Page 39 of The Missing Half

Chapter Thirty-eight

We lumber out of the driveway and the side of my head clatters against the truck bed. Wincing, I slip my arms out of my backpack and bunch it beneath my head for a pillow, but it’s flimsy padding, and the metal surface where I lie digs into my hip and shoulder. We turn right out of the driveway, then left. I try to keep track of the navigation, but within minutes, I’m already disoriented. Suddenly, we’re accelerating, the tarp whipping violently against my skin, and I know we’re on the highway.

I reach my hand into my backpack to pull out my phone. I open my maps app, and after a confused moment of zooming in and out, I see we’re heading south. Odd. McLean works north of Jenna’s place, so it would stand to reason he’d live north too. Then I remember the property his family owns in Kentucky. Is that where we’re going?

The minutes turn to hours.

My body is past the point of aching, my joints stiff and screaming. Every once in a while, I shift on the metal truck bed, and I can feel bruises blooming beneath my skin. My mouth grows dry and my head throbs from the constant bumps in the road. At some point we stop for gas, and I use the time Jenna’s inside the station to check my phone, but the GPS must have drained it, because it’s died.

It’s another few hours before we stop again, and this time, Jenna doesn’t get out of the truck. Slowly, I bring my hand to the edge of the tarp and pull it back. From my vantage point, all I can see is the evening sky and the tops of buildings. We’re in a commercial area, I think, somewhere with shops and restaurants, but I have no idea which state we’re in, let alone which city.

The minutes tick by.

What are we doing here? Why is Jenna not getting out of the truck? It feels as if ants are crawling beneath my skin I’m so desperate to move. Finally, mercifully, the engine turns on and we’re driving again. Twenty minutes later, Jenna is putting the truck in park and unbuckling her seatbelt. I hear the sound of a zipper, then a rustling. The truck door opens, her feet touch pavement, the door closes. Not a slam but a quiet snick.

I hold my breath as I imagine Jenna reaching toward the tarp and pulling it back to discover me beneath it. What are you doing here? she’d ask, eyes wide with shock. But that’s where the scene grinds to a halt. Because even after what feels like an entire day to sit with my thoughts, I don’t know how to answer that question. She is here to kill McLean—of that I have no doubt.

But am I here to stop her, or am I here to help?

—

To my surprise, Jenna doesn’t come around to the truck bed. Instead, her footsteps fade and then disappear. The quiet snaps me out of my rumination. I sit up and yank off the tarp.

It’s night now, the sky above me a velvety black. With the dim light of the moon, I can see that we’re pulled over on a country road. On one side is a sprawling field; on the other is a gravel drive leading to what appears to be a garage apartment. I look around, but I don’t see any more buildings. The closest neighbor is nowhere in sight. Is this where McLean brought our sisters, this isolated piece of land where no one could hear their screams?

Peering through the darkness, I can just make out Jenna’s figure walking across the yard, about forty feet from the road. My plan was to confront her once we got wherever we were going, but I can’t call out to her now without revealing both of us to McLean. I’ll have to follow her.

My body seizes with panic at the thought. What the hell am I doing here, in the middle of nowhere without a plan? Maybe I should just find the nearest gas station and ask them to call me a cab. I could do it. No one knows I’m here. But then I think of Jenna. I think of the money she took out for my bail and the rides she’s given me so I don’t bike home alone in the dark. I think of all the lies she told just to keep me safe, and I know I won’t abandon her—not now when she needs me most.

My mind flashes to the hammer tucked inside my backpack. The thought of using it as a weapon floods me with fear, but I’m not going to confront McLean unarmed. I unzip my bag, pull it out, then quietly crawl over the side of the truck.

As I step onto the gravel road, the yard near the garage apartment is suddenly bathed with light. I flinch, then quickly duck behind the truck bed. Peering over it, I see the source—an illuminated bulb on the side of the building. It’s clearly motion activated, because Jenna stands frozen in its beam. She’s wearing loose-fitting jeans and a gray T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail. Beside her is a wooden staircase leading to a door on the second level.

Jenna slips out of the beam of light. After a moment it goes off, and the yard is black again. I inch gingerly around the truck, the hammer heavy in my hand. As my eyes readjust to the dark, I can just make out Jenna stepping onto the staircase. I don’t want to startle her, but I can’t let her walk up to McLean’s door alone, so I plant my next footfall in synchronization with hers, the sound of her step masking my own. Slowly, I pick my way through the overgrown lawn, moving whenever she does.

Jenna is almost at the top landing by the time I make it to the garage door, carefully avoiding the spot where she activated the light. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, a loud knock reverberates through the night.

This is it.

McLean is about to answer the door, and I still don’t know what I’m planning to do. The idea of Jenna pulling the trigger, of McLean’s brains blowing out the back of his head like bloody confetti is so violent, I can’t wish that upon her even if I can wish it upon him. I can’t intervene now though; startling Jenna when she has a gun would be akin to suicide.

Before I can do anything, she knocks a second time. It’s louder now, urgent and angry. Yet again, there’s only silence. Maybe he’s not home. Maybe Jenna will turn around and I can confront her without the threat of McLean. We can go to the truck together and talk through what we want to do next.

But then a light turns on, washing Jenna in a white glow, and I hear it: the thunk of a deadbolt flipping, the door opening.

I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating the gunshot, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear someone say, “Can I help you?” and my body goes cold.

The voice is so familiar to me, I could pick it out of a lineup of a thousand. I just never thought I’d hear my sister speak ever again.