Chapter 30 Steffani
My eyes blink open to the sight of moonlight leaking across the floorboards. A hoot, low and hollow, blows through the cracks in the walls. It seems brighter in here than usual—and the sounds outside, louder.
My head whips up.
The door’s wide open.
I scramble to my feet. Outside, tree branches stretch toward the sky like exposed nerves, their leaves shivering in the wind.
I shuffle to the door, peer around the frame.
Nothing. I start to lower my foot onto the dirt, then pause mid-step.
The padlock lies on the ground; next to it, the chain.
Even if he forgot to close the padlock the last time he left, that wouldn’t explain how it fell off the hasp.
Or how the chain unwound itself and tumbled to the dirt.
It’s a trap.
He opened the door knowing I’d walk out into whatever fucked-up game he’s planned for me.
Freshman year, we read a story about two rich assholes hunting each other on a deserted island.
That must be what this is, right? He’s going to let me tear through the woods, tripping over roots, clothes snaring on brambles, and when he gets tired of chasing me…
Still, what’s the alternative? I close the door and stay in the shack? Wait patiently for him to murder me tomorrow morning?
Crossing the threshold, I hold my breath, wait for him to come charging around the corner.
Another hoot echoes from somewhere deep in the woods.
I don’t hesitate; I take off into the darkness.
I have lots of experience with traps. Every time I arrived at a new foster home, every time I was given fresh new sheets and a shiny new toothbrush, it was a trap.
Every time I wondered if this could be the new start I’d been waiting for, it was a trap.
I’ve been stumbling from one into another my whole life.
Branches scrape my limbs as I push my way through the trees.
Eventually, I stagger onto a narrow trail.
I know I should stick to the undergrowth, less chance of being caught there, but a trail might lead to a nearby house, or a highway.
I double my speed, rounding switchbacks until in the distance, I notice a flickering blue light across a stretch of road.
A light bulb.
Installed above a phone.
I double over in relief. An emergency call box—that’ll connect me to the police, and then all I’ll need to do is hide somewhere until they arrive.
I step onto the asphalt, pebbles embedding themselves in my bare heels, and look both ways.
The road’s empty. Dark. I scurry across, am about to reach for the receiver, but the thick patch of gravel under the phone stops me.
“If something seems too good to be true,” my mom once told me, “it usually is.” What are the chances there’s an emergency call box out here, on what seems like private property? Crouching down, I brush the top layer of gravel away—only to prick my finger on something sharp.
“Ow,” I murmur, sucking the wound into my mouth. I use my other hand to finish clearing the debris from whatever just injured me. When I realize what it is, I instantly recoil.
A bear trap, both sides lined with metal teeth.
He must’ve installed the call box as bait—and I almost fell for it.
I imagine the kind of damage a device like this could do: mangling bone, hacking muscle, ribboning skin.
I backtrack across the road, shrinking into the woods.
How many more traps has he set around here?
And how long before I stumble into one I didn’t see coming?
I clench my jaw, concentrate. My safest bet is to follow the road, see if it leads somewhere.
I walk uphill, hidden among the trees, until I arrive at a sharp bend. Waiting on the other side is the car that brought me here. The headlights have been switched off, but the smudge of the man is clear behind the steering wheel.
Shifting closer, I watch as he twists the dial on the radio.
Is he listening to music in there? I can’t imagine feeling so confident in your strength, in your power, that you’re enjoying the Billboard Top 40 while your victim tries to escape.
It’s like he knows I have no chance of getting out of here alive.
And he’s right.
I could turn around and start running again, but where would I go?
My dad will never stop chasing me, the same way he probably chased my mom when she took off, and then I’ll disappear just like she did.
With no questions from the police and no repercussions for the man who was the last to see her alive.
The police couldn’t put him down, but maybe I can. Not by myself—I’m too weak—but the man in the car isn’t.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk up to the passenger-side door, pull the latch, and climb inside.
The radio is playing “Hotel California.” The Eagles twang their guitar strings and croon about their dark desert highway. I slam my palm against the dial, switching it off. Silence fills the car.
“I hate that song,” I finally say.
He doesn’t respond, so I turn to look at him. All the color has washed out of his face, and his eyebrows have retreated all the way up his forehead. Evidently, this was not what he was expecting from his night.
He clears his throat. “Me too.”
We both turn back to the windshield. A fox peeks its head out from the brush, then slyly toes its way into the middle of the road. The moonlight casts a ghostly sheen across its fur.
“My dad wants me dead,” I tell him. “He follows me wherever I go, and no matter how hard I try, I’ve never been able to shake him.
It’s like I said, he’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found.
And when he finds me—” I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “He’s not going to make it quick.”
No response. His expression’s gone blank; I have no clue what he’s thinking. “You can do whatever you want to me,” I force myself to say. “But when he tracks you down, and he will track you down…”
The fox turns to look at us, its eyes wide and shining.
“Don’t make it quick for him.”
The fox bolts into the trees, branches juddering in its wake. We sit in silence for a long time. I wait for regret to come creeping up on me, but it doesn’t. He must be waiting for the same thing because he asks, “You don’t care if you die?”
A strangled laugh bursts out of me. “Where do you think I was heading when you offered me a ride?” I notice my pack lying on the back seat and twist around to unzip the front compartment. He doesn’t make any move to stop me.
I take out the postcard and show him the picture on the front.
“That’s Red River Bridge. My mom told me it was the most beautiful place she’d ever been.
She promised she’d take me there someday, before she left.
” I stumble over the word “left”; the way he looks at me makes it clear we both know that’s not what happened.
“I was trying to get there. So I could jump.”
He frowns.
“If you let me go, I’m still going to jump.”
Those are my choices: take my own life, or let this man murder me in the hopes he’ll do the same to my father when he’s finished.
Neither of them is a good choice, but at least one means that motherfucker will finally get what’s coming to him.
And that’ll give me some bone-deep satisfaction on the way out.
When it becomes clear I won’t be reneging on my offer, the man turns the key in the ignition, and his headlights slice through the woods. He grabs hold of the stick shift and drops the car into reverse before making a U-turn. Through the passenger window, the blue light twinkles in the distance.
He presses the gas pedal and off we go. Back to the shack, back to whatever he wants to do with me there. I try to ignore the terror churning in my stomach.
He steers the car up a narrow road. Another light appears in the distance, warm and welcoming.
It’s a cabin, a lantern casting its doorway in an easy summer glow.
He parks the car in the driveway, opens the driver’s-side door, and starts toward the front porch.
Is this his home? Is this where he’s decided he’ll kill me?
I look around—at the cabin, at the woods. This is probably better than Red River Bridge. All fresh, clean air and the sharp scent of pine. This is good. This is really good.
I don’t realize I’m crying until the cabin goes blurry in front of me.
He leans against the railing. “Are you coming?”
I try to pull the latch on the passenger-side door, but my fingers are shaking too hard.
God, I’m scared. I am so fucking scared.
I think of that GED brochure, stuffed into the garbage, and wonder, just for a moment, what my life could’ve been like if I’d caught a single break.
I imagine myself in a polyester cap and gown, the entire world stretching out before me.
Oh, the places you’ll go. Resting my forehead against the window, I breathe deeply.
The condensation on the glass chills my skin.
“I’m not going to kill you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“It’s no good if you want to die.” He gestures to the cabin behind him. “So why don’t you come inside and stay awhile?”
Hope flares in my chest, but it’s snuffed out with a sudden certainty.
This is a trap. Not one like the emergency call box, but one I’m more familiar with: the home trap.
This is no different from the foster families who welcomed me in, then threw me out just as quickly when they realized how dangerous my dad was.
Except, for this man, my dad’s not that dangerous.
There are still so many things that could go wrong here.
He could kill my father and then, just when I’m finally free to do what I want with my life, snatch it away from me.
As he said, “It’s no good if you want to die.
” His solution could be to give me something to live for, then kill me right when it will hurt the most.
But that doesn’t change my situation right now.
That blue Ford Taurus followed us down the highway; sooner or later, my dad will come for me.
I can either be on my own when that happens, afraid and defenseless, or I can team up with this fucking maniac and stand a chance of getting out alive.
Whatever he plans to do with me later, well, that’s later-Steffani’s problem.
Now-Steffani has enough on her plate.
I pull the latch and slide out of the car. My knees wobble, threatening to buckle with every step. “I was telling you the truth about my dad. He’ll find us.” I stop at the bottom of the stairs and gaze up at him. “Will you be able to kill him when he does?”
The man smiles. On the left side, next to the incisors, his teeth are pointed, like little hooks sticking out of the gums.
“Yes.”
A shadow shifts in the front window of the cabin, a slash of movement reflected between the trees.
I spin around, expecting to find my dad standing behind me, but no one’s there.
When I turn back to the man, his head is cocked to the side, like he’s confused.
He’s never been frightened, I’ll bet; he’s always been able to fight back.
And now that I’m with someone who can fight back, maybe I don’t have to be frightened, either.
Those little hook-teeth on the left side of his mouth remind me of a pit bull who lived down the street from us when I was little.
“Don’t get too close,” my mom would warn me, keeping a tight grip on my wrist whenever we walked by.
The dog would follow us from behind the wire fence, slobbering on the dirt, tongue poking out from between his hooked canines.
“He might look harmless, but you won’t know for sure until it’s too late. ”
I thought this man was harmless when I got into his car. What are the chances my dad will assume the same—until it’s too late?
“Good,” I say.
His smile widens.
I follow him into the house.