“Superman, remember?”
At that, I smiled. “Thank you for picking me up. I had a nice night.” Ihadenjoyed the night. Enjoyed his company.
“Me too, Amy.” He was looking intensely at me, almost like he was considering what to do next. As if he was considering kissing me. It was awkward, and I clenched my hands together.
“I’d better go then.” I indicated to the door.
“Good night.” He leaned across, and with lips as soft as marshmallows, he kissed my cheek.
A thrill of delight vibrated through my whole body. My heart raced. I blushed and thanked god it was dark enough he wouldn’t see.
His eyes smoldered and lingered on mine, calling me silently to him. His lips were slightly parted. I wondered what they would feel like—soft and sensual, or crushing and breathtaking? Probably the perfect mix of both.
I’d never been kissed by anyone except Tom. I didn’t want to think about him, about how I wasn’t enough to keep him happy. Those thoughts left me riddled with shame, self-doubt and despair. The way Ethan was looking at me, with a yearning—a hunger, had my heart thudding against my chest, and it made me feel wanted, made me feel attractive, made me feel desperate for anything but pain.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
I stepped back. “Good night. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Anytime you need a ride,” Ethan teased me.
I smiled, rolling my eyes as I forced myself to turn away. My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the keys in the lock. Finally, it clicked, and the door opened. I bolted inside, then leaned my back up against the door.
He’d waited until I was inside before starting his car. The engine’s soft roar filled the mountains as he pulled away, fading into the distance.
From somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled, as if it was lonely and broken and just wanted to be loved.
Chapter 19
Rutherford’s Estate
Just after lunch, I climbed out of the car at the edge of Rutherford’s Estate National Park. It had rained earlier, and heat sizzled off the damp asphalt like a cauldron. I glanced up at the thick, dark clouds hovering on the horizon. It was warm, and running in the rain never bothered me.
Two other cars were parked by the entry point of a well-worn track. I grabbed my runner’s backpack out of the car. It was filled with water, a safety blanket, a flashlight, a lighter, a few protein bars, a GPS for emergencies, my phone, and bear spray. I pulled the bear spray and my phone out and slipped them into an elastic belt around my waist, then I put the backpack on and clicked the belt tight.
Placing my keys in my pocket, I walked across the gravel parking area to the start of the track. A large sign, warning of bears, advised hikers to register via a park app, to stay on the tracks, and there was a safety guide with various tips that I didn’t bother to read. There were four clearly marked walks to choose from, varying from two hours to overnight hikes.
“Don’t run up the other side of the mountain. It’s not safe up there.”
As I recalled the warning, I looked around. There was nothing threatening about the place, beside I had everything I needed. The forest was a rambling stretch of ancient firs. The fresh, organic scent of pine rolled through my nose. I didn’t bother registering; it wasn’t like I’d be gone long. At the edge of the track, I broke into a slow, rhythmic jog. The sun muscled through the canopy, depositing pockets of light on the forest floor.
I ran at an easy pace for some time, winding my way steadily up. The air was thick with heat. Sweat licked my skin, causing my hair to stick to my scalp like a wet cloth. Embers burned in the muscles of my legs. Birds chirped, flitting from tree to tree. Fat raindrops fell from the leaves and smacked onto the forest floor. I heard a branch snap somewhere to my right. Could have been a human, but was probably an animal. I ignored it and jogged on.
I came to a point where the track forked. Slowing to a stop, I checked my watch; I’d been running for an hour. I chugged back a few mouthfuls of water. The forest looked the same in every direction. It’d be easy to get lost up here if you veered off one of the tracks. I took the track to the right that rose steadily up the mountainside. The green canopy grew thicker the deeper I went into the forest, and the sun gave up on its attempt to penetrate it altogether. It was cooler up here, and the reprieve from the heat was nice. Gray rocks burst from the ground between trees at more regular intervals. Somewhere not too far away a river flowed. The terrain shifted again and rose sharply. The embers in my legs reignited. My lungs scorched. My heart boomed in my ears.
A few minutes later, out of breath, I came upon a campsite. Exhausted, I pulled to a stop, unclipped my pack, and threw it to the ground. Sweat dribbled down my back and over the side of my face. I wiped at it with my fist. Hunched over, I placedmy hands on my thighs and sucked air down my parched throat. After a few moments, I straightened, tucking my arms behind my head, and looked around.
The grass was squashed flat, empty beer cans and trash littering the ground. Over to the side, ash had been heaped up into a large circle, with a star shape carved inside. Flies swarmed over something in the middle of it.
I grabbed my water bottle out of the side pouch of my backpack and took a few large mouthfuls, the cool water slipping pleasantly down my throat. Above, a crow let out a series of long, haunting cries. I slipped my water back in my pack and moved closer to the circle. The stench of rotting flesh smacked me in the face and my stomach churned. Grimacing, I covered my nose, stepping closer.
At the edge, carved in the soil was an etching of horns—a goat’s head. In the center, in a thick pool of darkened shiny liquid, was a brown matted, blood-caked carcass with what looked like a tail. Flies swarmed above and maggots crawled over it like a foaming wave. A squirrel, maybe. I edged around the circle. I didn’t step in, and I know it sounded stupid, but it seemed as if the circle itself resisted my entry.
Blue-veined eyes, like marbles. Tiny teeth stuck out of its mouth like a rabbit trap.
Not a squirrel, I realized, with a sickening drop in my stomach. A kitten, only a few months old. An open wound in its throat. Not caused by an animal. The throat had been slashed so deep its head was held on by an inch of fur.
I cursed, gasping, and staggering backwards.
