t driving at sixty miles an hour. Forget the ghosts. Forget the black death truck.”
It became my mantra for the last stretch of the ride. When the mouth of the driveway came into view, my shoulders sagged. I flew and bounced along the extended path faster than what was considered safe.
The drive spit me into the clearing at the end.
I hurried inside, not stopping to gather my thoughts or anything.
I needed my dad, and I needed him yesterday.
Nothing else mattered. The latch clicked behind me, a clear symbol of safety.
I stopped on the welcome mat and collapsed against the door, my eyes closing in slow relief.
The scent of home and the rich, citrusy tang of lemon cookies filled the house with a Chicken Soup for the Soul type of warmth. I closed my eyes and breathed.
My parents, as in plural, had been in some discussion when I flew into the house like a mini hurricane, but their words cut off at my entrance.
“Willa,” Dad whispered.
I didn’t have the energy to gauge his expression, so I kept my eyes shut, but a tear rolled free.
“Oh, Willa.” He folded me into a hug, and I clung to him.
In his arms, the world righted on its axis once more.
So many memories rose—being consoled after falling off a bicycle, reassured that Mom promised she would be home on this weekend, comforted when I didn’t get a secret candygram on Valentine’s Day in the first grade. Years of comfort flashed on a reel.
“Shh. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He didn’t ask what happened or pressure me to move.
An eternity must have passed. Truly, because when I finally released my grip on Dad, I realized he’d moved us to the couch, and Nick had arrived. He sat nearby, peeking our way every so often while his favorite show played on the television. Mom had claimed a spot not far off as well.
I wiped my eyes, accepting the box of tissues she held out. “Thank you.”
She nodded, glancing around.
The silence grew.
At length, Dad nudged me. “Come on, Willy. Let’s get you a cookie.”
“Robert,” Mom protested. “I knew you weren’t cooking those for after dinner. I told you. We can’t—”
“We can, and we will. When have you ever seen our daughter this distraught?”
A beat passed before she relented. “I suppose, but we need to discuss the call we got from school. Willahelm Marie Walker, you cannot just ditch class without telling anyone. Your father and I were worried sick—”