Chapter 2

2

Penny

T hree days. Three fucking days I've been on the run. A bone-deep fatigue weighs me down. I even hitchhiked for a while because I couldn't imagine taking one more step. An older man picked me up in his truck, and his sweet Doberman had to sit in the middle of the bench seat between us, eyeballing me the entire way to Grasshopper, California where the man dropped me off. I'd told him it was my destination, but really, I have no destination. I'm going to keep walking until I get far, far away from Clive's influence.

Once I feel safe, then I'll decide what to do with everything that I saw. The pieces I recorded. The scream that echoes in my mind.

There doesn't seem to be a motel in sight, but maybe if I walk along this street, I'll find something. I miss my phone. The convenience and the security of knowing that the answer to any question I might have is right at my fingertips. Is there a hotel in Grasshopper CA? Before I finish typing it, there would be a list of accommodations. If they aren't to be found within Grasshopper, there would be suggestions all around.

None of that. My phone is hidden away, shut completely off and nowhere near me.

So I walk, shivering in the cool wind that gusts down the street.

Hunger gnaws at my stomach with insistent teeth. I was smart enough to grab some cash before I left San Esteban, so when I come to a convenience store, I step inside.

It isn't much warmer in here than it is outside, but I at least feel less exposed.

The sheer amount of choices overwhelms me. I want junk food for comfort, and I jealously watch a young girl drag her father to the candy aisle. But I don't know when I'll get to buy food again, so instead of candy bars, I fill a basket with fruit, a loaf of bread, and peanut butter.

When I go to the front to pay, the cashier stares hard at me, his blue eyes curious. He looks to be in his late teens, so about ten years younger than me, but my age doesn't seem to intimidate him. Or maybe that look in his eyes isn't interest in me as a date—maybe he's seen my photo somewhere? I wish I'd worn my hoodie up, but a hoodie is a worthless disguise.

Surely Clive hasn't alerted everyone to my disappearance. He wouldn't want the publicity.

But Clive is a wild card. That's what he always says about himself, anyway. Clive "Wild Card" Oberon. Who the fuck knows what he's going to do next?

"That'll be sixteen thirty-two," the cashier says.

I hand over a twenty, trying to keep myself from shaking.

"What brings you to Grasshopper?" he asks.

"Oh. Um." I didn't think of a lie in advance. Quick. "I'm just passing through."

"Yeah?" He grins. "Where are you from?"

"Sacramento."

"Cool." He passes over my change and dumps my groceries into a paper bag.

I hustle outside before he can ask me anything else. But through the grimy window, past a poster advertising a sale on already-cheap beer, I see him pull out his phone and start tapping fast at the screen.

Then he holds his phone out like he's taking a picture—in my direction.

Fuck. I whirl around and rush down the street.

Am I paranoid? It can't be paranoia when people really are out to get me, right?

I've walked for maybe five minutes when a sedan about three decades past its prime motors up the quiet street. It slows when it approaches me.

I can't do this. I should've let that old man drive me straight to Las Vegas where I could get lost in the crowds. This tiny little town is too quiet, too empty.

"Hey," a man says from the car.

I don't turn to face him. No eye contact.

"I'm talking to you, sweetheart," he says.

Fuck no.

Straight ahead—more of the same tiny street, exposed. Nobody else is out, nobody would hear me scream or see me struggle. I could keep walking and hope this likely predator leaves me alone. Unlikely.

To my right is a dark forest, trees going for miles probably.

Out here, I'm easy pickings. In the woods, I could get lost—on purpose. And I'd finally feel safe.

I have food. I have a hoodie layered over a long-sleeved shirt. Decent tennis shoes, socks. I won't freeze, even though it does look like rain. I'm just going to get really fucking wet.

"Hey," he says. Louder, more insistent.

Wet it is. Without a look behind me, I haul ass to the woods, my backpack banging against my spine, my shoes cutting into the damp soil, the man's shouts echoing in my ears.

From the protection of the trees, I risk a look back to the road. The sedan doesn't move for a long moment. Is he going to jump out and chase me? I have a head start, but I'm not a runner. I back away while keeping an eye on the car.

After a long two minutes, he finally drives off.

I can't go back out there. No freaking way. I'll just keep the road in sight and wander through the woods until I find a motel or something farther up the street.

I walk for hours. Darkness falls. I lose sight of the road. Is that because I've walked too far from it, or just that it got dark? I can't tell.

Stupid. I never should have gone into the woods. I thought I knew what I was doing—it looks so easy on TV shows.

Worse, it starts to rain.

So when a half-collapsed cabin appears in front of me like some witch in a fairy tale planted it there, I rush toward it.