1. Lacey

CHAPTER ONE

lacey

" S he ain't worth much o' nothin', but I reckon she'd be fittin' if ya cleaned 'er up a bit," the old man says. Brown juice wells up in his mouth from the wad of tobacco in his jaw, and he spits a streak of it onto the ground. Still yet, some dribbles down out of the corner of his mouth, and I stop myself from gagging as it disappears into his unkempt beard. "What's a lil' thing like you doin' lookin' fer a camper, anyways?" the old man asks, startling me out of the debate taking place in my head.

I turn back to him. He's eyeing my slender frame warily, and I'm not sure what he's thinking as he silently judges me. My long brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and I'm overly aware of my freckled complexion that I didn't bother trying to cover with makeup like I usually do. As he stares into my hazel eyes, I pray he can't see the anxiety pulsing through my veins.

"Are ya sure the ole man wouldn't rather be doin' the lookin' himself?"

Chills slide down my spine at the mention of a man in my life. No, I'm overreacting. He has no idea who I am. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I clear my throat and try again.

"No, no man. I'm gonna be one of those travel bloggers," I lie. "You know, that travels around to all the different places and then writes about it."

The cold chills are replaced by fire sweeping over my skin, leaving me flushed. Hopefully, the light is too dim in the barn for him to see the evidence of my lie. Either way, he just grunts at me in reply and scratches his bearded chin with dirt-packed fingernails.

He slings open the door of the old camper. It clangs when it hits against the side of the camper, making me jump. The old man grunts as he steps aside, giving me access. My heart is beating hard, like it might pop right out of my chest. Wiping my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants, I take a deep breath to calm my nerves before stepping inside, flashlight in hand.

The camper's interior is dark and musty in the deteriorating evening sunlight. I shine the flashlight around, taking careful steps in case the floor is rotting away. There isn't much to see. He's right. It isn't worth much, but I can't pay much. I was only able to scrape together a few thousand dollars in the short time I had, and I need to make the most of it.

I step into the tiny kitchen and shine the flashlight over the stove, using two fingers to pull open the oven door whose hinges creak in protest. The stove and oven look decrepit, but the old man claims they still work. The brown remnants of food that have been spilled and burned onto them will have to be chiseled away before I'll be able to find out, though.

A tiny sink sits next to the stove, along with a countertop nearly as small. I spin around cautiously to the wooden bench and table that fill the greater area of the space. He says the small table can be folded away, but it will clearly need the help of some WD-40. Not wanting to inhale all of the dust and grime floating around in the air, I take another breath—this one shallower—and step deeper into the camper.

The flashlight in my hand illuminates the room on my right. It's a bathroom. Boxes of junk are stacked up over the toilet and in the shower. I move forward to the back of the camper, and my knees meet a wood platform where a mattress is supposed to go. Dusty shelving runs down one wall for a limited amount of storage.

Slowly making my way back out, my eyes bounce around to catch anything I may have missed my first time through. The grime inside this camper is unsettling. It'll be a challenge, mentally, overcoming the filth, even if I manage to scrub it all away, but I don't have any other options.

I can do this.

I have to make this work.

The old man continues studying me, his thumbs now hooked in the straps of his overalls. I look over the camper again. He's waiting for me to make a decision. Honestly, this will have to do. I haven't found anything else in my price range. I don't have much money saved up, and heaven knows, I can't wait any longer to save more. The seconds tick by. I need to leave town now.

"How much did you say?" I ask him as we step out of the barn.

"Oh, nothin' less 'en $2,000, I don't guess."

He's rubbing the back of his neck with one of his dirty hands, the other hand still looped in the strap of his overalls. He spits again into the grass, only feet away from us.

"It needs a lot of work. Barely livable as it is. I could probably find the likes of her down the road for $500."

"Ah, shoot. She's worth more 'en $500! Hell...I could get $500 down at the scrapyard!"

"Hardly! Anyway, $1,500 is all I've got."

I shrug at him and wait. I can see the wheels turning in his head. His pursed lips make it evident he doesn't like the way this conversation is going. After a few beats of silence, I turn and walk toward my truck.

"A'ight! A'ight! $1,500 and we call it a night," the man huffs.

I pull a big wad of cash out of the back pocket of my light-washed jeans and hand it over to him, leaving the additional $500 in my other pocket. I'm grateful I was able to talk him down on the price. Every bit helps.

"Darn young'uns don't know the value a nothin' these days..." he mutters under his breath as he counts out the money.

The last several months I've stowed away portions of my tips from each shift in an envelope, which was stuffed under the tracks of the bottom drawer in my dresser where he wouldn't find it.

"Y'even know how to hook up to yer pickup?" the man asks me, stuffing the wad of cash in the chest pocket of his bibbed overalls.

Shaking my head, I divert my eyes. I'm sure he thinks I'm helpless. I look helpless as I stand here nervously chewing my bottom lip. How embarrassing.

"I didn't reckon ya would. Don't know what business a lil' thang like you's got travelin' in a camper by 'erself, no ways. Well, go 'head. Back 'er up here, and I'll tell ya when."

I slide into the driver's seat of my old Chevy pickup and grip the wheel tightly with both hands, my knuckles turning white.

I've got this.

The engine revs to life when I turn the key over in the ignition. Twisting my body, with my right arm resting over the back of the bench seat for added leverage, I steer the truck in reverse while watching out the back windshield.

The taste of freedom entices a smile from me.

The clock on the dash reads 7:16. At this rate, I'll be long gone by daybreak, and he'll have no idea where I am. I climb out of the cab and join the old man at the rear of my truck.

"You said yer gonna be livin' in it?" the man asks me while showing me how to hook up the camper. "Where ya headed?"

I don't want to tell him.

I don't want to leave any more of a trail behind me than necessary, just in case someone comes asking around.

"On up the road, I suppose."

The old man grunts at me. He gives me a once-over, probably sizing up my chances of surviving on my own. Okay, I admit it. The odds aren't exactly looking in my favor at the moment. But he doesn't know my story. He doesn't know what staying would mean for me.

"Well, thanks, I guess," I say.

I give him a timid wave and slide back into the cab of my pickup, grateful to have that exchange over with. Pulling down on the gear shifter, I put the truck into drive. I've never pulled anything behind my truck, and I nervously chew on my lip again as I slowly take my foot off the brake and press the accelerator. My truck grumbles at the added weight but pulls down the tree-lined road.

I look back at the old man in my side mirror just in time to see him, standing in the same spot, spitting again without aiming this time. He turns and disappears behind the dark foliage of the trees as he walks back in the direction of his fading, rusted single-wide trailer.

I pull onto the two-lane highway, only a few miles from the old man's place. My pickup roars with the extra weight of the camper. Grumbling less once I get up to speed, the truck carries me away from my hometown nestled in the Appalachian Mountains.

I'm not sure where I'm headed, but I can't stay here. Simply existing makes people famous in a small town. There isn't room to breathe without someone having something to say about it. Even if I told my story, despite him being the one in the wrong, people are still going to take sides. I'd be shamed and treated with hostility, and I still wouldn't be safe. The only way to get away from him is to get away from that town.

My grandparents raised me. They're dead now, and I don't have any other family. I have no reason to stay. Nothing is tying me to that town anymore.

The moon has replaced the sun now, as though the universe is trying to cover for me as I make my escape. It has an eerie reddish glow—a blood moon. I laugh because it couldn't be more appropriate.

Tired of letting him occupy my thoughts, I begin making a mental list of the things I need to buy. The camper needs some serious cleaning, not to mention a mattress for the bed and a stock of some dishes and food. Hopefully, with a touch of love and elbow grease, I'll be able to make a suitable home for myself. I don't know if this is gonna be my home for the next couple of months or the next couple of years.

I drive through the night and into the next day, the need to put miles between us the impetus to keep going. The familiar hills and trees of the Appalachians slowly give way, flattening out to open fields and clear views for miles as I cross into Kansas and up through the endless cornfields of Nebraska where a farmer, planting his field with the help of his young son, gives me pause. It's a simple yet wholesome scene that belongs on a wall somewhere, and I momentarily consider pulling off the road to sketch it. The urge disappears as quickly as it came, though, as I remember the threat that may be trailing behind me.

Does he know I'm gone yet? How long will I have to stay on the run? Will he try to find me? His words seldom suggested that he cares about me anymore. His actions only confirm his hostility and hatred.

I'm done settling.

I'm done being a victim.

I'm done giving him power over me.