Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dollar Mart was a yellow-and-red box in a vast square of parking lot, baking in the July sun. An outdated sign with removable letters, placed at the road next to the entrance, said closed july 4. sparkler, as though someone had removed the final “S.” There were barely half a dozen cars in the huge lot.

I got out of Robbie’s car and looked around. From Hunter Beach, this place would be about a half-hour walk—worth it, maybe, if you could pick up a ride from one of the locals in the parking lot. Eddie and I hadn’t passed a single car on the way here, so this would be a better bet than standing on the road.

Rhonda Jean hadn’t gotten her final ride here, but it sounded like the kids from Hunter Beach came here. Eddie and I crossed the parking lot to the store, my flip-flops slapping against the hot pavement.

I shivered again as we stepped inside, the bell over the door ringing above our heads. The air-conditioning in here wasn’t strong, but I still had chills. Eddie was right; there was something off about this whole place. Coldlake Falls, Hunter Beach—all of it. How had we ended up here? I didn’t exactly remember Eddie taking that wrong turn. Had I been sleeping? Why couldn’t I remember it?

Eddie and I walked through the store, past aisles of canned goods, an aisle of plastic cutlery and folded paper tablecloths. Elevator music tinkled out of the sound system. We glimpsed a few lonely people in the aisles, and that was all. The entire place seemed half-asleep, wilting in the summer sun.

A girl with greasy hair stood behind the counter. Eddie approached. “Hi,” he said to her. “Is it okay if I ask you a question?”

Her eyes darted to me, then somewhere over her shoulder, then back to Eddie. “What?”

Eddie slid the photograph of the Hunter Beach kids over the counter. “Do you know any of these people? Have you seen them in here?”

The girl looked at the photo, then shrugged. “Maybe. I guess.”

Eddie’s voice was patient. “Take another look.”

He could have been a cop, I thought. I watched the calm expression on his face, the way his gaze held hers, firm but not intimidating. The girl was staring at the photo, biting her lip, unaware that she was instantly doing as he asked. I knew I was good, but I also knew that my husband of two days just might be smarter than me.

“They’ve been here,” the girl said. “They’re Hunter Beach kids. They were with a few others. The owner doesn’t like the Hunter Beach kids to come in here, because sometimes they hang around outside and ask for rides. But he wasn’t here that day, so I let them stay. They bought cigarettes and food. I don’t think they stole anything.”

“When was this?” Eddie asked.

“Two, three days ago?” the girl asked no one. “Um, three.”

The bell above the front door jangled, and I peered around the nearest shelf to look. I didn’t see anyone. The door wasn’t moving.

I shifted to look back at Eddie, who was still talking to the girl. “What do you remember?” he asked her. “What were they doing? Did they say anything you recall?”

“They were talking about a beach party that night.” There was definitely a note of envy in the girl’s voice. She was around the same age as the Hunter Beach kids. “Um, they only had twenty dollars in cash. And her.” She pointed to Rhonda Jean. “I remember her.”

The bell over the door jangled again. Again I looked and saw nothing. Was it possible for a bell to malfunction? That didn’t make any sense.

“Why do you remember her?” Eddie asked.

“Because she was crying.”

A waft of cold air touched my back, like a fingertip.

The bell over the door jangled a third time, and this time I stepped all the way around the shelf and looked at the glass door, peering up at it. It wasn’t moving. There was no one outside who had just left. No one had just come in. I looked out at the parking lot. There was no one out there, either, except—

“Oh my God,” I murmured. Then I said, loudly: “Eddie.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie said to the girl. He must have noticed the tone in my voice, because in a second he was at my shoulder, the photo in his hand.

“Look,” I said.

His body tensed next to mine.

In the parking lot was a large, black pickup truck, its engine running. It crouched near the lot’s entrance to the street, unmoving, the sun glinting off it. Exhaust furled behind it, and I could hear the faint rumble of its engine. It seemed to be waiting. I couldn’t see the driver through the sun reflecting from the window.

Eddie strode forward, pushing open the door. The bell jangled overhead yet again, the sound slicing through the store. I followed, trying to keep up with his long strides.

The heat hit me again as we stepped outside. Eddie kept walking, fast, making a beeline for the truck, his gaze fixed on the driver’s window. The truck still idled, unmoving.

“Hey!” Eddie shouted.

The driver of the truck gave no response.

This was, I realized, a moment that could go either way. We could stop and watch, waiting for the truck to do whatever it was going to do. We could wonder if we were right, if this was the truck we’d seen last night, if we would ever know the truth or if it would always be a mystery. We could let it go.

But that wasn’t Eddie. And that wasn’t me.

You weren’t scared, Eddie had said to me last night. You weren’t even shocked. You knew exactly what to do.

And I’d replied: You weren’t scared, either.

“Hey!” Eddie shouted again, not slowing his pace. It was a big parking lot, shimmering in the heat, and the truck was still idling at the entrance. It was going to drive off. I suddenly knew it as surely as if a voice had said so in my ear.

I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything Eddie pulled the keys to Robbie’s car from his pocket, turned in one swift motion, and tossed them to me. “Get the car.”

I caught the keys in midair and turned to run to the car, my flip-flops making noise on the pavement. Eddie kept walking.

“Get out, coward!” I heard Eddie say. My heart jumped into my throat—he was going to get himself killed—but my head stayed cool. I unlocked the Accord, jumped into its oven-hot interior, and started the car.

My gaze went to the truck again, and I froze.

Behind the cab of the truck, a hand appeared. It was white, thin, a woman’s hand. The fingers curled over the side of the truck bed, as if the woman had been lying down and was pulling herself up. A second hand joined it. I stared in shock as cold waves pulsed through me in the hot car.

As I watched, the girl in the truck bed pulled herself up. Her head appeared over the side now, her face pale in the bright sun. Her hair was ditchwater brown, long and straight, parted in the middle. Nothing about her was worldly—not her skin, not her hands, not her eyes. She was staring at us.

For the first time, Eddie’s step faltered. He stopped and stared, his face going ashen as he looked at the girl’s unearthly face.

She stared back, unmoving. The truck idled.

Then the truck’s engine roared, and the truck moved. It reversed on a wild trajectory that would have thrown anyone out of the bed. But the girl simply stayed where she was, her hands on the side of the bed, not even swaying. Her hair didn’t lift in the wind.

The truck’s engine gunned again, and it made a turn toward the exit. I put the Accord into gear and hit the accelerator, heading for Eddie. I braked next to him just long enough for him to get into the passenger seat. Then, as he slammed the door, I took off after the truck with the girl in it, heading for Atticus Line.