I would have noticed if I was being followed though, right? If a car was tailing me from the gas station to the inspection site, I would have seen it. It would have been noticeable out here in the country.
Unless there’s some other trail or path or road I don’t know about.
No, no, stop it. Don’t make shit up. Be calm. Focus on what you can see or smell or hear.
Ripley’s focus breaks. Whatever held her attention is gone. Or gone quiet.
We keep moving—this time in a fast walk. Half a mile later we’re standing in front of deer figurines and motionless windmills. The mailbox has a faded sunflower painted on the side.
“Killers don’t paint sunflowers. Do they?”
Ripley looks at me to see if I’m gonna tell her to do something, then snuffs at the weeds around the mailbox’s post when I don’t.
“Sure hope not.”
It’s not a long driveway. The front porch isn’t nearly as decrepit as it seemed from the road. It’s mostly just old and sun-bleached. There’s a shed at the side of the house that’s just as sun-bleached. I knock before I can think twice. There’s movement inside—heavy steps and the creak of old wood under the weight of a moving body.
A man opens the door. He’s old, is my first thought. My second is that despite him being elderly, I do not think I could fight him off. He’s at least six feet and bulky in a way that working people get when they have a steady diet of manual labor and cheap, carb-heavy food.
He stares at me, not saying anything.
“Hi!” I say in a chipmunk voice that makes me wince. “Hi. My truck is out of gas and my phone isn’t working and I just, if I could use your phone? Or I could wait here while you use it to call… someone. I’m not from this area but I’m pretty sure triple-A won’t come out here, you know?”
He clears his throat in a way that suggests it being chronic. His gaze finds Ripley. Whatever he sees makes him frown deeper than he was before.
“She’s friendly. She won’t be any trouble—”
“Your dog’s hot.”
“Yeah. We were moving pretty fast.” She’s also entirely black and a bully breed. Neither of which are particularly good for respiration.
He stares, then turns away. Just before he shuts the door he says, “Put her in the backyard.”
Maybe we’re about to be murdered, but she needs water and I need a phone. Behind the ranch-style home is a quaint yard. Sunflowers and tulips are painted in vibrant brushstrokes across the short white picket fence along the perimeter.
The gate opens smoothly. Everything in this yard is well taken care of. Doted on, even.
The sliding door opens. The cool breath of the AC chills the skin of my back where my shirt has ridden up. The man clears his throat. Definitely chronic.
“You can stay out there if you want, or you can come in. I’m not gonna mess with you either way. Your choice.”
“If I come in, can I hold my hatchet?”
“Sure.”
“Can I bring my dog?”
He looks at her with pinched lips. “Wipe her down first. Just cleaned the floors.”
He disappears from the doorway and reappears with two damp floral hand towels that have seen better days. “No ’ffense, but you too.”
It doesn’t take long to wipe Ripley down and then brush the mud off my pants. I hesitate, but ultimately decide tokick the dirt off my shoes instead of taking them off. It’s rude and kinda gross, but I’m more invested in being able to run away than I am in being polite.
The house smells like the mornings after my mom invited her coworkers over for a drink and a smoke. I’d wake up bleary-eyed after staying up late to listen to them laughing and talking. The whole house would smell of cigarettes and perfume and beer.
Her friends love her. They call her whenever they have a problem and no solution. No matter how exhausted she is, she has no-nonsense advice and stern yet compassionate words that draw people to her like a moth to a light. I used to sit on the stairs and listen while she told stories that were technically true, but also very embellished.
“The story’s not the point,” she told me one morning at the kitchen table. I’d just shown her sketches forOne Special Thing. “It’s how it makes people feel.”
