When she came up, the fight had stopped. Both men had bloodied noses and lips, each of them had retreated to lick their wounds.
“Let’s just forget this ever happened,” Vanessa pleaded with both of them.
“How long has it been going on?” Tom demanded.
“How long have you been fucking that student of yours?” Vanessa barked back.
Tom whipped his bloodied face back to look at his wife.
“I’m not a moron, Tom,” she said.
“You should go,” Tom got out of the pool and tossed Mark’s pants to him. The legs barely skimmed the surface of the water before Mark caught them.
“I never want to see you here again, understand?” Tom hissed at his friend as the man redressed in the grass. Mark chanced a look at Vanessa. She wasn’t sure what she read there: regret? Annoyance at himself for getting caught? Or a true heartbreak? Most definitely not the latter.
No, the true heartbreak was yet to come.
Vanessa got out of the pool and grabbed her clothes. She walked through the party, unconcerned with the stares from Tom’s students. She went to bed alone that night. And when she woke, she was by herself.
IONE
My head pounds like I’ve got the hangover I started this whole adventure with. For a moment, I’m disoriented. The hardwood floor sticks to my cheek as I push up with my arms and peel my face away from it. I reach for the back of my head and can feel a goose egg—the place where Tom hit me with the award. It’s fitting, I suppose.
I struggle to my feet, grabbing at the desk with shaky hands. I lean over it for a moment, the papers scattered, the phone thrown across the room. My legs are like two pool noodles beneath me, no more supportive or stable. I rub the spot on my head, a fever growing there as blood rushes to the freshly bruised spot. I immediately wonder if I’ve got a concussion.
When I draw my hand back, there’s blood on my fingertips, fresh and vibrant red. It makes me think of how my mom once told me that bright red blood meant one thing, but dark blood could mean something much worse. At least I’m awake and alive, I tell myself.
Things could be worse.
I take a moment to find my footing and it dawns on me that I have to find Birdie. Regardless of what else Tom might do to me, whatever he has in store for that baby is worse.
I reach for my waistband. The revolver is gone.
With that in mind, I stumble to the French doors that lead into the study and hover for a moment, listening for anyone that might be lurking in the house, but it’s empty. After a sufficient waiting period, I go for the front door, which stands ajar, and step into the night.
The desert air is surprisingly cool at night. The porch is completely darkened, a double seated swing to my right creaking in the low light conditions, making an eerie sound, like someone is sitting there, watching me.
I dismiss the thought, though dread knots itself in my stomach expertly. I look out across the property. Flood lights beam into the compound from over the fence by the road. They’re getting ready. I wonder how ready Tom and his people are for whatever might come next. I wonder for a moment if anyone will die. I think about that day in town, how the word Waco hovered on the periphery of conversation, no one willing to speak it, like it was some sort of curse.
I step off of the porch and begin walking down the road that leads to the main house. I have no idea where to begin. I hope that I’ll hear something, that Tom won’t sneak up on me in the darkness and take me by surprise and finish what he started in the study. I keep walking in the direction of the main road.
And I know that he’s armed.
There is a copse of cedar trees to the right and I hear a voice, female.
“Birdie!” Vanessa calls.
Footsteps fall somewhere within the grouping of trees, thick and dangerous in the night. It’s entirely possible that snakes and worse inhabit the little patch of woods, hidden just beneath fallen leaves or a rock upturned by a root. But there are two entirely human predators that I’m more worried about tonight.
I crouch behind a trash barrel that stands beside the road and listen.
I hear Vanessa call out to Birdie. I hear her footsteps and then I hear someone else’s.
But I can’t tell what direction they’re coming from.
My only choice is to keep moving. And so, I do.
I watch my step in the woods as best I can, not just hoping to avoid snakes but also to avoid snapping branches on my way. I place each step cautiously, the fallen green of the cedar trees providing a cushion for my footfalls. And then I come to the clearing.
A small white cinderblock building stands a dozen yards away.
The clearing is small, but I’ll be entirely unprotected when I enter it. I look to my left, over my shoulder and into the woods. I see nothing. No hint of a pair of eyes sighting down the barrel of a revolver. I gather my thoughts. I’m reminded of the Nike ads from when I was a kid: Just do it.
It doesn’t feel that simple, and yet, it is.
I try not to think about it too much more. I try not to let the idea of a bullet burrowing through my skull keep me from moving and finding Birdie. I step out of the forest and into the clearing. Moonlight bathes my skin. I glow. A moving target for hunters in the night.
I quicken my step, trying to keep my footfalls soft as possible. But it’s hard even on the dusty red dirt path.
