“You’re not planning on walking home in the dark, are you?”
“Katherine said she’d drive me.” Another lie, but I know Aunt Dessa won’t check.
Sometimes I wish I had a magical ring that could time-travel me back to that brief period, after the well, when Aunt Dessa believed my story, when she’d make mochaccinos with cocoa powder and ask me crossword puzzle riddles—the only time we’ve ever been close. We hadn’t even been close before the fire, when my mom was still alive. Though they’d once been inseparable, back when they were kids (according to my dad), my mom and Aunt Dessa never saw each other much.
Then, after the fire, when my aunt began to piece together how the night had played out, things just got more distant: So, you heard your mom screaming, but you didn’t wake up? How is that even possible? And what does it even mean? You thought you were dreaming about your mother’s screaming? That makes no sense. I couldn’t exactly argue.
I leave the house and head toward town. This isn’t the first time I’ve taken one of these jaunts. Maybe it’s my fourth … Or could it be my ninth? I’ve gone over the details of the night of the sorority party at least a million times in my head, wondering who he was and how he found me. Had he been at the Theta Epsilon house? Or did he pick me off the street? My hope is that retracing my steps, taking the same streets, and wearing the same clothes will somehow bring me closer to finding out.
I assume he must’ve seen me snag the house key on the outside stoop, as I’d been talking to Felix; that he must’ve watched as I unlocked the door and went inside. The bigger questions: Had he been watching me even before that night? Had he been waiting for just the right moment? He knew my name, after all; though he could’ve seen it in my room, spelled in bubble letters over my desk.
According to investigators, the person who took me left no traces of DNA, and yet I don’t recall any kind of protective suit.
Just that ski mask.
And those sleek, black gloves.
I turn the corner, cross a main road, and proceed over the bridge, watching cars pass by. Swish, swish. My anxiety revs. I’ve never been in a car accident, but ever since I got back from the well, I haven’t wanted to drive any more than I absolutely have to, particularly long distances, and especially after dark.
A man jogs in my direction—slim, medium height, and in his midtwenties. I meet his eyes, noticing how dark they look, nowhere close to blue. At the same moment, a car horn honks. I’m standing still, in the middle of the crosswalk.
I scurry forward and proceed into town, crossing the grassy field where the runner and I collided on the night of the party. The police tried to locate that guy, checking surveillance cameras at local shops and restaurants, unable to find any trace of him, aside from my word, which quickly lost all credibility.
The field is a smallish space, about the size of a basketball court, connecting two roads. I’ve been back here at least ten times, as if seeing it again—the grass, the trees, the rocky path that leads to the Lightning Bolt gas station—will reveal something new. But so far, it hasn’t.
I move toward the path, just as I had that night, hearing a car door slam. I reach into my purse and wrap my hand around the wasp spray—just in case—as I approach the back of the gas station.
A woman is filling her tires, having just exited her car. I let out a breath and cross the street, picturing the van that nearly hit me—its bright white lights. As I stand in front of Sandie’s Mini-Mart, the motor inside my chest begins to race. I run my palms over my forearms, still able to feel the scars—tangible proof. I really fell here.
“Excuse me?” a male voice says.
I turn to look. Someone’s standing there: a tall guy, with dark hair and tanned skin. He props his sunglasses atop his head, enabling me to see his pale blue eyes and thick, hooded lids.
A gasping-sucking sound escapes out my mouth.
The guy says something, but I don’t hear the words. My eyes are locked on his thin red lips and slight overbite. A darkish mole sits on his chin.
Is it him? Could it be him?
My mind flashes back, picturing the guy with the ski mask cramming a cloth into my mouth. Did he have an overbite? Or hooded eyelids? Would I have noticed?
“Excuse me,” he says again, studying my face. “I’d like to get in.”
I’m standing in the way, in front of the door handles. My heart hammers so hard inside my chest, I can feel it against my bones. It makes my lungs compress.
The guy scoots around me and starts to go in, grabbing the handle, before letting it go.
The door falls closed.
He turns to me as I wheeze.
“Terra?”
I take out the spray.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I can’t respond, can’t seem to get enough breath.
“You’re not okay.” He reaches for my forearm and starts to pull me away.
“No!” I shout; the word bubbles up from somewhere inside me. I take a step back, losing his grip. I hold the wasp spray outward to keep him back.
The guy raises his hands. People in the parking lot turn to look. A woman with a baby comes out of the store. She backs away when she sees me.
“Terra?” the guy says, his hands still high. “Don’t you know me? Do you recognize me?”
I picture the ski-masked face, the bright red tongue waggling out the hole … My arm shakes, holding the spray. I use my other hand to steady it, clutching the can like a gun, like the way you see on crime shows, with a wide-legged stance.
“It’s me,” he
