Page 11

nine

Hair Dye and Cigarette Guy

Noah

" T here's supposed to be a small gas station off this exit—one without cameras. It's on the list," Tate says.

I don't know how long it's been—I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it's still dark, and from what I can tell, we're the only car on this mountain highway, wherever it is.

And since I don't want to be awake, I close my eyes again.

"How's her arm?" Silas asks.

"It's fine. The bullet really did just graze her. It looks like a deep scratch."

"We should have left her at the house. I wasn't thinking about it at the time. I was…high on the kill."

"Yeah, you killed her mom and made her eat her dad," Tate says. "Maybe she'll finally hate you as much as she hates me now."

"Probably not," Silas says.

Tate laughs. "Yeah, you're right. Probably not. I couldn't leave her, though. "

"Well, if we're taking her with us, that changes things. We'll have to make new arrangements."

"We're not taking her. I'm killing her—you know that."

"She's a part of us. We can't—"

"You're right. She can't come with us, and she's a part of us, so I have to. How are we supposed to start a new life if there's a part of us, like an arm or a leg, in Oregon?" Tate asks.

"You're making this worse for me," Silas says. "You realize that, right? Why don't I just pull over, and you can do it right now?"

"I'm not going to do that," Tate says. He pulls me tighter, resting his chin on top of my head and stroking my hair. "Her own mother just tried to kill her; I don't want her to be scared anymore. I'll do it when we get to the first house—nicely, while she's sleeping. I'll dig a hole in the backyard, in the woods. It'll be respectful, not like what we did with the others at the house."

"Damn it, Tate! I—"

"Shhh! She's sleeping. If you wake her up, she's just going to hurt again."

I am. I am hurting again.

"I love her. I would have had no problem loving her out loud."

"Well, you didn't, did you? How many times did you sit in your car outside that house at night without ever going to the door? You didn't even try."

"You followed me? "

I feel Tate shrug. "I thought you were still seeing each other and lying to me about it. But you were just sitting there—you never went in."

"I thought that was what she wanted, and I thought she was going to be happy."

"Are we really going to spend another two months fighting about Noah again? Huh? You agreed to this. She didn't have to be at that house with them. We can't take her with us, and we can't let her go. At this point, they'll arrest her as an accomplice, anyway. She doesn't have a life to go back to. She's the fox, Silas; I'm only putting her out of her misery."

Silas relents, like I did a while ago. Tate is right about that, too, though. I was Mia's friend. We have a past, and I was seen with them at the carnival; I let them into my house on camera. I left with them on camera, too, willingly.

I do look like an accomplice.

I cut off Paul's hand. If Silas hadn't sliced him open, he still would have bled out and died from that injury. Maybe I am an accomplice.

If I live long enough for the shock to wear off, I'm going to have a nervous fucking breakdown.

Silas pulls up into the parking lot of a small mountain gas station, parking next to one of only two pumps, and turns off the car.

"Hopefully, there's a bathroom. I'm gonna grab some food, too. You want me to get you anything while I'm in there?" Tate asks.

"Maybe an energy drink," Silas says. "Keep your head down, though. Put fifty on the pump. "

"I know," Tate says.

He opens the door before sliding out from under me, and I keep my eyes closed, still pretending to sleep while I adjust to his absence, resting my head on the center console.

Silas gets out next, waiting beside the pump until he can begin refueling, and then sits in the driver's seat with the door open.

"I'm sorry, Noah," he says, leaning down and kissing the top of my head. "You're so pretty and so sweet, and I'm so sorry. You know how he is, though. Please don't hate me for it."

Yeah, I know how he is. He's a master fucking manipulator. He wouldn't be able to convince me to let him kill Silas, though. I don't think…

"Fuck. I should have told him to get you some Skittles." Silas sighs. "I'm just going to go get you some Skittles, sweetheart. I'll be right back."

He exits the vehicle, closing the door behind him, and my heart stops. My eyes shoot open, and I watch him disappear inside the building.

They left me alone.

This is it, I think. If there is any part of me that still wants to live—if I have any survival instinct left in me at all—I need to get up and run.

My body says no, but I do it anyway, moving in that too-heavy way I've moved in for weeks now. I open the door with my good arm, stumble out of the vehicle, and then limp across the parking lot and into the woods with no plan.

I don't make it very far—maybe I'm past the tree line for a couple of minutes before I hear Tate calling my name .

"Noah!"

My heart stops. I drop onto my knees and crawl under what I think is a blackberry bush and lie alongside a fallen log.

"Noah!" he screams louder this time, their footsteps coming closer and closer. "This is your fault! Why did you leave her alone?"

"She was sleeping! And there's nowhere for her to go—"

"Noah! Come back!" Tate shouts. "You'll die out here, Noah. You have to come with us."

"Tate…" Silas says. "We can't do this. We can't be out here screaming in the woods; we don't have time to waste like this. We need to go."

"I can't!"

"Tate…we need to go, or we're going to get caught. We don't have much time left until the sun comes up, and we don't even know if she went this way. She could have gone in the other direction; she could be running down the road right now. Someone might have even picked her up. We can't do this."

"You did this on purpose," Tate says, his voice cracking.

"I didn't."

"Noah!"

And then, I see him—maybe fifteen feet away. If he looked—really looked—he could see me, too.

"Noah, please come back! I promise I won't hurt you! I'll take care of you if you come back!"

He waits for a moment, scanning the area, his breath coming short and heavy .

He's crying. I realize he's crying, and then I have to cover my own nose and mouth with my hands so he doesn't hear me crying, too.

"Noah!" Tate screams. "Fuck!" He kicks at the ground and tears at his hair. "Goddamn it! Why the…how…" He drops to his knees, sobbing, and wipes snot from his nose with the back of his hand. "Noah, please!"

"Tate, someone is going to come back here, or they're going to call the police."

"You can't leave us, Noah! I know you—no one else will know you. Please, don't do this!"

"Tate!" Silas shouts, pulling him back up by his hoodie. "We have to fucking go. We'll get in the car, and maybe we'll see her, right? Maybe she'll be on the road. That's what I'd do if I were her."

"It's not what Noah would do. I already lost my twin—I can't do this again. I can't just leave part of my body here. Noah, please! Don't do this to me again!"

He's lying , I think. He'll kill me. He said he has to—there's no other choice.

"Tate!" Silas says firmly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pressing his forehead to his. "We have. To go. Now!"

"Fine!" Tate shouts. "Fine! If you want to die out here alone, Noah, go ahead! But I'm mad at you! And you will always belong to us! If you live, I'll kill you!"

"Nice," Silas says. "Real nice. That'll do it."

"Fuck you! "

Tate tries shoving him, but the attempt is futile. Silas grabs him by the shoulders, immobilizing him, and then pulls him into his chest instead.

"I'm sorry, Tate," Silas says. "I know you're disappointed, but we really do have to go. We've already stayed here way too long. The roads are going to get busier, they'll find the bodies, and we have to go, okay?"

Tate nods, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Yeah. Fine. Let's go."

And then, they turn to leave.

They're actually leaving me. I actually got away. I fight the urge to run after them with every remaining mangled fiber of my being, burying another sob in the back of my throat, tears streaming from my eyes and into my ears while looking up at the stars.

I hear Silas's car start, and then tires against gravel before they pull out onto the highway, and they're gone.

I stay like that for a while, looking up, waiting for something—for some power greater than me that I've never let myself believe in to give me some kind of sign, some sort of divine guidance on what the hell I'm supposed to do now.

Because they're right. I can't go home, and I wouldn't want to. No matter what happens next, Noah Barlowe is dead.

Eventually, when I get no answer, I pick myself up off the forest floor, dust off my clothes, and head toward the gas station.

I know how I look—barefoot in dirty, torn jeans; only one sleeve on my sweatshirt and a bloody arm. That's why I'm relieved when I get to the edge of the parking lot and the gas station attendant walks out with another customer, carrying fuel containers in each hand.

When I'm sure they aren't looking, I dart into the building, which is much bigger than it looks from the outside. And inside, it smells like hot dogs, and I know I'm starving, but I throw up in my mouth a little. The idea of eating something…of forcing something down my esophagus after…what happened in the house is just…

It's something I don't want to revisit quite yet.

I refocus my attention, scanning the store for something—anything I can wear. I spot a small clothing rack in the corner and head in that direction, indiscriminately snatching a pair of flannel pajama pants and a black long-sleeved shirt that says The Evergreen State beneath an outline of Washington. Judging by the material and the dated graphics, it's likely they've been here for a decade.

So, that's where I must be—this must be Washington.

Glancing through the front window, I see the attendant heading back to the store. Hurriedly, I take the clothing and head toward the bathroom, stopping in my tracks when I come across a display of hair color.

These also look like they've been here forever. The white boxes look faded and water damaged, and the women in the photos on the front have hairstyles similar to something you'd find in a nineties movie. I grab one—a very red one—and just manage to close the bathroom door before the attendant returns.

After locking the door behind me, I change my clothes, stuffing my own into the garbage and covering them with paper towels. The directions on the back of the hair color box seem pretty simple—mix it, paint it on, wait twenty minutes. I slip on the plastic gloves and get started, unsure of how I'll keep time and nervous someone will bang on the door soon, but I assure myself I'll be fine. This place isn't busy, and women don't come into places like this at night.

I find a way to keep time—playing a few of my favorite songs in my head while I sit on the toilet, hugging my knees to my chest. And when I finish the last one, and I'm sure it's been twenty minutes, I rinse it out in the sink using soap from the dispenser.

It takes a while—a really long while. The gas station sink doesn't have nearly enough water pressure to sufficiently tackle the task. And once I feel like I've done the best I can do, I reluctantly meet my reflection in the mirror.

Well, it's definitely red. Time will tell how red it is once it dries.

I wring out the excess water and hair color with paper towels, and then unlock the door. My heart pounds in my ears as I step out into the hallway. A convex mirror shows the attendant sitting on a chair behind the counter, reading a magazine.

I tiptoe through the back of the store, crossing my arms in front of my body and keeping my head down. He doesn't look up—not until I'm already walking out the door, passing a middle-aged man in a trucker hat on my way out.

"Morning," he says, greeting the attendant. "Can I get a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter? And do you have a newspaper? "

I hold my breath until I'm out of sight, letting it go once I'm hidden behind a red pickup truck parked in front, likely belonging to Cigarette Guy.

And then, I make a split-second decision—I step up on the wheel and climb into the back, lying beside the truck cab, making myself as small as possible.

I hear the door only moments later, and Cigarette Guy jumps into the vehicle.

He pulls back onto the state highway, the sun rising in the distance. I watch, reveling at its audacity, until my eyelids grow heavy.

That's how you look to me—like sunshine.

But inside, all I feel is a dark, bleak nothingness. There is no sunshine, and I know that. Not now, and never again.

When my eyes open again, the truck isn't moving. The late summer sun hangs high in the sky, so hours must have passed since we left the gas station. I climb out, careful not to put weight on my injured ankle, and observe my surroundings, cradling my bloody arm against my chest.

It looks like we're still in the Cascades. Dense forest, a small highway. The parking lot belongs to a roadside café.

There are a few more buildings on the stretch of road—a salon, a car repair shop, a couple of stores and restaurants. Across the street, a mother pushes a toddler in a stroller while the man with her walks a small dog, absentmindedly scrolling his phone.

It reminds me of the place where I grew up, but sleepy instead of stagnant and depressed.

Gravel digs into the soles of my bare feet as I walk around the side of the café, peering through the large picture windows. Cigarette Guy reads his newspaper, sipping a coffee in a corner booth. Aside from him, there are a handful of people in the dining room—one family and two other men, both dining alone.

A bell rings when I pull the door open with my good arm and step inside. A woman with long, grey hair looks at me from behind the counter. "Can I help you, sweetheart?" she asks with a slight southern drawl.

"Can—" I pause, my throat too dry or the trauma too raw to get the words out. Swallowing, I try again. "Can I use the bathroom, please?"

"Sure," she says. "It's right back there."

"Thanks."

I keep my gaze fixed on the floor until I'm inside the women's restroom. After I use the toilet, I wash my hands and then use them to catch water to drink from the faucet. I do the thing where I avoid looking into the mirror, knowing I won't like what I see, but then my eyes catch a flash of red, and I can't resist.

My hair is red. Orange-red. As someone who's never dyed her hair and hasn't really had a different hairstyle since middle school when I let Mia talk me into getting a perm, it's…shocking .

But with my green eyes and pale freckled skin, it isn't unbelievable.

It dried clumpy, though—like I didn't wash out all the hair color. Using my good arm, I run my fingers through it, attempting to separate and comb it out, but it doesn't work well, and I give up.

Next, I decide to take a look at that bullet wound, but when I attempt to pull the arm from my shirt sleeve, the pain is too much and I recoil, clutching it against my chest again.

My hand feels wet, and when I pull it away, it's coated in blood.

From where my mom shot me.

I close my eyes, gripping the side of the sink with that bloody hand, and I'm back in the living room on the floor beside Paul's mutilated body, and Silas is stabbing my mother, only in my head, it doesn't stop. It keeps going. Over and over…and over.

The room starts spinning. I can't breathe. As my vision blurs, I sink down onto the dirty tile floor.

"Are you okay?"

When I look up, the woman from behind the counter is in the small space beside me.

"Yes," I lie. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm so sorry—I'll get out of here."

I pull myself up, yelping when I accidentally shift my weight onto my injured ankle.

The woman looks me over, from my bare feet to my injured arm and then back up to my face. "Do you know where you're going?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Do you know where you are? "

"No."

"This town is called Winter Falls. You're in Northern Washington. You running from somebody?"

"What? N-no. I'm not—"

"Did a boyfriend do this to you?"

My lip quivers, my eyes fill with tears, and before I can stop myself, I start to cry.

"Shh," the woman says, wrapping her arms around me. "It's all right. You got anyone you can go to? Anyone we can call?"

I shake my head. "He's going to kill me," I cry.

"No one's going to kill you," she says. "You're okay now. Come on out here; when was the last time you ate?"

When was the last time I…no.

"We've got fresh cherry pie," she adds.

Soft, cooked cherries in thick, congealed pie filling. My stomach retches at the thought.

"I'm not hungry right now," I tell her. "But if I could just rest somewhere, I would appreciate it."

"Can you make it up a staircase on that ankle of yours?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah."

"All right, come on," she says, and I follow her out of the bathroom. "I'm Jodie, by the way. I own this place and the house behind it. There's an apartment over my garage that's empty right now—tenant broke the lease. You can rest there. What's your name?"

"Um—"

"Make it good. You only get to pick once. "

"Delilah," I say, giving her the name from the fake ID Silas and Tate made for me last year.

"It's a lot," Jodie says, holding the front door for me. "Can I call you Lilah?"

"Yeah, Lilah's fine."

I follow her through the parking lot and toward the white farmhouse-style home, which must belong to her. To its left sits a separate two-car garage that appears to have been converted from a barn, and behind that is a wooden staircase leading to a single red door.

I follow her up those stairs and then through that door to a sparsely furnished studio apartment. There's a bed, a dresser, and a kitchenette with a microwave and stovetop. A chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, refracting sunlight from the only window into intricate patterns on the white walls.

"It's nice." I cross the room and sit on the bed.

"Thank you. I built this place for my daughter after she graduated so she could have some privacy. She moved away about ten years ago and died in a car accident a couple of years after that."

"I'm so sorry—"

"It gets hot up here in the afternoon," Jodie says, ignoring my attempt at sympathy. "You can open the window if you want. The bathroom is just through there, and that's the entire tour. There's nothing in the fridge, but there's running water and there should be some ice in the freezer. When you get hungry, just come down to the café, and we'll get you something to eat."

"I don't have any money. "

"I'm not asking you for money, sweetheart—not now, anyway. But when you're feeling better, if you want to stay for a little while—just until you get back on your feet—you're going to have to work it off, and we could use the help down there. Have you ever waited tables before?"

"No."

"Well, you'll figure it out. How'd you get here, anyway?"

"Um, someone gave me a ride…but he didn't know that he gave me a ride."

"Stowaway. Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask.

She pauses, pursing her lips as if thinking it over before she pulls down the collar of her shirt, revealing a scar stretching from one side of her neck to the other, like her throat had been slit.

"See this?"

I nod.

"Husband did it to me thirty years ago. I know what it's like to run for your life from a man. I'll lock the door, okay?"

"Okay."

She leaves, closing the door. I watch the deadbolt turn behind her and finally breathe, relieved to be alive, yet alone and terrified of what comes next.