I scramble over a fallen tree and lie flat, pressing my side against the bark. I force myself into silence, but my body doesn’t want to obey. My lungs burn and my pulse pounds, and nowhere near enough air billows in and out through my nose.
Then I hear it. On my exposed side, someone moving through the trees.
Faster than me.
Terror closes its icy hand around my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter as the footsteps draw nearer.
It takes everything I have not to bolt and tear through that mass of trees like the devil himself was after me. I want to flee like nothing I’ve ever wanted before. The impulse is so strong I have to constantly command my tensing muscles to slow down. I creep on my belly around the fallen birch, scanning ahead for small twigs that might snap under my weight. When I’m on the other side, I make myself wait. I squeeze my eyes shut as the footsteps grow louder, then grow quieter again, moving past me and deeper into the forest.
My eyes dart everywhere. To my right is shadow, but to my left, I think I see the trees beginning to thin.
Maybe there’s open field, where my pursuer can pick me off from their post in the trees.
Maybe it’s a ravine, and I’ll plummet to my death before I see the edge.
Maybe I’m delirious, and the tress aren’t thinning at all.
If I run that way, I’ll be exposed in seconds, and I refuse to bet my life on what might or might not be on the other side of those trees. But I can’t stay cowering on the forest floor either.
My breathing is growing choppy again as an idea forms. It’s not a good idea, but being overtaken in the woods—or the unknown beyond them—by someone faster is worse. And the reality is that I’m gambling with my life no matter what I do. So I choose the high reward.
And turn back toward the motel.
I give full reign to my flight instinct, scurrying from tree to tree, pausing at every trunk to listen for my pursuer, hopefully still moving in the opposite direction. But I hear only the blood pumping in my ears, and I move like I can feel the breath of every nightmare I’ve ever had panting down my neck.
And to what? I might be heading toward another threat, one that’s waiting patiently for me to return. That’s the kind of paralyzing fear I have to strangle in its crib.
I am going back to the motel because I know nothing about who’s after me. I know nothing about where Mom is or what she’s doing. I know nothing about why I’m running for my life. But I do know that there is a car parked in front of my room and that the driver knew where to find me. There could be someone else lying in wait, an accomplice ready to grab me or worse, but there could also be something inside the car, something that might lead me to Mom and the answers I need. At the very least, I might be able to slip back into the room and grab my bag. Right now, I have to believe the reward outweighs the risk.
A fresh wave of dread crashes over me when I reach the tree line and the back of the motel comes into view, but I don’t have time to second-guess my decision. I pry my fingers from the tree I’m clinging to, and I step out into the open.
Thankfully, there are lots of shadows to shield me as I walk. I home in on the car in front of room 5, a dark-blue Honda Accord with band stickers on the bumper and a parking pass for Penn State stuck to the windshield. The car’s innocuous appearance is somehow more terrifying than the black armored car I was prepared for.
My heart is close to detonating by the time I reach the driver’s side, approaching from behind. The headrest is tall and solid, so I can’t tell, I can’t tell….
The car is empty. I lean forward against the side, boneless with relief. Then I look up at the kicked-in door to my motel room. The wood is splintered around the lock, and the chain is glinting on the carpet inside. And my fear slinks back up, coiling around my ankles, knees, stomach, all the way to my throat.
What am I thinking? I’m about to break into the car of the person who broke down my door, who chased me through the woods, and who very possibly tried to run us off the road three nights ago….
I don’t have a lockpicking tool, and I wouldn’t know how to use one if I did. What I do have is a big-ass rock and zero concern for property damage. I’m trying to decide how far back to stand when another thought occurs to me. I reach out to try the door handle.
It opens.
I leap in and pull the door only partially closed. I have to be ready for a quick escape if I need to run again, and I’m not wasting any time opening the door. My other idea involves slipping out and rolling under the car to hide if the driver comes out of the woods. There are so many problems with that, though—like what’s to stop him from running me over when he backs up and sees me? My skull will burst like a watermelon. I force the image away and start searching the car.
I flip down both visors, and a flood of concert tickets flutters into my lap. The console is filled with change and a few petrified french fries. I lean forward to open the glove compartment and find tons of takeout napkins, a pair of gloves, and a registration certificate that says the vehicle belongs to a Malcolm Pike.
There’s nothing about Mom. No incriminating papers. I slam the glove compartment shut.
A thud from behind me strangles my sob. I jump and whip around, but there’s nothing.
Then another thud, and my stomach lurches.
There’s someone in the trunk.
I fly out the door, almost tripping over my own feet. Mom. It has to be Mom. I dive back to the driver’s seat before I’m halfway to the trunk. There has to be a latch somewhere. Half sitting in the car, I find it on the console and I crane my neck to see the trunk release. I dart back and lift it open.
With my arms stretching high above my head to open the trunk, and the fragile fluttery hope that I’m about to find Mom, I’m not prepared for the two-footed kick that hits me square in the chest. The impact throws me off my feet with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I hurl backward to the ground, and there’s a thwack as my head makes contact with the asphalt. I watch through watering eyes as the occupant of the trunk heaves bound legs over the edge, then crashes down next to me.
I can’t seem to breathe or move, and my brain feels like it must be scattered halfway across the parking lot. Gasping as air finally gushes back into my deflated lungs, I roll to my stomach and push up onto my hands and knees. I grab the phone that flew out of my pocket, cursing the shattered screen, and hurriedly repocket it. My pulse is racing and my head is throbbing as I take in the trunk’s occupant clearly for the first time.
It’s a lean black guy in a hoodie and skinny jeans. And he’s gagged, with his hands tied behind his back. His eyebrow is split open, though whether that’s from when he was tossed in the trunk or when he fell out of it, I can’t tell. He’s squinting into the setting sun as he ineffectively thrashes around trying to free himself. He can’t see me from his angle on the ground, and I realize he probably didn’t see me before trying to kick my sternum out through my back. I doubt he saw more than a silhouette.