Or Jason.
Oh. God. How could she have forgotten about Jason? She’d seen Friday the Thirteenth; she knew what happened to kids at summer camp. Any moment now, a hockey-masked, axe-wielding maniac was likely to break through the underbrush and do her in.
Frozen with the sudden onset of mindless fear, Tate sucked in tiny breaths of panic, until a sharp crack behind her propelled her willy-nilly down the moonlit path. Brambles scratched her bare legs, thorny vines tore at hair and clothing. But the blood trickling toward her socks seemed like no big deal compared to running for her life. Chest heaving with sobs, Tate broke through the trees, stumbling onto the pine straw at the edge of the clearing. She was cut, scraped, winded and terrified, but at least she was out of the darned woods.
Wait a minute.
She was out of the darned woods. A triumphant smile played across her tear-streaked face, but she put a little more distance between herself and the looming specter of the trees, just for good measure.
Creeping on silent feet toward the circle of the boys’ cabins, Tate paused only to wipe the cold sweat that trickled into her eyes. The various trophies earned that day were kept on a special picnic table in the middle of the circle, and scanning the area for any sign of the enemy, Tate crept stealthily toward her quarry.
She grasped the coveted trophy – her own personal grail – until an unexpected noise coming from the direction of the boys’ bathroom reminded her that she needed to clear out, quick. Being caught red-handed in the middle of the enemy camp would put quite a damper on the glow of success.
As she was creeping around the side of the building, the sound she’d heard began to distinguish itself into voices: one young, soft and worried, and a grown up voice, reassuring. She was almost sure that the younger voice belonged to the dreaded Timothy. She’d heard it in her ear enough that day to know. And though she couldn’t be positive, she thought the older one belonged to the camp director, Mr. Logan. It seemed strange that he was up at this hour, in the bathroom with one of the campers. Maybe Timothy was sick.
Beside herself with curiosity, Tate couldn’t stop herself from sneaking closer. But the voices inside had been replaced with other noises. Noises that made her uncomfortable.
Shivering, Tate felt the overwhelming urge to run away. But when she heard a quickly muffled cry, she peeked around the corner.
The swimming trophy slipped out of her hands as her scream rent the stillness of the night.
CHAPTER ONE
July 15, Present
JANIE Collier was hot, tired, and mad at the world.
Running away from home wasn’t supposed to be so hard, but getting out of Charleston on foot in ninety degree heat proved to be more of an undertaking than she’d initially guessed. The asphalt was so hot that her sneakers sank into it, and about every fifth step one or the other of them threatened to come off. They were too damn big, anyway, because they were hand-me-downs from her sister.
Her stupid older sister who’d had to go and get herself knocked up.
Why the hell hadn’t she listened when Daddy had told her that the Lawrence boy was no good? Hell, anybody with eyes could see Danny was only slumming when he’d asked her out. Her older sister had a body like one of them centerfolds Daddy was always looking at, and that’s the only reason Danny Lawrence had shown the least bit of interest. Rich boys like him weren’t in the habit of making girlfriends out of poor white trash. Danny didn’t even come inside the trailer when he picked Joelle up. He just sat in his Mustang and beeped the horn, like he was too damn good to dirty his expensive sneakers by setting foot in their home.
And wouldn’t you know it? Daddy’s prophecy had come true.
Danny Lawrence had gotten in her sister’s pants one time too many, but now that she was pregnant he was nowhere to be found. His parents had sent him off to visit some relative for the summer. His daddy, a lawyer, had threatened to sue Janie and Joelle’s daddy if he ever laid a finger on his boy. Since Janie and Joelle’s daddy was a drunk, he hadn’t had the good sense to listen: he’d attacked Mr. Lawrence at his high-falutin’ home one night, demanding that Danny own up to his bastard.
Consequently, Danny had left the state, her daddy was in jail, and the child welfare people had been swarming over her and Joelle like flies.
Joelle, who was six months gone, was in a home for unwed mothers, and she – Janie – had just run away from her third foster home.
Not like those idiots were going to miss her. The wife had been okay, but her lard-ass husband looked at her in a way that made her feel like she’d come down with chiggers.
So she’d hightailed it out of there before Fat Hubby had decided to take those gropes-disguised-as-hugs to the next level. She was experienced enough to know exactly what the bastard wanted, and while she was no virgin, she preferred to choose her partners. Fat Hubby didn’t make the list.
Janie shivered despite the heat.
Sweat trickled off the back of her neck, running down into her cotton panties, where little bumps of heat rash popped up like chicken skin. Looking at the road sign she’d just passed, Janie saw that she’d traveled approximately ten miles out of the city. At this rate, she’d turn fifteen before she made it to Florida.
Janie sighed, blowing out a breath that
