“If she does, I’ll deal with it.”
Despite the confidence she’s trying to project, Greer looks like she’s feeling the weight of Steffani’s disappearance just as much as the other club members. Does she actually think that Steffani might divulge their identities to the press, maybe as an act of revenge against Greer for refusing to investigate her father?
The remnants of the night air are just beginning to dissipate, and we can still see the faintest smoke of our breaths. “Come on,” Imogen says, a canvas tote swinging by her side. “No use worrying.” But Ros doesn’t seem to relax; if anything, her shoulders draw up even higher.
Greer turns to me. “I’m going to follow the tire tracks, see if I can figure out where they were headed. If you want to hang out here, we can walk to the morning activity together.”
Zach seemed agitated last night. If he was high, that could explain the paranoia: his insistence that Greer couldn’t be trusted, the way he kept looking over my shoulder. Add in the stress of his father’s execution, and he might’ve blown through his pills faster than usual. Drug addicts act impulsively, right? It’s not like he would’ve left a message letting us know where he’d gone, when he’d be back. He would’ve just jumped in the car and left.
It all makes complete and perfect sense. So, why do I still feel like it doesn’t?
The club members amble down a narrow hiking trail. “Actually,” I say, “if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll walk with the others.” Maybethey’re aware of other reasons why he might’ve taken off in the middle of the night. I’m his friend; it’s my duty to discover what happened, to make sure he’s all right.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I could swear Greer looks disappointed before schooling her expression into something more neutral. “Yeah, sure. I’ll catch up with you later.”
As I follow the others into the woods, my memory draws me back twenty years, to the morning I discovered Claire missing from her bed, her jacket still hanging on the door peg, her phone charging on the bedside table.
My dad told me she’d probably just gone into town, too.
16STEFFANI
I sneak a glance at the man for the thousandth time since we started driving. It’s impossible not to. He’s like an actor from one of those classic movies my mom used to watch—a rebel without a cause or a wild boy of the road: hair slicked back, dark and sleek as the hood of his car, eyes that remind me of a thunderstorm rolling in from the west. Something crackles and fizzes in the backs of them.
He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Are you hungry? You look like you’ve been on the road a while.” It’s his turn to glance at me, and I’m painfully aware of the grime coating the hems of my jeans and my ratty T-shirt with a hole under the left breast. I want to lift my arm and subtly sniff the fabric there, but he’s watching, which would make that gross. I’ll bet I smell, though. Ifeellike I smell.
I wave him off. “I’m fine.” But he pulls off, anyway, at the next exit, where a glowing neon sign marks a McDonald’s. “I can’t pay you,” I tell him, which sucks because never have I wanted two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun more.
“It’s on me.”
He pulls up to the drive-thru window.
“You’re already giving me a lift—”
“And in exchange, you’re keeping me company.”
I’ve been doing a crappy job of keeping him company. But then I wonder if “keeping me company” could be a euphemism. Maybe he’ll be checking outmytwo all-beef patties, while I’m samplinghisspecial sauce. (Ew. Steff. You’re disgusting. Also, your patties are more like White Castle sliders—lean wartime rations here, folks.) He rolls down the window and leans out to talk into the microphone.
“Thanks for choosing McDonald’s. How may we help you?”
He swivels around. “What do you want?”
I don’t want to be greedy, but at the same time, if he’s paying… “Big Mac. Large fries. Large chocolate shake.”
He smiles again. If his eyes are a thunderstorm, thenfuck me, that smile is a crack of lightning. He turns back to the microphone, repeats my order, and adds his own small vanilla shake. I remember a passage from a book my foster mom kept around about how men like women who slam down fast food as long as they don’t gain weight. That’s me. I shovel all kinds of shit into my mouth and still look like a whippet on crack: tight stomach, flat ass, nips-only chest.
I take a quick peek at myself in the rearview mirror. Greasy. Blotchy. The tip of my nose angry-red, chapped skin peeling off the nostrils.Hot, Steff. Super bangable.
That’s when I notice the blue Ford Taurus pulling into the drive-thru behind us.
My heart stutters.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine.”
It’s fine, I remind myself.You’re fine. Not every blue Ford Taurus on the road belongs to the psychotic motherfucker hunting you down. Ford Tauruses are popular, the best-selling car of the mid-nineties, which means there are still a lot of them out there. You’re fine. We pull around tothe front window, where he passes his money to the cashier. As she fiddles around in the register drawer, making change, I wait for the Ford Taurus to round the corner.
Slowly, it rolls into my field of vision.
