“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “She—she ran out?—”
“Where?”
He gestures blindly toward the back of the building.
“The woods—her dad—he wandered and she?—”
I was already turning away.
He was a useless human. Completely useless.
I head back toward my car, scanning the lot again, as if she might suddenly appear between the vehicles. I checked her location, and she was up on the bluff, not too far from here.
The thought of her driving into the woods, in this weather, had my pulse racing.
I do not like this. Not at all.
40
BELLE
Iknew where he was going. Even in the chaos with the rain blinding me and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest— I knew.
“Dad!” I shouted into the storm as I ran, but the wind ripped the sound away before it could carry.
He wasn’t heading toward the road. He wasn’t heading toward the lights. He was heading somewhere familiar and somewhere safe. The treehouse.
The realization hit me like lightning.
He built it for me when I was little. Spent weekends out there with scrap wood and stubborn determination until it stood crooked but solid, tucked just far enough into the trees to feel like a secret.
We had spent days there by the river, fishing lines tangled and eating sandwiches. We told stories like they mattered more than anything else in the world.
That was where he would go.
I fumbled with the door, hands slick from rain, and hauled myself inside. The engine roared as I slammed it into gear and peeled out of the lot, tires slipping before catching.
The narrow road behind the diner curved toward the tree line, barely visible under the storm. Water rushed across it in shallow streams, mud slicking the edges.
“Come on, come on—” I muttered, gripping the wheel.
The van fishtailed as I turned too sharply.
Correct.
Breathe.
Focus.
Another curve.
Too fast.
The tires lost traction.
“No—”
The van skidded sideways, hydroplaning just enough to send me off the edge of the road.
