But so is the smell of gasoline and rubber and other humans.
I crouch down and press my hand briefly to the asphalt of the road and feel the warmth of fresh tires. Instantly, I know she didn’t keep running. She caught a ride.
Fuck!
“I fucked up,” I say loud enough in hopes that my brother Cal’s super ears will hear.
Not even ten seconds later, inside my head, Rook’s voice cuts through.What’s going on?
Blair’s gone, I answer back through my thoughts.She ran. Through the forest. Hit the road. Hitched a ride.
Fuck. Where are you?Rook questions.
Rural road east of the cabin, my mind responds.Pretty sure she’s heading toward Ashford Hollow.
I straighten and turn toward the direction of the nearest town. It’s the only place within a reasonable distance. If she got picked up, that has to be where they’re headed.
I move along the tree line instead of the road. I run as fast as I fucking can but still controlled enough not to draw attention. Halfway there, her scent strengthens briefly.
Then fades.
Then strengthens again.
Vehicle. Windows down. Older humans.
I can almost reconstruct the current scene in my head.
Fuck.The only reason I’m in this fucking situation is because I hesitated when she first walked into the forest, determined to give her space.
Cal’s coming to help, Rook tells me.
I keep running. My chest throbs with discomfort of her being so far away from me, of her unknowingly putting herself at risk like this.
And I silently hope I can get to her before something terrible happens.
I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve remembered that we’re not just lovers—we’re mates. And that means everything is exponentially worse when we’re apart.
Blair
A giant sign with a big smiling sun that reads,Welcome to Ashford Hollow! Where everyone is a friend!confirms my hitchhiking ride-givers as truthful, and my shoulders fall an inch farther away from my ears.
I’ve never set foot in a small town, but from what I’ve seen in reruns ofGilmore Girls, this is the epitome of one. We go through one singular streetlight before moving past a gas station and a diner that has two pickup trucks parked outside.
This place feels small. Too small, if I’m being honest.
The nice man named Todd pulls into a parking lot that sits in front of what has to be the world’s tiniest grocery store—Ashford Hollow Market.
“Sweetheart, Todd is going to park right here, and you can try to use my cell phone again, okay?” the woman in the passenger seat updates.
“Thank you,” I say, but my voice feels so freaking tiny and unfamiliar. Every cell inside my body is screaming for me to getout of the car and, I don’t know, head in the direction I just came from. Which is nuts.
Is he looking for me? Did he chase after me? Is he worried about me?Are not the thoughts a woman like me should be having about her blue-collar kidnapper.
The woman—whose name I can’t remember, even though she told it to me—turns around to face me and nods down at the screen of her phone that’s still in my hands. “Looks like you’ve got four bars, so you should be able to get service now.”
I stare down at the screen, focusing intently on trying to remember phone numbers. This is where technology screws us all. I’m so used to just finding the name and hitting call that it’s hard to remember the digits to my parents’ phones.
I shut my eyes and try to envision my mom’s contact information, and thankfully, it only takes me a few seconds to put it together.
