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A few seconds later I heard the car start, then turn around on the road. I changed course, leaving the shoulder of the road and running through the trees. It was dark in here, and I ducked to avoid the low branches that were only shadows, hoping I wouldn’t trip and fall. I tried to keep my footsteps quiet as Trish’s car pulled to the side of the road again.
When I heard the car door open and Trish get out, I slowed my pace. I was far into the trees now, hopefully hidden in the dark, and I didn’t want her to hear me. My breath was sawing in my chest, and I silently gasped for air, feeling a cramp low in my stomach. I could see the opening through the trees, far to my right, where the road was. I could see the glare of headlights.
Would she come after me? I couldn’t think of her as Trish now; I had to think of her as the Lost Girl, because that was who she was. And if the Lost Girl wanted me dead, I had to think she wouldn’t give up. She would find me.
I wasn’t safe hiding in the trees, waiting for her to go away. Even if I could find a good hiding spot in the dark, I still wouldn’t be safe. Now that Trish had a weapon, I had to assume she was carrying it. I took the jackknife from my back pocket and unfolded it, pausing to listen for footsteps.
“Hello?” Trish’s voice came from the road. “What happened? Where did you go? Are you okay?”
A lie, or was that really Trish? Had the Lost Girl let her come back for a moment, long enough to trick me into showing myself?
I hesitated, not sure which way to go. And then I turned and saw that a man was standing next to me.
He was young—twenty, maybe. He was wearing worn jeans with a hole in one knee and a jean jacket. On the lapel of the jean jacket were pinned buttons, the round, plastic kind that had graphics or sayings on them. One was dark blue, with the words May the Force Be With You in yellow letters. The other was a Union Jack with the words Punk’s Not Dead over it. The man’s hair was blond and tousled, and he was so close that if he had been alive, I would have been able to hear him breathe.
“Carter Friesen,” I whispered.
He didn’t seem to hear me. He didn’t speak. He turned away, walking into the shadows, and then he was gone.
I wanted to follow him, to find him again, but it wasn’t possible. Carter Friesen was gone; he’d been dead since 1991, when he’d been stabbed on the side of Atticus Line, maybe where I was right now. Maybe he’d tried to run. Maybe he’d almost gotten away. But he’d died anyway.
Who had his killer been? Someone with a slack expression and black eyes. Someone who, I realized now, hadn’t known what they were doing. Someone who had no urge to be a killer, who maybe didn’t even remember doing it. Which was why they had never been caught.
Damn it. Why had I come all this way? Why had I sought out the Lost Girl, just to lose my nerve? I wasn’t going to run.
Instead, I circled through the trees, making my way slowly toward the road again. Trish’s car was still there, the lights on, but I didn’t hear her voice again. Had she left the road, looking for me? Or was she still there, waiting for me to show myself?
I was still holding the knife, though my hand was slick with cold sweat. I was behind the car, and I couldn’t see anything moving, though the car was running and the headlights were on. My sneakers crunched the gravel at the side of the road.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice a croak.
Nothing moved, and I heard no sound. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the road. Trish was nowhere to be seen.
I walked slowly to the middle of Atticus Line, giving the car a wide berth. “She’s got you,” I said, louder now. “This is what she does, Trish. She takes innocent people and makes them killers. She’s making you do something you don’t want to do. Don’t let her.”
Still nothing. I turned in a circle, looking all around me, but the shadows didn’t move. I didn’t hear a footstep.
“Shannon?” I called out into the darkness. “Is that who you are? You lived in Midland. You wore a jacket from Midland High. You had a son.” The wind kicked up, making the sweat on my neck prickle. “Carla was your friend,” I shouted. “She still thinks about you. She looked for you, put a notice in the paper. She wonders where you are.”
I walked toward the front of the car, keeping a distance from it. As always, there were no other cars on Atticus Line. This place was wrong and dead. It was the worst road in America. It deserved to be destroyed and plowed under, replaced with an ugly freeway. I was sure that there were more bodies here, left in the woods and never found. Atticus Line was that kind of place.
I had no idea how Eddie and I had come here. Eddie was driving, and I’d dozed off, and when I opened my eyes, we were—
I froze, and this time I didn’t know whether the chill at my back was the ghost or whether it was me.
I thought I was going the right way, Eddie had told the police. But as Quentin had pointed out, there was no sign, and he wasn’t using the map. Why had he ended up on Atticus Line, thinking he was going the right way?
“Shannon?” I shouted.
You were going the wrong direction, Mr.Carter. Quentin’s voice in my head.
And then, Eddie: I know this place.
He didn’t, though. He didn’t know this place at all.
Shannon did.
“Shannon, what did you do?” I cried. “How did you get us here? Why?”
