When we get to the bus station, she parks across from the Greyhound terminal and kills the engine. For once, she’s quiet. Then she reaches into her purse again and pulls out a small, cheap phone still in its plastic.
“Leave your phone. I’ll dump it. This is a burner. Text me when you’re safe and be careful. Don’t give your last name to just anyone, and don’t make friends.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” I smile weakly. “Who would want to be friends with a paranoid fugitive in a beanie anyway?”
“Some weirdo in Montana, probably,” she says, winking at me. “Let’s just hope he’s cute.”
I roll my eyes and lean over to pull her into another firm hug.
She squeezes me back. “You’ll be okay, Rox. Somehow, you always manage to land on your feet.”
“Yeah,” I say as I reach for the door handle. “As long as I don’t get them dipped in concrete, right?”
I climb out of the car before she can respond and don’t look back, too afraid that if I do, I’ll lose the nerve to leave. When I reach my bus, I find my seat and don’t relax until the doors hiss shut behind the very last passenger to board.
Three long, tiring days later, we finally wheeze to a stop in a town that looks like it has two speeds: slow and slower. The signoutside the depot readsWelcome to Silver Ridge, Montanain faded paint.
I stumble out of my home of the last sixty-something hours along with the rest of the passengers, grab my duffel, and blink into the bright sunshine. Even the air tastes different here, cleaner, probably, but I’ve lived in New York my entire life, and orphans like me don’t get many opportunities to travel.
After taking a moment to adjust, I follow the faded sign that points me in the direction of the parking lot. Madison had said there would be a car waiting for me, and it turns out to be an old blue Trailblazer that looks like it had survived more winters than me and maybe even an encounter with a moose or two.
The keys are under the driver’s seat, just like Madison had said they would be. I briefly wonder how it could be safe to just leave them there, but obviously, I’m not in Manhattan anymore. I sling my backpack and the duffel into the back seat and stick the key in the ignition, a little surprised when the engine actually coughs to life as I turn it.
Madison had warned me that the cabin was out of town and a bit of a drive from the grocery store, so before I head to my hideaway, the market would have to be my first stop. Thankfully, it isn’t hard to find.
Just down the block from the station is a store small enough that I can see the entire place from the entrance. A bell jingles when I walk in, and every single person inside looks at me like they are auditioning for a horror movie titledThere’s a Stranger in Town.
I grab a basket and pretend not to notice the attention I’m attracting, loading up on the essentials as I move from one aisleto the next. Madison had said the cabin had some supplies, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The less time I spend in town, the better.
When I reach the cashier, a woman, maybe a few years older than me, scans my stuff and gives me a polite smile. “New in town?”
I shake my head. “Just passing through.”
It’s technically true. She smiles again as she hands over my change. “Well, I hope you have a good time. We’ve got some killer hiking trails.”
Let’s hope she doesn’t mean that literally.
I flash her a small smile in return. “Thanks. I’ll keep my eyes open for them.”
And never, ever set foot on any of them.
As I leave the store with my bags in hand, I can almost feel the locals’ relief, and I wonder, not for the first time, just what kind of town this is. Since I don’t have much of a choice but to stay put for now, I head back to the Trailblazer and start the long drive to my new home.
It takes almost an hour, the winding road climbing higher and higher into pine country. I half expect to hear banjos when I open my door, but there is only silence. The overwhelming, deafening kind.
Once again wondering just what the hell I’d gotten myself into, I look up at the Morrison family cabin, a small, sturdy structure that sat back from the road, with smoke stains on the stone chimney and a porch swing creaking in the breeze.
I grab my things, juggling as much as I can at one time, and with as much trepidation as relief, I walk up to the front door. The keys are hidden at the top of the frame, just like Madison said, and the lock turns more easily than I’d expected.
Inside, the scent of cedar and dust hangs thick enough to choke me as I run my gaze across a fireplace, a sagging couch, and a kitchen straight out of the seventies. I drop my things at the door, double back for the last of the groceries, and then turn in a slow circle once I’m back inside.
“Home, sweet serial-killer hideout home,” I mutter out loud, not sure I’ve ever heard silence so complete.
There is no traffic even in the distance. No music. No sirens. Just trees whispering in the breeze outside and the occasional crack of a branch.
The groceries don’t take long to unpack, but even by the time I finish, my fingers are cold. Not freezing, but that kind of chill that makes me want a blanket and a hot shower at the same time.
One look outside tells me that it’s getting late, the sun is starting to dip low in the sky.Crap. I’d better figure out how the heat works.
