MAY BETH FOSTER:
I hate Claire. I know it’s not Christian of me, but I do.
WEST McCRAY:
I’m going to have to ask you to keep her around. There’s more I need to talk to her about, when she’s willing. And call me, if there’s anything. Can you do that for me?
MAY BETH FOSTER:
I guess I can, but God help us both.
Where are you headed next?
WEST McCRAY:
Place called Langford.
MAY BETH FOSTER:
What do you think you’ll find there?
sadie
Weak light filters through the blinds. The room comes into slow focus.
Waking up in the backseat night after night never feels this strange, this lonely. At least I know what I have to do when I get up: climb into the front seat. Drive. Find Keith. But this, the soft pillow under my head, the springy, but semi-comfortable mattress under my body, the assuring weight of blankets on top of it, reminds me of being back home and all the things I’m not doing—will ever do—again. Tiptoeing into Mattie’s room, shaking her gently awake. Ripping the blankets off her none-too-gently ten minutes later if she hadn’t managed to get her ass out of bed before then. She always made it to the table by the time her scrambled eggs had cooled into rubber and she always bitched about it, but after a while I realized she was just a freak who liked them that way …
Those were my mornings.
He took them from me.
My nose is throbbing in a way I need to do something about. I force myself from under the covers, pull on a pair of jeans and that’s when I notice the clock on the nightstand says it’s five in the afternoon. Jesus.
I slip out of the room barefoot. The ground is cold, makes my toes numb in the way I want my face to be. The parking lot isn’t as empty as it was last night. Now it’s my car and one other at the farthest end of the lot, a little shinier, little newer. I pass a cleaning woman leaving one of the empty rooms. She’s tall, is the first thing I notice about her. Tall and sturdy, with wavy, sandy hair. She stares at me a little too long as I pass, her forehead crinkling in something that could pass for concern. I duck my head, can only imagine what my face looks like, and feel a little guilty. I want to turn around and tell her I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I grab a bucketful of ice from the machine and head back to my room where I dump the ice in a hand towel. I hold that to my face until I can’t feel it anymore. The ice melts and the cold water seeps through the minute gaps between my fingers. The room is uglier in the colorless late afternoon light. I throw the sopping towel in the shower, change my shirt, put my shoes on and open the window blinds before I get to work on the rest of me. There’s nothing I can do for my nose—it just needs time to put itself together, I guess. But I brush my hair, which feels softer and frizzier for the wash, and run my hands over it. I enjoy that feeling while I have it. I pull my hair back into a ponytail. I shove all my things into my pack and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve got another night here, but after what happened in Montgomery, I’m thinking it’s just always better to be ready to run.
When I step into the front office, the man I saw last night isn’t there and I realize I never got his name. A boy has taken his place. He looks to be in his midtwenties. He has the kind of baby face that looks too young to be attached to the rest of his body, which is muscular and lean. Dimples in his cheeks. He has curly brown hair and a light tan, like he’s already spent a good amount of this barely-begun summer outdoors. He wears a uniform as devoid of bluebirds as the rest of the place and is twirling a key ring around his finger—or trying to. It slips off and hits the floor with a thunk. He ducks to pick it up, and when he straightens, his face is bright red. He clips the keys back onto his belt. His eyes drift over my wrecked face, all the way down to my chest. I’m not wearing a bra. I stare at him, watch as his idle curiosity turns into something that knows it shouldn’t be looking before he finally remembers to ask if there’s anything he can do for me. He’s got a raspy voice. Hearing it makes me feel breathless. I clear my throat and walk forward, lean against the counter. He’s wearing a name tag. ELLIS. The TV’s on behind him, but tonight it’s playing the news.
“Is D-Darren around?”
He blinks at my stutter, recovers quickly—in his mind. You can’t really recover from the moment you make someone else feel like a freak. You just have to hope the person you made feel that way extends a level of grace toward you that you probably don’t deserve.
I force a smile at him that he doesn’t deserve.
“What? He’s back? I haven’t seen him and Joe didn’t mention it…” He looks past me, like he’s expecting Keith. “Usually Darren says when he’s gonna be in town.”
“He t-told me h-he was here sometimes.”
“How do you know Darren?”
“An old f-family friend.” I pause. “He’s only here s-some of the t-t-time? How d-does that work?”
“He’s got a permanent room. Him and Joe have been friends for years. He stays in ten and keeps all his stuff there, so we don’t ever rent it out.”
“S-sounds like a p-pretty shit deal for Joe.”
“Nah, Darren’s a good guy. Saved Joe’s life once,” he says proudly, like he had anything to do with it. “But I don’t think he’s around ’less you know something I don’t.”
“Well d-damn.”
“How long you here for?”
“Another d-day.”
“I guess he could always show up, maybe, but if you wanna leave a note or something, we can keep it for him until he gets back.”
I chew on my lip for a moment. “You c-couldn’t l-let me in his room, could you? What I w-want to leave is m-more … a s-surprise.”
“You can leave it right here, and we’ll get it to him.”
Fuck.
“Do you know w-where he is? If it’s near enough, I c-could just head on down th-there and g-give it t-to him in p-person.”
Ellis stares at me a long moment. “What’s your name again?”
“Uh.” I sniff and wince, bringing a hand to my nose. “Ow.”
“Mind if I ask what happened to you?”
“C-car accident.”
“Looks like it hurts.”
“It d-does.”
I eye his belt loop, those keys on it. I wish I could just sneak them away from his body, make some small part of this easy.
“You need anything?” Ellis asks.
I raise my eyes to his face. “What k-kind of m-motel is this?”
“I mean.” He shrugs, scratching his head self-consciously. “If someone looks like they need help, I’m gonna ask ’em if they need it, that’s all.”
I don’t like how that makes me feel. I never know how to meet people’s kindness or consideration, unless wanting to tear my skin off is the right reaction. I clear my throat, and change the subject back to what it needs to be: “H-how well d-do you know Darren, anyway?”
“Got this job, thanks to him,” he says. “We met online a while back. I was in a tough spot, he helped me out—got Joe to give me work. Joe let me stay here until I had enough saved for my own place. He’s a great guy.”
I step back, wondering if Keith has walked me to the edge of another nightmare like Silas Baker. Met online. What the fuck does that mean? And if it means—
If it means what I think it does, will I hesitate this time?
“O-online?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“We share a common interest, that’s all.”
“And w-what’s that?”
He frowns. “You never told me your name.”
“You’re r-right. I d-didn’t.”
The TV pops again, turning to snow. I leave while his back is turned, my fingertips tingling, trying to quell my building panic. As soon as I clear the office, I move down the row of rooms until I’m standing right in front of ten. I test the door. It doesn’t open. It takes everything for me not to k
ick it. I run my fingers through my hair and I don’t know why this has to be so hard, why I haven’t been through enough. It should be easy. It should have always been easy. None of this bullshit with beautiful houses hiding ugly, sick fuck things that I can’t get out of my head. Every mile I’ve put between me and Montgomery is someone I didn’t save and my sister’s dead. She’s dead. I don’t know why that’s not fucking enough.
I punch the door with my scraped-up knuckles, hard, and hurry away from it, passing my own room. I keep moving, until I reach the end of the motel. There’s got to be a way in to Keith’s room. I stare at the highway beyond this place, at the scattered houses, some closer than others. Langford is small but there’s something about the feel of it that reminds me of Cold Creek. Smoke crawls up the skyline, a barrel fire in someone’s backyard. I think I can make out the faint shapes of people sitting round it, country music and laughter floating through the air.
I move around the building, to the back of the motel. This side of it is one long line of windows and you can tell exactly where the property line stops. The narrow strip of mowed grass suddenly becomes long enough to reach my waist.
I tiptoe over to the first window. They’re all just a little wider and taller than me. I grip the crumbling wooden sill and pull myself up, falling back at the sting of it splintering off into my hand. Goddammit. After I finish fishing the pieces of it out of my palm, I force myself up again, until I can get a good view in and it’s what I thought … bathroom.
I could fit through this. It’ll be tight, but I can fit. I push against the glass, can feel it give a little. Not enough to shatter. I jump down again and then start counting until I pass my own room and I’m standing at the back of Keith’s. Maybe this is the easy part.
Breaking glass should be easy.
I comb the ground for something heavy enough to force against it. It takes a while. I have to wade into the long grass until I find a rock hefty enough. As soon as its rough weight is in my palm, I flash to the house, Montgomery, the lockbox …
I don’t know if I can go through that again.
It’s getting darker out. I go back to Keith’s window, pulling myself up. I have to make this count and I have to make it quick. I don’t know what Ellis can hear from inside the office, but the cleaner the break the better. I lever my arm back and force the rock against the glass.
Through the glass.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”
I hop back down. My arm looks like a fucking suicide attempt, just red, red, red, and torn raw. The pain is exquisite. I’m stupid, I’m stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid …
“Oh, fuck…”
I choke back a sob and listen through the pounding in my skull because having your fucking arm ripped open fucking hurts, but that’s going to be the least of my problems if Ellis heard me. I wait. Nothing happens. I think it’s safe. I don’t even know what the glass breaking sounded like, if it was loud, quiet enough. All I know is my hand reached back and the next thing I was in this immediate, bloody aftermath.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay, okay…”
How cruel is it that the only person I can muster the steadiness of my own voice for is the one who will be least reassured by it.
I just need—I just need to get into that room.
I use the rock to clear the window frame of what’s left of the glass, throw my bag through and then get to the excruciating task of maneuvering myself inside, trying not to scream at the pain in my arm, the torn, open skin assaulted by air, by any movement. Trying not to feel my own sticky blood everywhere I don’t want it to be.
I end up in the shower. The room is dark and I can smell moldering towels. I step out of the shower and squint into the dim light and when I see a lump of them—towels—in the sink, I grab one and wrap it around my arm, my stomach revolting at the thought of it touching Keith before touching me. I move quietly across the floor and open the bathroom door, trying to ignore the furious throbbing in my arm and the way the towel is slowly turning red.
Keith’s room looks like mine. That same bland wallpaper on the walls. Same table and chairs. He has a fridge, but I think it must be his own. This place is … has been lived in. The bed is unmade, blankets tossed aside so many mornings ago. There are clothes everywhere, thrown over the backs of chairs, on the floor beside the bed, hanging over the mirrored bureau. I don’t know where to start. I get to work one-handed, opening and closing clothes drawers, digging my uninjured hand into the pockets of discarded pants, looking for something, anything, to tell me where he might be now.
Come on, you motherfucker.
I check the fridge—gagging when the curdled smell of rotting food assaults my nose—and then I pull the blankets off the bed and toss them on the floor, strip the pillowcases. It all takes too long being down one arm. I tear the fucking place apart as best I can and when I feel I’ve been through it all, I’m breathless and empty-handed. On the nightstand next to the bed, a matchbook catches my eyes. The logo on it. Cooper’s.
I laugh.
Then I sit on the bed and try not to scream.
Enough.
Enough, Sadie.
I get up. I turn the table over, upend the chairs, try and fail to move the dresser away from the walls. I wriggle under the bed, choking on the dust, and there’s nothing there. I scramble back until I’m eye level with the edge of the mattress. The mattress edge. I lift it up and a noise of triumph escapes me when I see the small envelope resting neatly in the middle of the bed frame. I reach my left hand out, the towel hanging limply over my bad one, blood no doubt dripping on the floor, and grab it. The mattress slams back with a thunk. I sit on the floor and stare at it, cradling my right arm to my chest. The envelope feels light as Silas’s box and a sick sense of déjà vu washes over me. I close my eyes, letting my fingers pulse against it, feeling the bubble wrap inside.
Make me strong, I think to no one.
Please make me strong enough for this.
I turn the envelope upside down.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m scared my whole body will give before I know what I have. I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath and when I open them, I’m staring at IDs and jagged strips of material. No photographs. No photographs, thank God. I sift through the IDs, my throat tightening as I make contact with this first real … proof of Keith since I started this, proof beyond the way he flickers in and out of other people’s lives.
They’re driver’s licenses. They look real enough, excellent fakes. His picture in every one of them, and seeing it makes my blood run hot, makes me want to swallow all the broken glass in the bathroom just to free myself from it. He’s different now, time on him that makes him look even more like the monster he was when he was in our lives, when I was a girl. The lines at the edges of his eyes are more pronounced, his skin sallow and tight to his skull. Nearly all of the IDs have a black markered Xs over them, places and personas he burned through and can’t ever return to again. He’s known so many different names. Greg, Connor, Adam … Toby, Don … Keith. I pick it up, hold it in my trembling fingers.
This is the man I knew.
The X crosses over his eyes, obscures most of his face, but I can picture him without it. I can see him across from me at the breakfast table. Sitting on the couch in the living room, his gaze fixed on the TV before moving to me. Outside, nestled in a lawn chair when I came home from school, which was better than those days he picked me up and pulled us over to the side of the road just before we got up to the lot … I set it facedown on the grainy carpet and turn to the scraps of material on the floor. I pick one up. It’s a pink piece of cloth, soft to the touch and ribbed along the edges like a … there’s a tag on the underside, the prickly feeling of it against my thumb makes me realize exactly what I’m holding. Part of a shirt collar. I turn it over. There’s a name written on it in thin black marker.
Casey.
I grasp at the next piece of material.
A delicate
, flower print. Pink rosebuds.
I flip it over.
Anna.
The next one is plain blue.
Joelle.
Then a girl-plaid.
Jessica.
And, finally, soft peach.
Sadie.
I drop the tag and root through my backpack until I find what I’m looking for. The picture. The picture of him, Mattie, Mom and me and there it is, on me. That shirt on me.
That shirt on me.
I get to my feet slowly, my eyes never leaving my own small face, until I can’t look anymore and then I let it drift from my grasp. I crouch down and start making a grab for the tags, the IDs because I can’t leave those girls here, alone, and the IDs are as good a list of places he’s been and I can go to them. I can go to each one of them, ask if they’ve seen him, get them to tell me where he went and—a door opens behind me, slamming against the wall. Shit.
I whirl around, half-expecting him, Keith, finally, but it’s not.
It’s Ellis.
He stands in the doorway, his jaw to the floor.
The “What—” barely leaves his mouth before I have him shoved against the wall beside the door, have him pressed there, my body pushed against his. My bloody arm is tight across his chest, the towel slipped to the ground beneath us. His reflexes are no match for the surprise of me and it’s all the time I need to get the switchblade out and I press it against the length of his throat. The sound of us breathing fills the room. I put more pressure on the knife, so I can’t tell where he ends and it begins. It’s dizzying, how it feels to have a person like this and to know, just know that if he gives you a reason …
If he gives me a reason.
“A-are you l-like him?” I demand. He’s sweating, trembling and so am I. I tighten my grip on the knife’s handle and push into him with my hips. He yelps. “Are y-you like him?”
“What? Who?”
“K-K—” No, no. Not Keith. “D-Darren.”
“I—”
“D-do you fuck little girls?”