Page 122 of Trapper Road

They’re not here. Neither of them. They’re gone.

Where the fuck are they?

I yank out my phone, dropping it on the dresser so I can unlock it with one hand. The location app loads. The icons are right where they’ve always been: here in the motel. My knees go weak. Oh God, they don’t have their phones on them.

There’s no way to track them.

How many times have they done this without me knowing? How many times have I checked the app, reassuring myself they’re safe, when they were in fact putting themselves in danger?

My finger trembling, I navigate to the screen that allows me to send an alarm to their phones. A few seconds later I hear an electronic wail, followed by another. I track the source. Connor’s phone on the floor, plugged into the charging cable. Vee’s is on her bed, buried in the sheets.

I stand there, staring at the two phones, letting them both blare because I’d rather be assaulted by that horrible noise than be faced with my own panic.

My kids are missing.

What if they’re with Willa and Mandy?

Because if everything Juliette wrote about them is true, if those two girls are psychopaths, that means my kids are at risk. My kids could be their next victims.

41

CONNOR

The Shadow Shack is a pile of kindling, ready to burn. The house is old, the timbers dried and cracked. Already smoke slithers under the door to the room. The floor is warm to the touch from the flames catching below.

“We have to get out,” I gasp. My head roars, the pain throbbing in time with my pounding heart. My shirt is soaked with blood, and I have no idea how much I can lose before I become useless. It doesn’t matter. I’d rather die from blood loss than being burned alive. I don’t care what it takes, how much damage I do to myself in the process, but I’m getting out of this house, and I’m taking Vee with me.

I run to the only window in the room. Most of the glass was shattered ages ago, and I push my upper body out, sucking in a breath of crisp evening air as I search for a way out. Smoke billows from the back of the house, and I have a small hope that maybe it will be enough to attract someone’s attention so they’ll send help.

I doubt it would arrive in time to save us. I glance down. Because of the way the house was built, the ground looms far below, at least a twenty foot drop. We’d likely survive the fall, but not without significant injury.

My mind flashes to memories of my mother after her fall in the lighthouse earlier this year. Her shattered hip and fractured ribs. Even after months of rehab she still struggled, unable to hide the pain that continues to nag at her.

Jumping is a last resort. Especially when Mandy appears under the window. She cups her hands around her mouth, shouting up at me, “Who wins now, bitch?”

Flames from the rooms downstairs light her face, throwing shadows under her eyes that make her appear even more sinister, like a demon. Her expression is one of triumph. There’s no hint of hesitation or concern.

She’s absolutely heartless. Still, I try to reason with her. “This isn’t a game, Mandy! What did you do to the door?”

She says nothing, just laughs.

Behind me Willa screams in outrage. “I’ll kill you for this!”

“Not if I kill you first!” Mandy shouts back. She’s serious, too. Any hope I had that she might relent and help us shrivels to nothing. We’re completely on our own.

I take as deep a breath as possible, sending a stab of pain through my side. My head swims with pain and blood loss, sending the room spinning. I grip the window frame to steady myself and keep from collapsing.

Don’t think about the pain, I tell myself.Don’t think about anything other than getting us out of here.

I turn back to the room. Willa rocks and writhes against the ropes, the fingertips of her free hand raw and bleeding from scrabbling with the knots. “Help me!” she cries.

The knife rests of the floor just out of her reach, and I grab it. I’m just about to hand it to her when I think better. “Can I trust you?” I ask her.

“I’m tied to a fucking chair. What do you think I’m going to do?” she spits.

I could cut her free myself, but it would take time I don’t have. “Fine,” I say, handing it to her.

My mistake is in thinking we’re all in this together. Thinking that she’s more concerned with her own survival than whatever sick game she was playing out.