Her hand trembled as she zipped the bag.You’re safe. It’s morning. He’s gone.But her body didn’t believe it.
The stale scent lingered. She glanced at her phone—no signal.If I disappeared here, nobody would know until morning.
She scanned the tree line, but the woods only stared back, silent and impenetrable.
He’s been here.
Her hands shook as she slammed the hatch and climbed into the Jeep.
She eased down the lane, headlights sliding over the pond’s glassy surface. From somewhere behind came the sudden roar of a truck engine.
Two headlights flared in her mirror, falling in behind her.Don’t look back. Just drive.
The truck kept its distance for half a mile before vanishing around a curve. Darcy exhaled a long, shaky breath.Keep moving. Don’t stop.
By the time the first light touched the horizon, she’d left the campground—and last night—far behind.
A small silver key swung from the rearview, catching a hint of dawn. It had belonged to her grandmother, opened a door in Sylva—a place Darcy had yet to see. She liked to imagine it could unlock something for her, too.
With every mile, her body felt lighter—a little farther from Creepy Joe, a little nearer to peace. She just needed to keep going. A few more days, a few more miles.
The highway stretched on, endless, Kansas turning golden in the growing light. Wind turbines sliced the sky in slow motion. She passed a peeling sign for Best Pie in the Midwest and almost pulled off.Almost.
To break the silence, she switched on a travel podcast—strangers laughing about roadside mishaps and spilled coffee, problems that seemed impossibly small after last night. The sound steadied her.You’re fine, Darcy. He’s gone. Keep driving.
Missouri welcomed her with rolling fields and low hills. That night, she parked at a quiet spot by a river—no office, just a metal box for payment and a scattering of porch lights. She left the Jeep hitched, too jumpy to disconnect. Somewhere in the darkness, a truck started up, idled, and faded away. Darcy stayed inside the Airstream, Glock within reach, reminding herself not every sound meant danger. At first light, she was back on the road.
Tennessee rose ahead, lush and inviting. She lowered the window and let the muggy air rush through. Each state line felt like a small victory.
By late afternoon, Darcy rolled into a family-owned campground tucked among towering pines. Voices drifted through the air—real, warm, grounding. She let her guard down by inches.At last. Women—thank God.
She’d barely leveled the camper when someone called, “Hey, stranger!” A woman waved a wineglass in greeting. “You look like you need this more than we do. Grab a chair!”
Before Darcy could answer, a goldendoodle bounded over, almost knocking her down. She laughed, bracing herself as the dog smothered her in kisses. The group of women by the fire watched with glee.
“See?” one said. “Excellent judge of character—he only likes the special ones!”
They ushered Darcy into their circle, filled her hand with wine before she could protest, and pulled up an extra chair. The dog curled at her feet as if he’d chosen her for the evening.
The women had a practiced polish—athleisure, perfect nails, confidence born from freedom hard-earned. They swapped stories of grown kids, golf-mad husbands, exes best left behind, and the price of finally having time to breathe.
When the single in the group, Cathy, tried to duck the conversation, the others wouldn’t let her. “Tell about your Tinder disaster!” one prodded.
“Oh, no way,” Cathy groaned, hiding her face.
“Come on—share with the class!”
Laughter tumbled through the night. When they asked Darcy for her own horror story, she hesitated, then confessed, “Well, there was a guy back in Kansas. Super creepy. Kept finding me at the campground and asking if I was alone. I’m pretty sure he circled my camper half the night. I didn’t get much sleep.”
Groans rose from the group.
“They’re everywhere.”
“Here’s to outlasting the creeps!” one woman said, raising her glass.
They toasted, dogs dozing at their feet, while the fire crackled and the air filled with warmth and woodsmoke.
Later, surrounded by firelight and boisterous strangers, Darcy let an old instinct flicker—the urge to pull back and disappear. But the goldendoodle rested its head on her shoe, anchoring her with honest affection. The women’s laughter surged, wild and untamed, and for a breath, she pretended to be one of them—fearless, free, untouched by the long shadow of last night.
