Turning the corner, she entered the highway, then started walking south along the almost deserted lanes. Whenever she saw headlights approaching, she held her hand out, but no one stopped, whooshing by at frightening speeds, the whistle of air rushing against metal a stern warning to stay away. The interstate wasn’t like some big city road, where she could take a bus or something. Hundreds of miles of asphalt stretched across farms, forests, and tumbleweed-roamed fields, with no other option to get away than hitch a ride.
After a while, shivering in a cold drizzle that had started falling out of the leaded sky, she realized she’d left the lights of the town way behind. Darkness surrounded her, engulfing her completely. Panic made the bile in her throat rise as she fought the urge to throw up.
A strong pair of bluish headlights appeared in the distance, blinding her as they approached. She squinted and held her breath. Maybe this one would stop. She held her hand out, waving it, even stepped out into the lane, hoping she’d be seen.
And she was.
The eighteen-wheeler came to a screeching stop after passing her by about 100 yards, but she ran quickly and climbed onto the chrome step eager to get some shelter from the freezing rain. She opened the massive door and looked inside. The driver could’ve been Potbelly’s twin. The same stubble, the same stink of sweat and stale booze, the same stained, crooked teeth behind a lascivious grin.
“Welcome aboard, sweetheart,” he said, inviting her with an excited chuckle. “Where to?”
She hesitated, still standing on the step, not sure if she should climb into the toasty cabin.
“Um, San Francisco,” she replied, throwing the only city name that came to her mind. It was south of there, and south was where she wanted to go.
The man slapped his hands excitedly against his knees. “Papa Bear can take you there,” he replied, his voice coarse, loaded. “How you gonna pay for the ride? Gas, grass, or ass?”
It took her a long moment to process what he’d just said. Stunned, she let go of the door handle and stepped down.
“Your loss, sweetheart,” he replied. “Now be a doll and close that door, willya?”
She slammed it shut as hard as she could, wishing she had the strength to break it into a million pieces. Then she ran away toward the side of the road, jumped over the railing and dashed into the woods, as if the truck driver hadn’t already peeled off, honking his horn three times, having the last laugh.
Feeling a warm liquid on her frozen face, she realized it was her own tears, flowing in steady streams. She leaned against a tree trunk and crouched to the ground, the highway barely visible from where she was, and hugged her knees tightly, trying to stop her shivering. The barren tree crowns shifted in the wind, menacing and dark above her head, like monsters waiting to pounce.
Teeth clattering, she wondered how much longer until daylight. Once the sun came up, things would be different, she told herself. She wouldn’t feel so alone.
So terrified.
5Identity
“Found it,” Kay announced, clapping her hands together excitedly, leaning closer to the screen.
Her voice resounded loudly in the bullpen, where most of the desks were empty as their usual tenants were out working the beats of Franklin County. A couple of deputies were catching up on paperwork, and Sheriff Logan was on the phone, his baritone carrying over the bullpen effortlessly. One of those present must’ve been responsible for the strong smell of microwaved burrito that filled the space, although it wasn’t lunchtime yet. Her stomach gave her a growling nudge, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast that morning, settling for black coffee instead.
Passing by her desk, a deputy gave her a long look, measuring her in a way she found insulting.
“Detective,” the man greeted her in passing, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
She pasted a forced smile and nodded, then looked at Elliot. “Who was that?” She hated to ask, but she was still new. She remembered everyone’s faces, but not everyone’s names had stuck. Their paths rarely crossed.
“Deputy Daugherty, one of the veterans here,” Elliot replied in a low voice. From his flat tone, she deduced that her partner wasn’t a fan either. There was something off about that deputy, about how he looked at her, as if she didn’t belong, as if women were not worthy to wear a badge. But she shrugged it off and trained her eyes on the screen, where old records were displayed in a list organized by victim name.
Elliot leaned over, their shoulders almost touching, and looked at the records on the monitor.
“I believe this is it,” she said, displaying the first screen in an older police report. “I’m surprised this case is digitized, being it’s fourteen years old.” She pressed a couple of keys, and the image shifted, showing a grainy photo of a locket. Despite the low-quality shot, it was clear the locket was red and shiny. The shape was similar to the one they’d found on their victim, the design matched, and the links of the chain also seemed alike, at least as far as she could remember. The actual locket was now with Dr. Whitmore, who was going to swab it for evidence and run forensics.
“Yeah, could be,” Elliot replied, not sounding convinced. He straightened his back and leaned sideways against the desk, facing her. “The color is way off, and I’m not sure about the markings. I wouldn’t throw my hat over the windmill yet.”
Kay concealed a smile, imagining Elliot standing next to a spinning windmill, balancing his hat in his hand, aiming to throw it over the revolving blades, for whatever reason Texans do that.
“Just add fourteen years of wear and tear, and you’ll see it’s a match. The one we found is weathered, that’s all. I’m willing to bet it was red and shiny, originally, exactly like this one.”
He tugged at the brim of his hat with
