"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because it's not safe for you here."
I don't like the way he says that. You don't use that tone when you're talking about bears and hypothermia and treacherous, grasping tree roots.
You use it when you're talking about something that'shuntingyou.
"Not safehow?" I press. "Is this about last night? Because I swear, I'll never mention the photo again. I'll never say her name. I'll forget I saw it and?—"
"It's not about the photo, Caroline."
"Then what is it about?"
He takes a turn too sharply and I slide across the bench seat until my shoulder hits the door.
"You don't belong here," he says at last. "You belong in Manhattan. Not in a cabin in the mountains with a man who?—"
He stops himself. His jaw roils beneath the beard.
"A man who what?" I whisper when he won't fill in the end.
"Who can't help you."
The road widens. Through the snow-covered trees, I can see the faint outline of other structures—a gas station, a water tower, the pitched roofs of a small town emerging from the forest.
"You're the only person who can," I beg him. My eyes are burning with unshed tears. "My father is dead. My mother is dead. Matvei's given me what he knows, but it isn't enough. You have the rest of the story, Afon. You have thewholestory. And you're just—what? Going to drive me to a bus station and pretend I never came?"
"Yes."
One syllable.
Might as well be a bullet between the eyes.
We pass the gas station. A hand-painted sign readsPIKE HOLLOW — POP. 412.The bus depot, when we reach it, is not so much a depot as a wooden bench beneath a sheet metal awning attached to the side of what appears to be a combination bait shop and post office. A schedule is tacked to a wooden post, laminated and yellowing. A single security camera points at the bench, its red light blinking sluggishly.
Afon pulls the Bronco to a stop and puts it in park. The engine idles, coughing. He won't even be here long enough to justify turning it off.
"Bus to Kingston leaves at noon," he says, checking his watch. "From Kingston, you can get Amtrak to Penn Station. You'll be home by dinner."
When I don't move, he reaches across me and pops the door handle. The passenger door swings open, admitting a blast of frigid air that makes my eyes water again.
"There's cash in your jacket pocket," he says. "Left side. Enough for the bus and the train."
I pat my pocket. Sure enough, a fold of bills crinkles in response. He must have slipped it in while I was getting dressed, or maybe last night after I fell asleep, because I certainly didn't have it before.
The thoughtfulness of it pisses me the fuck off.
"I don't want your money," I snap.
"Then burn it for warmth. I really don't care, Caroline."
I turn to glare at him. His hands are on the steering wheel at ten and two, knuckles white, the bronze ring catching what little light filters through the dirty windshield. His profile is iron. He stares straight ahead at the bait shop as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"You're scared," I accuse. "So you're just dumping me on the corner like a stray cat and hiking back up that godforsaken mountain to hide in your little hut. That'scowardly."
For the first time since we left the cabin, he looks at me. "Go home, Caroline," he says. "Please."
The please pisses me off almost as much as the cash did. How dare he?
