Page 13

TODAY’S MY DAY OFF, and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I’ve taken my phone out a dozen times, fingers hovering over Mom’s name, but I can’t bring myself to tap call. I know nothing I say can make it better. I’m afraid if I tell her how much Springdale feels like coming home—it would break a piece of her heart that would never heal.
The coffee maker beeps, and my flip-flops clack across the worn linoleum floor as I reach for my favorite chipped mug I received as a teacher’s gift my very first year from Bradley Jenkins.
Its heavy ceramic handle always felt sturdy in my hand, and it’s oversized; one cup is more like two. That boy had a mouthful of braces and copper hair that flopped over his face.
I’ll never forget that kid.
He had the goofiest grin and carried his favorite worn comic book with him everywhere. Last I heard, he was in Silicon Valley at some tech startup.
The kid did good.
I pour the coffee into my mug closing my eyes at the heavenly aroma wafting from it. I bring it to my lips, taking a tiny sip. It’s burning hot, but I needed that first taste of morning and it’s a beautiful one. On a whim, I pick up my phone and library book and take them outside. My feet practically hop down the steps to the back deck overlooking the grassy yard.
I fell in love with this place the second I clicked on it online. It’s cheap compared to Chicago, is on the outskirts of Springdale, and felt wild. Like if I took one step off the lawn, I’d fall into the mystical forest turning into the wood nymphs I used to read about.
I laugh out loud, why not take a stroll and find out if I would? Feeling silly, like the little girl I once was, I kick off my flip-flops, feel the dew on the bare feet, and smile. The steam from my mug rises in front of me, leading the way across the yard. The sounds of morning greet me. Birds chirping, leaves rustle in the wind, as my feet sink into the damp earth covered with grass as green as sparkling emeralds glittering in the morning sun.
A twig snaps and my eyes cut towards the sound expecting to see one of the many deer that venture out looking for the apples I’ve been sneaking from Roger’s kitchen.
A scream bubbles up from my throat, but never makes it out.
I’m walking straight towards him.
The man from the cemetery.
He’s standing just beyond the clearing, hiding behind the brush. I pretend not to see him and drop my hand in the grass pretending to pluck a wildflower. Turning around slowly, I pretend to drink my coffee.
Feeling afraid for the first time, I understand this MC stuff isn’t from a TV show. But is this actually happening in real life? I take my phone from my shorts and call Roger on his cell.
“What?” He asks sounding like he’s out of breath.
“Rog… he’s here. I can see him standing out in the woods looking at the house.”
“Toad still with you?”
“No. I don’t run on Saturdays.”
I feel his sharp intake of breath coming through the phone. He’s breathing hard. “Bolt your doors. I’m coming sugar. And stay the hell away from the windows in case he decides to start shooting.”
“Rog?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“D-don’t hang up. S-stay on the line with me?”
“It’s gonna be okay sweetheart. I won’t let that piece of slime get near ya’.”
I shriek hearing more twigs snap. He comes out of the woods standing in plain sight.
“What do you want with me?” I yell.
He doesn’t answer but smiles slowly. His eyes telling me everything I need to know. This sick fuck wants to hurt me.
Badly.
The mug falls from my hands, shattering on the cement walk as I run for the door.
“Dev?” Roger roars in my ear. But I can’t answer him. I’m running for my life.