Page 74 of The Death Row Club
A strangled laugh bursts out of me. “Where do you think I was heading when you offered me a ride?” I notice my pack lying on the back seat and twist around to unzip the front compartment. He doesn’t make any move to stop me.
I take out the postcard and show him the picture on the front. “That’s Red River Bridge. My mom told me it was the most beautiful place she’d ever been. She promised she’d take me there someday, before she left.” I stumble over the word “left”; the way he looks at me makes it clear we both know that’s not what happened. “I was trying to get there. So I could jump.”
He frowns.
“If you let me go, I’m still going to jump.”
Those are my choices: take my own life, or let this man murder me in the hopes he’ll do the same to my father when he’s finished. Neither of them is a good choice, but at least one means that motherfucker willfinally get what’s coming to him. And that’ll give me some bone-deep satisfaction on the way out.
When it becomes clear I won’t be reneging on my offer, the man turns the key in the ignition, and his headlights slice through the woods. He grabs hold of the stick shift and drops the car into reverse before making a U-turn. Through the passenger window, the blue light twinkles in the distance.
He presses the gas pedal and off we go. Back to the shack, back to whatever he wants to do with me there. I try to ignore the terror churning in my stomach.
He steers the car up a narrow road. Another light appears in the distance, warm and welcoming. It’s a cabin, a lantern casting its doorway in an easy summer glow. He parks the car in the driveway, opens the driver’s-side door, and starts toward the front porch. Is this his home? Is this where he’s decided he’ll kill me?
I look around—at the cabin, at the woods. This is probably better than Red River Bridge. All fresh, clean air and the sharp scent of pine. This is good. This is really good.
I don’t realize I’m crying until the cabin goes blurry in front of me.
He leans against the railing. “Are you coming?”
I try to pull the latch on the passenger-side door, but my fingers are shaking too hard. God, I’m scared. I am so fucking scared. I think of that GED brochure, stuffed into the garbage, and wonder, just for a moment, what my life could’ve been like if I’d caught a single break. I imagine myself in a polyester cap and gown, the entire world stretching out before me.Oh, the places you’ll go. Resting my forehead against the window, I breathe deeply. The condensation on the glass chills my skin.
“I’m not going to kill you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“It’s no good if you want to die.” He gestures to the cabin behind him. “So why don’t you come inside and stay awhile?”
Hope flares in my chest, but it’s snuffed out with a sudden certainty. This is a trap. Not one like the emergency call box, but one I’m more familiar with: the home trap. This is no different from the foster families who welcomed me in, then threw me out just as quickly when they realized how dangerous my dad was.
Except, for this man, my dad’s not that dangerous.
There are still so many things that could go wrong here. He could kill my father and then, just when I’m finally free to do what I want with my life, snatch it away from me. As he said, “It’s no good if you want to die.” His solution could be to give me something to live for, then kill me right when it will hurt the most.
But that doesn’t change my situation right now. That blue Ford Taurus followed us down the highway; sooner or later, my dad will come for me. I can either be on my own when that happens, afraid and defenseless, or I can team up with this fucking maniac and stand a chance of getting out alive. Whatever he plans to do with me later, well, that’s later-Steffani’s problem.
Now-Steffani has enough on her plate.
I pull the latch and slide out of the car. My knees wobble, threatening to buckle with every step. “I was telling you the truth about my dad. He’ll find us.” I stop at the bottom of the stairs and gaze up at him. “Will you be able to kill him when he does?”
The man smiles. On the left side, next to the incisors, his teeth are pointed, like little hooks sticking out of the gums.
“Yes.”
A shadow shifts in the front window of the cabin, a slash of movement reflected between the trees. I spin around, expecting to find my dad standing behind me, but no one’s there. When I turn back to the man, his head is cocked to the side, like he’s confused. He’s never been frightened, I’ll bet; he’s always been able to fight back.
And now that I’m with someone who can fight back, maybe I don’t have to be frightened, either.
Those little hook-teeth on the left side of his mouth remind me of a pit bull who lived down the street from us when I was little. “Don’t get too close,” my mom would warn me, keeping a tight grip on my wrist whenever we walked by. The dog would follow us from behind the wire fence, slobbering on the dirt, tongue poking out from between his hooked canines. “He might look harmless, but you won’t know for sure until it’s too late.”
I thought this man was harmless when I got into his car. What are the chances my dad will assume the same—until it’s too late?
“Good,” I say.
His smile widens.
I follow him into the house.
