Walking Away (The Vanishing #1)

Chapter 1

Twilight

Darcy

Darcy never ignored her instincts—until tonight.

The campground lay under an unsettling stillness as twilight fell. Hours earlier, it had pulsed with laughter and dance-offs to a retro playlist blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Now, an eerie calm hovered over the pond, the sun sinking behind the ragged mountains.

An owl’s cry broke the quiet—lonely, hollow, a warning drifting through the trees. Even the cicadas had gone silent, their absence pressing in around her. The ripples on the water seemed uneasy, shivering in the fading light.

She curled into the Adirondack chair, pressing her knees to her chest, fingertips tingling as goosebumps trailed up her arms. Almost without thinking, her fingers brushed the Glock .380 tucked in her belt bag.

Traveling alone had sounded adventurous when she’d mapped her route, but her best friend’s voice echoed: Never ignore your instincts, Darcy. If something feels wrong, it probably is.

A deep voice cut through the quiet. “Beautiful here, huh?”

She jumped, her foot catching on the uneven ground. Whoever he was, he’d come too close without a sound. “Yes, it is,” she managed.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered too long. “Didn’t mean to interrupt—you looked deep in thought.”

“I was,” she said, steadying her voice.

“Joe Hastings.” He extended a massive, callused hand.

“Darcy.” Her hand felt small inside his.

“Just Darcy?” His gaze probed.

She smiled thinly. “Yes. Just Darcy.”

At least six-two and broad-shouldered, Joe wore flannel and jeans that didn’t match the campground’s cheerful vibe. Cigarette smoke clung to him, though he wasn’t holding one.

“Are you staying here?” she asked, glancing past him. Across the pond, an old pickup sat with rust-eaten fenders, travel stickers plastered across the tailgate, its dome light glowing faintly—as if the door hadn’t latched.

He nodded toward his camper. “How about you?”

“Yes,” she said lightly. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Shame.” His gaze drifted over her and lingered too long. He didn’t move. “Where to next?”

Darcy tightened her grip on her bag strap. “Oh, just bouncing around. Haven’t decided yet.” The lie slid easily. She tilted her chin toward the trees. “Looks like rain. Better button things up before it hits.”

Joe squinted, then gave a slow nod that didn’t feel like agreement.

She moved quickly to her Airstream Bambi at Camp Spot 3, grateful she’d selected a pull-through for a swift exit. A final sweep of the pond revealed Joe was gone. Yet nerves prickled—she couldn’t shake the sense of being watched.

She yanked the blackout shades down. The night vanished.

The click of the locks wrapped the Airstream around her like a cocoon—neat, bright, hers alone.

Yet the thin aluminum walls felt fragile; one hard shove, and they’d give.

This was her first week on the road, her first time relying entirely on herself.

She’d already seen every kind of traveler—families around fires, women solo, friends laughing into the dark. But Joe Hastings cast a different kind of shadow.

She folded jeans, snapped shut the makeup bag. Toothbrush, cap on, lined up by the sink. Each task a silent countdown to dawn.

The Glock rested on the ledge beside the bed.

When she stepped out to fold the table and crank in the awning, she paused at the threshold, scanning left, then right. The night pressed close. She forced herself outside anyway.

A sharp snap.

She went still. “Joe!” she blurted. “You scared the life out of me.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender, a half-smile on his lips. “Sorry. Wanted to see if you wanted a steak.”

“No, thanks.” Her words snapped out, lips barely moving as she retreated a step.

“Okay then. Have a good evening.” He lingered under the awning light before turning away. “If you need me tonight,” he said, “just yell real loud.”

Darcy forced a polite smile, though her thoughts snapped, Yeah, Joe. I need you to leave me alone.

Back inside, she checked the locks twice.

Later, as she tried to sleep, the awning creaked in an uneasy wind, its canvas flapping like distant footsteps circling the trailer.

She told herself it was nothing.

Then a shadow moved across the window shade.

She froze, every nerve straining.

A faint sound followed: the door handle. Testing.

Darcy gasped, air trapped in her lungs. The handle jiggled once.

“Hello?” she called softly.

It jiggled again.

“Joe,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Joe?”

The silence stretched until her skin prickled. Then, soft and mocking through the door: “Just making sure you’re locked up tight.”

Cold spread through her limbs, her focus tunneling on the sound. She tightened her grip on the gun.

The trailer shuddered as footsteps retreated into the dark—slow, deliberate, as if he wanted her to hear every one.

When silence finally returned, it wasn’t relief she felt. It was the certainty he’d be back.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, the Glock in her hand. She just sat there, the trailer gone quiet around her.

Was this right? The answer was yes. But yes didn’t make the loneliness easier.

The tears came quietly, slipping down before she could stop them.

It would all be better when she got there—the place her grandmother had called home.

She didn’t know what waited for her there—only that it was the one place she believed in.