“Nic,” he said, “you and me, we’re a team, aren’t we?”
Those hands… What else had they done?
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, we’re a team.”
“Good. That’s good.”
And then, he turned the key, the engine revving back to life, and steered us out onto the road. I’ve replayed that conversation countless times. Nothing unusual was said or done—certainly nothing that should’ve made me feel unsafe.
And yet, I had.
It’s hard to admit, even now, but sitting there, in the passenger seat of his truck, I was terrified. When he asked if we were a team, I felt certain that if I said anything other than yes, he would’ve asked me to walk to the creek with him, and I never would’ve returned. He must have known I’d found that necklace, that it was still in my possession, and that exchange was his way of making a promise: If I kept his secret, he would stop.
As the years passed, though, that memory was dismantled into simple words and actions, and the accompanying feelings receded. I convinced myself that they’d been irrational, a by-product of my emotional distress that summer. The necklace, tucked safely away in my desk drawer, meant nothing. My father was a good man.
All this time, I’d been telling myself that the media, the press, were rewriting my family’s story.
Really, I’d been the one doing it all along.
On the drive home, my car speeds past fence posts studding the fields; cardboard signs advertising fresh peaches, blueberries, and apples; barns festooned with political flags from the last election. The final lines of America’s “A Horse With No Name” dissolve into the DJ’s patter.
“—when we learned that Greer Woods, supposed daughter of infamous serial killer Tom Woods, was, in fact, one of his early victims.”
Her voice pipes through the speakers: “Tom Woods abducted me seventeen years ago. He locked me in the same shack where all his other victims were held captive, and when my three days were up, he planned on murdering me. Sheer luck prevented me from meeting the same fate as those other women.”
The announcer continues: “She also confessed to the murder of her biological father, Joseph Arnosti, a bounty hunter who had a number of abuse allegations filed against him. However, Tom Woods has since taken responsibility for that crime, claiming that she was confused about what happened that night. While this adds yet another charge to his sentence, Governor DeWitt has agreed to grant him life without parole following Greer Woods’s moving victim impact statement. Tom Woods provided the following remarks about these recent revelations.”
“I’m thankful to the governor for giving me this opportunity to make amends,” Woods says. This must’ve been recorded immediately after his hearing. He sounds unsure; gone is the magnetic confidence ofTo Catch a Killer’s leading man. “I would like to start with my—” He stops himself, takes a breath, restarts. “With Greer. I am proud of her for coming forward, and someday, I hope she can forgive me. Greer, please know that you are loved.”
I punch the dial, turn the radio off. I know how many years she invested into that reprieve, and I still don’t believe in capital punishment,but part of me wishes the governor had upheld the original sentence—that Tom Woods had been executed as planned. He won’t give her up easily; years from now, she’ll probably still be receiving letters from the prison. I know how much ignoring those will cost her.
I turn the corner to find an unfamiliar van parked in my driveway. Another news station jonesing for some footage, I think—until I realize someone’s waiting for me on the front step.
“Hey, Nic.”
She looks even more beautiful than when we parted ways in Washington. The freckles on her nose and cheeks, drawn out by the summer sun, are even darker. Black curls frizz slightly around her face. She’s wearing one of those gas station attendant button-ups with the shirttails knotted above her belly button. Embroidered on the pocket:GREER. The name Tom Woods gave her—now, the name she’s chosen for herself. A tribute to the young woman who, like her, made the choice to escape, even if it cost her her life.
“I thought you were doing the whole road trip thing,” I say.
That had been the plan. She was supposed to stay in Montana until Tom Woods’s fate was decided, then drive across the country in a rental car. She expected it would take a few months; what good’s a road trip if you aren’t stopping to see the sights? However, it’s only been a few days since the hearing.
She jumps to her feet. Her combat boots have been replaced with raggedy Keds. “Change of plans. I had to stop in New Jersey to pick this up.” She slaps the door of the van, and the aluminum rattles.
“That’s yours?”
She grins and unhooks the back door, opening it wide to reveal an actual apartment on wheels: a shiplap ceiling, decorative license plates screwed onto the walls, a couch with half a dozen throw pillows that looks like it extends into a full-sized bed.
“Come on in,” she says, climbing into the back.
As we shimmy past the built-ins, I can’t help imagining what life might be like on the road—waking up every morning to a different landscape, exploring out-of-the-way pockets of the country. As quickly as the thoughts appear, though, I elbow them back down. I would never begrudge her this solo trip, not after how long she spent chained to Tom Woods. Still—I draw my fingers across the butcher-block counter—it would be nice.
We stop in front of a window. “This is the best part.” She unhooks a wooden panel from the opposite wall and drags it down. It’s a work table—for cooking, maybe. But then she slides out a series of drawers that have been built into the side of the van:
Paints.
Markers.
Pencils.
