Page 18 of The Death Row Club
“Do you know how far the nearest town is?”
He snorts—a wet, mucusy sound. “About thirty miles. You’ll be walking all night, I can tell you that.”
“Great.”
“Out.”
The bell tinkles again as I leave. I shrug the backpack off my shoulders and sink down to the cement curb. A few minutes later, the old man steps out of the gas station and locks the door, double-checking to make sure I won’t be pilfering any SweetSations while he’s gone. Then he walks over to a mud-speckled car, gets into the driver’s seat, and takes off down the road.
It’s night.
And I’m out here, in the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I hunch forward and catch sight of a plastic chip on the ground.
A guitar pick.
Yellow, just like the one my foster dad used. Which family was it again—the Koerbers? The Eberhardts? He could only play three songs on his acoustic guitar, so we all became expert singers of “Wonderwall,” “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life),” and “Hotel California.” He decided to drive us to a campsite one weekend, so we could pitch tents and roast s’mores and have sing-alongs. We were cruising along the thruway, me in the back seat with their actual daughter, when I spotted a blue Ford Taurus in the rearview mirror. At first it didn’t seem like a big deal; there must’ve been tons of blue Ford Tauruses on the road.
But when we got off at the next exit, it signaled and pulled behind us.
I thought about not telling them. Because whenever foster families found out about my dad, it always ended the same way, and while I was getting tired of “Hotel California” (not a lovely place, definitelynota lovely place), I wasn’t getting tired of them. We stopped for lunch, myfoster mom wrapping her arm around my shoulders and asking if I wanted anything from the fast-food counters. I watched their daughter, a few years younger than me, dash toward the rest stop entrance. She’d never known what it was like to get hurt, not really. She’d fractured her wrist earlier that year playing basketball, but for whatever reason, that seemed much different from someone intentionally slamming your fingers in a drawer.
That’s when I knew what I needed to do.
Because who knew what my dad might do to this family, to their daughter? They weren’t cut out for this, for surviving—not like I was.
My mom hadn’t been cut out for it, either.
After I told them about the blue Ford Taurus, my foster parents called the police, who confirmed that the license plate number did indeed match my dad’s vehicle. By the time they arrived on the scene, he’d already bailed. I stood by the gas pumps, alone, far enough away that I couldn’t overhear what they were saying. But they shouldn’t have bothered. I knew the drill.
I watched cars whizz by, each one filled with a family, playing punch buggy (no punch-backs) and arguing about whether to ask for directions and singing fucking “Hotel California” along with the radio, and I found myself on the outside looking in.
I don’t believe what the social workers told me about my mom.
I don’t think she left.
I think my dad killed her.
That’s why no one’s been able to find her. And I don’t think she’s the only one he’s killed, either. I caught him in the kitchen once, months after she disappeared. The faucet was running, and he was scrubbing his hands with dishwashing detergent. “Dad?” I called, and when he turned around, the front of his T-shirt was speckled with reddish-brown stains. His hands were pink up to the wrists, as if he’d been rooting around in someone’s insides like they were the engine of a car. He told me to go back to sleep, and, not really wanting to know what had happened, I did.
The worst part is, if he ever does the same to me, I’m willing to bet those social workers will say I bailed, too, just like my mom. “She’s a runaway. It’s not a crime to skip town. She’s started a new life somewhere. She’s probably happy.”
No one will ever know.
I bury my forehead in my knees and take a deep breath. It’s an illusion—the freedom of the open road. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I’ll never be free. That blue Ford Taurus will always be gunning for me, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no escape.
Well, almost no escape.
I start humming the tune to “Hotel California,” and it’s not until I reach the line about the pretty boys she calls friends that I hear the engine revving in the distance. My head jerks up, all my muscles tensed and ready to sprint around the back of the gas station.
It’s not a blue Ford Taurus.
As it draws closer, peeling through the grass, the car becomes clearer. It’s an oldie, a goodie, a classic, as my foster dad would’ve said. A sleek black hood capped off with two headlamps on either side of the grille. Seventies, I think. Gotta be seventies. I can’t see who’s behind the steering wheel, but I’m willing to bet it’s a man. They’re the only ones with enough spare time to take care of a car like that.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder and rush to the side of the road. Stopping under the only streetlight, I cock my hip slightly and stick my thumb out. “C’mon,” I whisper as the car closes in on me. “C’mon.” I’m coated in grime and sweat, but I’m young. I’m hoping that’ll be enough to draw a ride.
