She’d been certain thirty minutes ago, but suddenly her conviction disappeared. She could imagine a dozen more-probable scenarios than this one. What were the odds of stumbling across a kidnapping-in-progress? While trapped overnight in a snowy rest stop? It was all too fantastical to be a part of Darby’s life.
She tried to mentally reconstruct the scene. Step by step. The van’s rear window had been frosted with ice. The interior had been dark. And Darby herself? She was a wreck — anxious, sleep-deprived, her blood surging with Red Bull, glimpsing starbursts behind her own dry eyelids. What if this was just her vivid imagination at work, and Lars was just an innocent traveler like the others? Attacking him would be a battery charge.
If I’m wrong about this . . .
She finished her last gulp of coffee and for some reason, her mind darted to her older sister. Twenty-three year old Devon, who had her first tattoo etched on her right shoulder blade. A few Chinese characters, bold and elegantly drawn. They translated to: “Strength in Chinese.”
The lesson there? Double-check everything.
She needed to go back outside to the van. She needed to see this child. Really see this child.
And she couldn’t rush to action. She had plenty of time; she had six to eight hours of it, in fact. Enough time to think. And she needed to be certain before making her move.
Right?
Right.
She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms and scanned the room. At the table, they’d finished Go Fish — Ashley was now trying to convince Ed to play a new card game called War. Sandi had plucked a yellowed paperback from her purse and raised it like a defensive wall. And Lars, the star of tonight’s nightmare, was still guarding the front door, sipping his Styrofoam cup of COCO. She’d been counting; this was his third refill. He’d be hitting the restroom soon.
That’s when, she decided. That was when she’d slip outside. Last time she’d stumbled into the scene, off-guard and frightened. This time, she’d be ready.
Ashley riffled the cards, having given up on Ed, and nodded at Sandi’s paperback. “What’re you reading?”
She grunted. “A murder mystery.”
“I like murder mysteries.” He hesitated. “Well, actually, to be honest, I don’t read much. I guess I just like the idea of murder mysteries.”
Sandi forced a polite smile, turning a page. Why’d you ask, then?
It was barely two hours into Darby’s stay at the Wanapa rest area, and she was already getting annoyed at Ashley. He was a talker, alright. And he was still going like a windup toy, his hooks latched into Sandi: “How far . . . uh, how many chapters in are you?”
“Not many.”
“Has the victim been murdered yet?”
“Yep.”
“I like gore. Was it gory?”
Ed stirred uncomfortably and his chair croaked. He watched Sandi, who was turning another page and hadn’t even answered Ashley’s first question when he pelted her with another: “Can you guess who the murderer is?”
“Not yet,” she said dryly. “That’s the point.”
“It’s always the nice guy,” Ashley said. “Again, I don’t really read, but I’ve seen a lot of movies, and that’s even better. Whoever seems like the nicest character, at first, will always turn out to be the asshole in the end.”
Sandi ignored him.
Please stop talking, Darby thought. Just stop.
“That truck,” he continued, glancing out the window. “That’s yours, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Reminds me of a joke. What does Ford stand for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Found on road, dead.”
Sandi grunted and kept reading.
Finally, Ashley took the hint. “Sorry. I’ll let you read.”
Lars watched this interaction from the door. He licked his lips, and Darby was struck by how small his teeth were. Just two little rows of stunted kernels, like baby teeth, half-formed, still encased in pink gums. He gulped the last of his COCO and threw his empty Styrofoam cup at the garbage can, missing by three full feet.
No one commented on this.
Not even Ashley.
Darby watched the white cup twirl on the tile and considered — assuming her suspicions were confirmed — maybe she’d be able to break into Lars’s van and quietly move the child into her Honda. Hide him or her in the back seat, perhaps, under the heap of butcher paper she used for her gravestone rubbings. Or better yet, the trunk — if there was enough oxygen and heat. When the snowplows arrived early tomorrow morning, everyone could go their separate ways, and Lars might drive away without even realizing his prey had escaped—
No. That was wishful thinking. Since they’d be stranded here all night, Lars would have to run his engine periodically to keep the child warm. He would notice his captive had disappeared.
She took in a rattling breath. She counted to five before letting it out, just as her mother once taught her.
Right now, the advantage is mine.
I can’t waste it.
She wished it could be someone else in this situation. Someone smarter, braver, steadier, more capable. Someone from her college’s ROTC program, one of those sweaty girls in urban digital camouflage lugging heavy rucksacks up and down campus. Someone who knew ju-jitsu. Hell, anyone else.
But it was just her.
Just Darby Thorne, the weird girl who hid from parties inside a dorm room wallpapered with black crayon rubbings stolen from strangers’ graves, like some kind of spiritual vampire.
As the snowstorm intensified outside, she swiped her iPhone and quickly typed another text. Just a draft message. Just a backup, in the event of the unthinkable, but it brought tears to her eyes all the same.
Mom, if you find this message on my phone, something happened to me. I’m trapped overnight at a rest stop as I write this, and one of the people here might be dangerous. I hope I’m just being paranoid. But if I’m not . . . just know that I’m sorry for everything. All the things I said and did to you. I’m sorry about our phone call on Thanksgiving. You don’t deserve any of that. Mom, I love you so much. And I’m so sorry.
Love, your daughter.
*
Fifteen minutes later, Lars went to the restroom.
He passed by Darby’s chair, and she noticed something strange. He’d peeled his black ski gloves off, exposing the pale skin on the back of his left hand. It was peppered with tiny, raised bumps. Like mosquito bites. Or maybe scar tissue, though she couldn’t imagine what grisly tool could do that to a human hand, short of a cheese grater—
Then Lars shuffled past and vanished into the men’s restroom. The door swished shut, taking forever before finally clicking.
Now.
Darby scooted her chair out and stood up on quivering knees. Ed and Ashley glanced up at her. This was her chance, her thirty-second window to sneak outside and confirm the unthinkable. Her phone in her hand, she moved to the front door, her lungs swelling with held breath — but on the way she surprised herself. She did something utterly illogical.
She approached the second carafe, labeled COCO, and quickly refilled her eight-ounce Styrofoam cup. She didn’t even like hot chocolate.
But kids do. Right?
She heard a urinal flush. Lars was coming back.