Chapter 29 Nicola
ROS’S FREE HAND flies to her mouth. “Oh. My. God.” Hannah shrinks back into the rocking chair until she’s half-smothered by throw pillows. Kemy stands, wrenching the blanket free; it swings by her side, fringe mopping the hardwood floor.
“And now,” she says, “she’s done the same thing again.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my palms over my ears. Make them stop, I pray to whomever might be listening, but no one answers. The words are muffled, but their conversation can still be heard.
“What should we do?” Kemy asks. “Restrain her until the bus gets here?”
Imogen. “We could take turns watching her.”
“We lock her up until morning.” Connor. “I know somewhere far enough away that she won’t be a threat to anyone. All in favor?”
I don’t want to look, but I squint my eyes open as they lift their hands one by one: Connor, Kemy, Ros, Hannah, Imogen. Holding my breath, I cling to my last remnants of hope. Please. Please don’t leave me again. Please don’t turn your back on me, too.
Greer slowly raises her hand.
Everything blurs together after that. The others shakily rise and leave the room, but I barely notice. A scrim has descended between me and the rest of the world. Maybe that’s the way it always should’ve been.
Greer mutters something to Connor, then disappears upstairs without a backward glance.
My heart splinters—valves snapping like plastic straws, atriums collapsing in on themselves—until my chest is nothing but a sunken cavity.
I believed the night my dad was arrested was as bad as it could possibly get.
I was wrong.
“We should head out.”
The words startle me out of my stupor. Connor waits by the window, watery light limning his profile.
It’s just him and me, I realize, and my fear returns full throttle.
I may be the reason Claire’s dead, but that doesn’t mean I’m responsible for what happened to Zach. And if I’m not, then someone here is.
He goes to the closet, where he removes a tool bag that looks like the one my dad hauled to our neighbors’ houses whenever they needed a wall patched or a shingle replaced. What’s in that bag?
He opens the door, the sun blackening him into silhouette.
“Let’s go.”
HE LEADS ME INTO THE WOODS, branches painting bars of shadow across our faces. Suddenly, he makes a sharp turn and trudges off the path into the trees; I stop where I am. “What are you doing?” I ask. “We’re not supposed to leave the trail.”
“It’s fine. I know where we’re going.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t respond.
The two of us stand there, stalemated. He shifts his weight, snapping a twig; the crows above our heads let out an irate string of caws. “I don’t want to,” he says, “but if you won’t move yourself, then I will move you.”
Is that true? I probably weigh more than him; could he really pick me up and carry me wherever he wants? He’s strong, but is he that strong?
“All right,” he sighs, striding toward me.
“No, wait! You don’t need to do that.” I practically jump off the trail in my haste to show him how compliant I can be. If he picks me up, I won’t be able to run later if I need to.
He nods, and together we snake our way into the pines. The farther we get, the greater my discomfort grows. Didn’t he say they were going to lock me up? How can he do that out here, surrounded by nothing but trees and rocks? Unless that’s not the plan at all.
My eyes dart to the tool bag hanging from his shoulder.
What did he bring with him? A knife? All the way out here, no one would hear my screams. As we start up a steep embankment, my sneakers sinking into the dirt, my hand reaches for the hobby knife still in my pocket.
One swift jab to the thigh might be enough to slow him down, and then I could escape to the nearest town.
But what would I do when I arrived there?
My wallet is back at the lodge, my cell phone stowed in the same airport locker as everyone else’s. There’s no way for me to get back home.
We crest the top of the hill. The same shack I noticed earlier, during our hike, appears in the distance. The wood on the front has splintered in places, the holes patched with fresh lumber. There are no windows, and on the door, a padlock and chain glint in the fading sunlight.
“No.” The word comes out a shallow breath, almost lost under the crunch of our footsteps. I come to an abrupt stop and try again, louder this time. “No.”
“Don’t make this difficult. It’s just until morning.”
Is it? Do the others even know I’m out here? What happens if they all depart tomorrow, with him promising to send the police for me later? He could leave me to die here. My feet pad against the ground, trying to get enough traction for a running start. He reaches into the tool bag.
Removes a crowbar.
The sight of it, claw rough with rust, is like the firing of a starter pistol.
I dig my heel in, ready to run for the trees, but the soil’s too spongy.
My soles skid across the ground; he catches me around the waist and drags me back to his side.
I fumble the knife out of my pocket, but he knocks it out of my hand, and it tumbles into the mud.
Digging his toe under the blade, he punts it far down the embankment. “Don’t run again,” he warns.
He lifts the crowbar above his head and, for a moment, I can see his mother reflected in him.
He brings it down hard. I flinch at the crack of metal on metal.
He strikes it three more times, small grunts escaping his chest, until the padlock breaks free and thuds to the ground below.
I consider making another escape attempt, but the possibility of him swinging that crowbar against my skull keeps me rooted in place.
He could call it self-defense, and I don’t think anyone back at the lodge would question him.
Would they even bother calling the police?
Or would they use that freshly dug grave instead?
He works the chain through the hasp and lets that drop as well. Then, with a rusted creak, he opens the door.
Light filters in, revealing bare planked walls and exposed ceiling beams. Cobwebs cling to the corners and dust motes float through the air, but apart from that, there’s nothing.
It’s empty.