Page 7 of The Perfect Hosts

“We’ve got you,” the EMT says soothingly.

One of Mellie’s arms flails, striking her in the cheek. Poor girl, Madeline thinks, she must be terrified and in unimaginable pain. “It’s going to be okay,” Madeline says as she reaches for Mellie’s hand. Her fingers are cold and trembling. “Here, squeeze my hand,” Madeline urges. “The pain medication should kick in soon, and you’ll start feeling better.” Madeline has no idea if this is true, but this potential lie seems like the kindest thing to say. To the EMT, Madeline says, “Please hurry. She’s pregnant too.”

Mellie turns her head, making eye contact with Madeline for the first time. Her gaze is cloudy, unfocused. “It’s going to be okay,” Madeline says again. “Just breathe.”

Mellie nods, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and exhales but is overtaken by the pain and lets out another cry.

“Go!” the EMT shouts to the driver, and the ambulance begins to move and the siren wails.

“Mom!” Mellie cries. “Oh, please. I want my mom.” Her grip on Madeline’s hand tightens.

“They’ll call her,” Madeline assures her. “We’ll get to the hospital, and someone will call her for you.”

Mellie shakes her head, finds Madeline’s eyes again. They are filled with despair. “They can’t.” Mellie licks her dry lips.

“Your mom died?” Madeline asks, and the girl nods.

“When I was little,” she says.

Something they have in common. They are both motherless, Madeline having lost hers when she was sixteen. She knows this kind of hurt.

Another contraction roils through Madeline and she grimaces, but her pain is nothing compared to the girl next to her, so she stifles her cry. Something she’s perfected over the years. “Look at me,” Madeline manages to say once the contraction passes. “Your name is Mellie, right?” The young woman nods, her frightened eyes pinned on Madeline. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine,” Madeline says, knowing that she has no business making these kinds of promises. Johanna is dead. Her best friend is dead.

Chapter 3

Lucy

Lucy Quaid silences her phone, tosses it on the seat next to her, and turns on the radio. Her ex has been trying to call her for the past four days, most likely wanting to know what happened to his truck and trailer. It’s a happy accident that his handgun is tucked behind a wad of convenience store napkins in the glove box. To be fair, Lucy did leave him a note.Borrowed your truck. There’s something I have to take care of. Call you later.Obviously, he wants further explanation.

A ’70s rock station plays on the radio, the only one she can find that doesn’t hum with static. The sun is dipping behind the mountains, tossing a kaleidoscope of orange and pink and blue into the sky. She hangs a sharp right, and the truck and horse trailer rocks down a pitted gravel road. Then she presses down on the accelerator. The rear tires fishtail on the loose stones, but Lucy cajoles the truck to go faster. The road disappears in a cloud of gray dust, making it impossible for her to see the path in front of her.

She’s been driving aimlessly for hours trying to figure out her next steps and is hungry and tired and, if she is being honest, lonely. Time to find something to eat and drink, and if she’s lucky maybe a handsome stranger. Lucy floors it, and the steering wheel rattles beneath her fingers. An ominousgroaning noise comes from the engine, and the rusty frame shakes beneath her ass. She dares to take her hand off the wheel and cranks the radio as loud as it can go, filling the cab with an old song by The Kinks, a band her father loved. Something Lucy always thought was funny for a straight-arrow, no-nonsense tough guy. Go figure.

Ahead, Lucy spots a flash of yellow through the swirling dust and she lifts her foot from the accelerator and stomps on the brakes, but the truck’s bald tires can’t gain purchase on the road. It careens from one side of the road to the other, dipping into a ditch and then bouncing out, coming to a teeth-rattling stop. She squeezes her eyes shut and prepares for a collision, but nothing comes.

“Jesus,” Lucy says, trying to catch her breath, her heart thumping in time to the music. She snaps off the radio and peers through the windshield. The dust starts to settle and an eerie quiet falls. There is nothing. No other cars, no homes, just the mountains and a wide expanse of shadowed field tucked behind barbed wire and the evening sky.

What had she seen? Clearly not another vehicle. An animal? Or maybe nothing at all. Then she sees it crouched among the overgrown grasses, its golden eyes, its shape clearly feline. A mountain lion. She gasps in surprise. Nearly laughs. When her pulse steadies, she cautiously makes a three-point turn and rolls slowly forward, the gravel crunching like popcorn beneath the tires. She finds her way back to the highway and heads west. She’ll get a drink, and then she’s going to finish some unsettled business.

Twenty minutes later, Lucy pulls into a small parking lot with weeds poking up through the cracked concrete. Rick’s Tavern is a squat brick building that was once a filling station. Nobody bothered to remove the pumps and the price per gallon is frozen at thirty cents. Lucy parks in the half-filled lot, stepsfrom the truck, and moves toward the bar, pushing through the door, momentarily blinded by the dim interior. Patsy Cline is on the jukebox.

Next to the jukebox, a woman hunched over a half-empty glass of whiskey snaps her head up and gives Lucy a searing look. Lucy ignores her and settles onto a stool at the bar.

The place is a dive, but Lucy likes the vibe. The low lights, the overly salted popcorn, the hoppy scent of cheap beer. She has even come to appreciate the herd of stuffed jackalopes mounted on the walls. She orders a shot from the sleepy-eyed bartender and downs it, the amber liquid burning her throat. She signals for a second round. The song ends and then begins again. “Really?” Lucy asks loudly. “This song again?” She throws back the shot—this one goes down much easier—and she waits for the limb-loosening effects she’s come to appreciate. When it comes, Lucy switches to beer. Again, Patsy starts singing about being crazy. “For Christ’s sake,” Lucy calls out. “Someone take the quarters away from her.”

“You know if you keep giving Maggie a hard time, you’re going to get thrown out of here,” a man says, sidling up next to her.

Lucy lifts the frosty mug the bartender slides across the bar and takes a drink before answering. She has to play it cool. She’s been waiting patiently for him to approach her, and here he finally is. “I like Patsy as much as the next person, but I don’t know, maybe Taylor would be a good change of pace.”

The man laughs. “I didn’t peg you for a Swiftie,” he says, looking her up and down. Lucy may be wearing her old Levi’s and a black tank top, her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, but she knows she still looks pretty good.

“I’m still in myRedphase,” she answers lightly. “2021Red,not 2012.”

“Obviously,” the man says, signaling the bartender and pointing at Lucy’s beer, indicating that he wants two more.He is handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered with flinty gray eyes and a cowboy’s swagger. Probably a little too young for her, Lucy guesses.

“I’m Trent,” he says, sitting down beside her. She considers responding with a fake name but thinks better of it. It will be easier if she keeps to the truth as much as possible.

“Lucy,” she says, raising her mug. “Nice to meet you, Trent.”