“Please don’t hurt me.” I can’t help it. I start to cry.
“See, that’s part of the problem, sweetheart. Why would you think I’d hurt you? Haven’t I only been good to you?”
I manage a small nod.
“That’s better.” He traces the outline of my jaw with a fingertip. My chin. Then up along my cheekbone. My brow.
“Where are we?”
He laughs. “You said you wanted to get away for a while. ‘Far away from Travis County,’ you said. Don’t I give you what you want?”
I start to sit up, barely hiking myself up on my elbows despite the mad spinning in my skull. With one quick thrust against my shoulder, he pushes me down.
At first he looks surprised he did that. Then he seems to stretch into it. Own it.
“Seems like you were busy makin’ your bed for a while,” he spits. “First you pretended you didn’t hear me when I told you I loved you, then you laughed at me—fucking laughed—when I suggested we get tatts of each other’s name, and then, the thing that’s worse than both of those combined, you say his name in your sleep. While you smile.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting of tears. There’s only one image in my head. My brothers. They can’t lose me too. I let out a sob.
“Max, Max, don’t cry.” His voice is gentle again. He grabs my hand, gives it a squeeze. “I only want to make you happy.”
I open my eyes. Oh my God, he’s fucking crazy. He’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. Like he hadn’t drugged me so deeply he was able to carry me from one place to another without me knowing.
“You do,” I say, forcing my words like I’ve never had to force anything before. “You do make me happy.”
He’s beaming at me. He’s clear-eyed. It’s the same Chris I’ve always known. How is this possible? Am I the crazy one? Is this just a nightmare?
Oh please, please let it be that. Let me wake up.
I smack my parched lips together. “Can I get some water?”
“Sure, sure.” He moves to the other side of the hut. Scoops a Gatorade bottle up off the dirty wooden floorboards.
I take this moment to scan myself. I’m still wearing clothes. My body feels impossibly heavy, but I don’t feel … Don’t feel what? Raped? He killed Harper, he’ll kill—
“You need to stay hydrated,” he says. He’s standing in front of me again. He twists the lid off the bottle and wipes the rim with his shirt.
“I’m gonna throw up,” I say, holding my hand up against the drink. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“‘Bathroom’? We’re camping out.” He recaps the bottle and sets it on the floor.
Gingerly, which is the only way I can move, I slowly swing my legs to the side of the cot, my calves cold against the iron bedrail. The scratchy army-green blanket bunches under me. “I don’t want to hurl in here, though.”
“Hold on.” He takes a knee and at first I think he’s going to propose but then I see what he’s going for. He’s got one of my shoes in the palm of his hand. “You don’t want to be barefoot out there. Snakes around here. And scorpions.”
“Where are we?”
“Don’t worry, we haven’t crossed state lines.”
He’s loosened the laces on my shoe, pulled the tongue out. He tenderly bracelets my ankle with his fingers as if it’s precious to him. He slides my foot into the shoe as if the act is a prayer. And then the other. Inside, I’m howling.
I plant both soles onto the floor as dirt puffs around my non-princess ankles.
“Take it slow, baby. You really tied one on last night.”
You fucking liar. I know what I had.
He plants one hand on the small of my back, another on my elbow. Every nerve ending in me is screaming to buck him off. Play his game.
“Thank you,” I say.
“’Course. We’ll get you feeling better in no time.”
I’m standing. What did you use to poison me? I want to scream as I tear out his eyes, his heart. But then I think of what drowning would feel like. Of how the strongest person I’ve ever known drowned at his hands, the hands that are helping me now, and I know I wouldn’t stand a chance.
The numb heaviness is starting to shake out of my limbs, but the inside of my head is still a mess. And so is my balance. I’m forced to grip his forearm to avoid falling.
“That’s it,” he practically purrs. “Lean on me.”
I concentrate through the dizziness until I can stand on my own. “I got it.”
“Hey, maybe you’re pregnant,” he says brightly.
“Wha … ?”
“Maybe that’s why you have to puke.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” he asks. “You and me and a little one?”
My thoughts swim. Didn’t we always use condoms? There was that one time, but … no, no you drugged me with God knows what. That’s what’s going on here.
“Sure, we’re young,” he says, “but I don’t get all these people waiting ’til they’re so old they can’t play catch with the kid or go for a lousy swim. Selfish, if you ask me.” He’s traipsing off into his own fantasy. “We could be totally self-sufficient. Grow our own food. We don’t need to poison the kid with artificial shit. And we don’t need to poison their heads with school either. You can teach him. Teach them. We’ll have lots. I’ve watched you with those boys, Max. You’re the best, most patient mother. Any kid would be lucky to have a mother like you.”
Thoseboysthoseboysthoseboys. I have to get back to them.
We’re at the door, which is as crude as everything else, not plumb or pretty, but which looks heavy. There’s a faded cross painted on the wood, roses on the vertical piece instead of a body.
“Is this the camp?” I ask. “The one where you went as a kid?”
He pulls me close and kisses my neck. Inside, I’m wailing.
“You remembered.” He flings the door open and there’s the sound of metal on metal. “Fresh air’ll do you good, Max.”
I try to believe that. Less dizzy now, I draw in big mouthfuls of air. It’s a sunny day, stupid with pleasantness. Birdspeak. The drone of fat bees. The air smells of spring waking and spring rot. There’s a carpet of fallen leaves under my feet, damp and spongy. If Will were here, he’d be sneezing from the spores.
Trying to get my bearings, I squint into the sun. We’re at the crest of a hill. Cabins dot the surrounding hills, interspersed haphazardly. There are lots of trees—ash, maple, mesquite—the leaves still the pale green of young growth. Everywhere I look, there are gentle hills, fallen leaves, trees in leaf. The occasional dead tree, the occasional ramshackle cabin. If you subtract the sound of nature, it’s eerily silent.
“You were right,” I say. “I needed fresh air.”
“That’s my girl.” He nudges my hair over my shoulder, gathers it at the midpoint of my back, and tugs it playfully before he lets it go.
“It’s pretty here.”
“Well then, it suits you,” he says, hooking a finger into the waist-band of my sweats.
“Actually, I am thirsty. Would you mind grabbing that drink for me?”
“At your service, ma’am.” He tips an imaginary cap. I force out a coquettish laugh that costs me way too much energy.
He turns to duck back inside, but before he does, he says, “I love you.”
I call up Ezra in my mind so I can sound convincing. “I love you too.”
The second he’s out of sight, I throw everything I have into it, and I bolt.
26
HARPER
The city that’s always felt so friendly to me feels like a mountain I can’t crest. I drive down South Congress feeling less like I belong than all the visitors. There are lines of people out the door of Torchy’s Tacos, Hopdoddy’s Burgers, Amy’s Ice Cream, Home Slice Pizza. All these tourists eating up the city, forming orderly queues before they take their bite. I drive down First Street, past the Food Trailer Park where Ezra and I had so many late-ni
ght stuffed doughnuts. Now the shiny Gourdough’s trailer looks menacing as it glitters in the sun. Like a giant bullet. Downtown, in front of the Moody Theater, the Willie Nelson statue that usually makes me smile seems sharp-edged, as if it’s hoarding secrets. “Where there’s a Willie, there’s a way,” I’ve heard people say. Now I feel judged by his gaze and duped by his wan smile. He’s let me down too.
Further down Sixth, I drive past Stubbs Barbecue, the place where I saw my last concert (A Giant Dog) in the outdoor amphitheater. Before the band even took the stage, I was a sweaty, happy mess, my bare calves breaded with dirt, buzzed on the beer a guy in a floppy-sleeved flannel shirt bought for me after I flirted with him while Ezra was in the men’s room. Ezra hated that venue. He went for me.
Stupidly, I scan mile after mile of sidewalk. What do I expect, that Max and this guy will be walking down the street hand-in-hand, and she’ll say, “Oh, yeah, I ignored all your frantic calls. I needed y’all out of my headspace.”
I loop around the block to avoid construction on Red River Street, and I’m passing the homeless shelter now, dozens of people sitting with their backs against the building, some of them stretched out on rolled-out sleeping bags on the shaded pavement.
Something scratches at me. Something Tyler said the first time we hooked up. We were sprawled on the bed of his pickup smoking a joint (something Ezra didn’t like to do) and my fingers found a fabric headband among the empties and tools. I held it up in the moonlight. He snapped it away.
He said his apartment wasn’t too far from the shelter and one morning he came out to find a couple sleeping in the bed of the truck in their two-man sleeping bag. The headband must’ve been the missus’s.
“What’d you do?” I’d asked.
“I started the truck. That woke ’em up.”
He lives near the shelter. At least he did when I knew him. That’s something. Blue pickup. That’s all I remember. And of course once I set my radar to blue pickup truck, I see them everywhere. This is Texas. Pickup trucks are like the weather: look out the window and you’ll see ’em.
I slow the car down around apartment complexes, cruising past street parking and lot parking, looking looking looking. Other drivers, annoyed by my rubbernecking, lay on their horns.
Hoofing it has to be better than this aimless, fruitless motor tour of the city. I find a spot on the curb. I don’t have money to feed the meter, but I don’t care. A parking ticket is the last thing on my mind.
The sun on my head like a warning or a promise, I walk.
And walk.
And walk.
And walk.
It’s hot. Upper eighties, likely. And the sun is relentless. But still I walk, hoping for a shred of a clue, some scrap that can point the way to Max.
I lose track of how long I’ve been searching. Hours, for sure. The light has softened, the sidewalk shadows have lengthened, the air is a notch less hot. I’m exhausted. Heatstroked, maybe. Hungry, but the hunger is reduced to a dull ache, as if my body knows it’s not the priority. My phone’s officially dead.
I also lose track of how many people I’ve asked—homeless and non-homeless alike—whether they’ve seen anyone who looks like Max, like Tyler/Chris, like his truck (some people flat-out laugh when I ask about a blue pickup; no, I don’t know the make/model/plate number, and no, I can’t recall any distinguishing features). No one had any information, but one homeless guy looked me up and down and tried to give me a crushed package of peanut butter crackers (I wouldn’t let him). If you don’t count my death, that’s a personal low point, someone who hasn’t had a shower in a month taking pity on me. One woman promised to pray for me.
I’ve given up. Now the only car I’m looking for is mine. Well, Max’s, technically. I’m just trying to remember where the hell I parked. And because I have Max’s car on the brain, I almost trudge right past it. In a parking lot that I’ve scoped before.
At first I’m sure it’s a mirage.
No. It’s real. He’s real.
I stop dead. You don’t forget the last face you saw alive.
I don’t have to duck out of sight. He doesn’t know me. Not on the outside.
He’s putting a box in the bed of his blue pickup truck underneath a blue tarp. I watch. Frozen in fear and hope. He slams the tailgate and climbs the steps to an apartment on the second floor. He goes in but doesn’t shut the door all the way.
“Max,” I whisper, the people, traffic, sunlight blurring away and leaving only Max in my mind.
Tyler/Chris/whoever this sociopath is comes out a minute later with another box. While he’s coming down one outdoor stairway, I go up another. I’m in.
“Max?” I whisper. Fiercely. The apartment is tiny. Broken mini-blinds on the windows. A trash bag overflowing with pizza boxes and paper plates. Keys on the counter. Otherwise empty. I want to cry. But I don’t have the time.
“Who the hell are you?” he says, stepping back in.
And just like that, I’m face to face with my death.
“Oh, s-s-sorry,” I say, struggling to keep my face above water. “I saw the door open. I’m thinking of moving into the complex.”
“This ain’t the leasing office.”
I gulp. “I wanted to see what people thought who lived here. You moving in?”
“Out.”
“Did you like it here?” I ask.
His back to me, he opens a drawer in the kitchen, grabs something, puts it in his pocket or under his shirt. “’S fine,” he mutters.
“Where you moving to?” I try.
“Look around if you want.” He snatches the keys off the counter. “Shut the door on your way out.”
I stand at the window and peek through the missing teeth of the blinds. I see him cross the parking lot, toss the trash bag in the Dumpster, enter the leasing office. The farthest point from his truck.
My heart crazy in my throat, I run down to the parking lot and race to his truck. I unhook an eyelet of the tarp, peel back one corner of it and crawl in among the boxes. I contort myself to fit and refasten the tarp. And then I hold my breath. I hope he’s not the type to recheck his stuff before he takes off.
Hot, dark minutes pass. Finally, my lungs burning from this stingy bit of air, I feel the shift in the truck that signals someone getting in. The engine starts. And then we’re moving.
I’ve never been a God person, but in this moment I pray that wherever this truck takes me, Max will be there.
Alive.
27
HARPER
Tongues of wind lick the edges of the tarp and slip underneath so that the rippling material over my head competes with the hum of the tires beneath me. With my eyes closed I can almost imagine there’s a sail above me, scooping big fistfuls of air and steering me while I’m blind and cramped down here. I’m curled small, my hands clasped at my chest because there’s nowhere else for them to go. As if they’re frozen in prayer.
After a while music wafts back here. And the man Max knows as Chris and I know as Tyler is singing along, humming when he doesn’t know the words. I can’t make out the song. But I don’t want to know it.
Max. You have to be there at the end of this. You have to.
I’m on the verge of throwing up. And I’m probably dehydrated. When was my last sip of water?
Max. I’ll save you. What I couldn’t do for myself.
The truck swerves sharply, and then dips hard, as if into a pothole. The impact presses my fists against my chest—a quick, hard punch aimed at my heart—and a toolbox skids toward my head.
I’m writing on a birthday cake at Basement Tapes with green gel, I’m presenting Daniel with a cupcake and watching the admiration in his eyes. Then I’m stealing a sugary kiss from him, but it’s not a theft for long, because he starts returning it right away. My heart beats hard, on the cusp of pain. My hands pulse with heat, and Daniel disappears.
I go searching for him, in the pastry case, in the flour bin, under an opaque cake dome. I only find
pieces of him: a lone Converse with frayed laces, a Longhorns cap (L+D inked into the bill), an EpiPen with the safety on.
I laugh. Of course only pieces of him can fit in those places. Not his whole self. I go in the back, open the fridge. The light that spills out is too bright, the cold too cold. He’s not in there. Stacks of egg cartons (four-dozen size) take up one shelf, the lid removed from the top one so that the blank eggshells seem to taunt me with my own failure. I smash them with a fist, all forty-eight, the whites running out like tears, the yolks melting out like dying sunlight. My hands, slick with the blood of all those wasted eggs, are cold now, too cold.
I move to the giant freezer in the restaurant kitchen, certain Daniel will be in there. He’s not. But I am.
Me coated in frost so white it looks like sugar crystals. We stand eye to eye. Freezer me blinks at searching me as flakes of frost flutter off my lashes and onto my cheeks. She pulls me into the freezer with her, slams the door shut behind us.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, her breath an icy blast against my face. “You’re gonna be here awhile.”
I’m swimming up, heaving myself out. Head’s killing me. There’s light in my eyes now. I’m too cramped to use a hand to shield them. My vision is blurry.
“What the fuck?” a voice says. “What. The. Fuck?”
My vision sharpens.
Chris/Tyler shoves boxes aside and drags me by the ankle through the aisle and out of the truck. “What the fuck is this?” he says. His voice is a growl. I’m the this.
He grips my upper arm, shakes me.
“Talk!” he commands.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Sorry I ever laid eyes on you. Sorry I didn’t drown you that night. “I have nowhere to go. I just wanted to get out of town.”
“So you used my truck?” His hand falls away from me.
I back up and clutch the tailgate, rub the side of my head where a biscuit-size lump has risen. “I didn’t hurt anything.”
“You have no idea what you did. You stupid bitch.”
“I’ll leave then.” I take a step and stop. What is this place? Trees. Dirt. Some sort of camp. A few scattered cabins. A bigger one, ram-shackle like the rest, at the top of a hill, its few steps crooked and unwelcoming. This spot feels especially lonely in the twilight. The truck is the only vehicle in sight.
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