Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “I am.”

  “And here she was ready to hitchhike and get herself abducted,” Sam muttered under his breath with a note of amusement.

  I scowled at him. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk so much.”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow. You’re stayin’ in this hospital for one more night under observation,” Marx explained. When I opened my mouth to object, he interrupted, “There’s no room for argument. Unless you’re refusin’ my help on this reckless and ill-advised trip to Kansas, then you’re stayin’ put. You need to give your head a little time to balance itself out before you’re stuck in a car for two days.”

  I pinched my lips together without speaking. It would take us more than two days to get there because he would have to sleep, and I couldn’t manage more than a few hours at a time in a car.

  “Now try to get some more sleep,” he suggested. He shooed Sam out of the chair and settled into it.

  I slumped down in the bed and tried not to pout at being told to take a nap. Sleep was out of the question despite how exhausted I felt. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night either—despite Marx’s efforts to make me feel safe by camping out in the hospital room—and I had passed the time trying to remember all the books of the Bible . . . in order. I got stuck on the fifth one: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Du . . . dude-autonomy. It was close, but not quite right.

  God, I sent silently toward Heaven. You would tell me if it was a bad idea to go to Kansas, wouldn’t You? If I expected His voice to spill from the walls of the hospital room, I was disappointed. And even if it is, You’re gonna be with me every step of the way. Right?

  I glanced at Marx, who was sound asleep in the chair against the wall. God might not come down in person, but He wouldn’t let me go alone.

  God had only been a vague idea to me before I overdosed on pills at fifteen—a name I heard whispered in conversation and saw written on cardboard signs next to crosses. But when I was lying on that bathroom floor, dying, He was there with me.

  I felt Him pouring over me like sunshine—so warm it was almost overwhelming, and yet somehow soothing. He was like the wind whispering through the trees, brushing across my skin and raising the hairs on my arms. His love wrapped around me so tightly that night that I forgot about the cold, hard tile beneath my body. I tasted His presence with every breath, and I heard Him in the beating of a heart that should’ve stopped.

  That was the night I connected with God.

  Of course, my first act as a Christian had been to steal a Bible from the hospital chapel. Later, I realized theft was one of those things God frowned upon. I asked for forgiveness, but it wasn’t like I was going to give the book back. I needed it. Besides, someone had just left it there on a bench. Finders keepers.

  I smiled at the memory as I stretched out beneath the blankets in the hospital bed. No, Marx and I wouldn’t be going to Kansas alone. God would be accompanying us, and so would my stolen Bible.

  Jace came by the next morning to “prepare” me before the road trip. Apparently, preparations included face paste to hide my bruise and multiple attempts to stab me in the eye with a brown pencil and a black goo–coated wire brush.

  Marx insisted on wheeling me out of the hospital in a wheelchair, despite my objections. “I can walk, you know.”

  “You can barely think in a straight line right now, let alone walk in one, and I don’t relish the thought of pickin’ you up off the pavement.”

  “Because I’m too heavy?” I teased. “I mean, you did call me fat that one time in your car.”

  He laughed. “I did not call you fat. I said you were out of your weight class. That has nothin’ to do with bein’ fat. And no, for the record, you’re not too heavy.” He wheeled me toward the familiar maroon car parked in the closest spot.

  I pushed myself out of the wheelchair when we reached the passenger’s side.

  “Holly,” he said worriedly, stretching out a hand to brace me when I swayed suddenly.

  I moved my arm out of his reach and planted my hand on the roof of the car, balancing myself until the wave of dizziness passed. “I’m fine.” But man did transitioning from sitting to standing give me a head rush.

  He opened the passenger door of the car for me, and I gave him a funny look. “What is it with you and doors?” I had never really noticed it until we traveled to Maine together, but he had a habit of opening doors: car doors, hotel room doors, restaurant doors. On the rare occasion, I made it to the door first, but more often than not, he arrived and held the door open for me.

  His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I can open my own door.”

  “It’s called bein’ polite. Gentlemen open a lady’s door when they’re able to. They also usually offer them a hand to their feet, but some women are too—”

  “Don’t say it,” I interrupted as I climbed into the car, and he smiled as he bit back the word independent. “And I don’t think I like this whole door thing.”

  He squinted his eyes as he tried to reason out why I didn’t like it. “It’s not meant to imply you’re incapable of openin’ your own door or standin’ under your own power, Holly. It’s a sign of respect.”

  “I respect you. So should I offer you a hand up the next time you can’t get off the floor?” I asked teasingly.

  He grimaced. “Just how old do you think I am that I can’t get up off the floor?” At my small smirk, he said quickly, “Don’t answer that.”

  He closed my door and walked around the car to slide in the driver’ side. It wasn’t long before we pulled up to the curb outside my apartment. Being home should’ve filled me with a sense of comfort, but the sight of the yellow front door sent anxiety coursing through me.

  Marx pulled a ring of keys from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and dropped them into my hand.

  “I had your locks changed as soon as CSU was finished collectin’ evidence,” he explained. “There are duplicates on here if there’s anyone you want to have spares in case of an emergency. But as of the moment, you’re the only one with keys.”

  “Thanks.”

  The air of safety my home had once held was gone, and I felt lost when we walked into my apartment. I gathered my things as quickly as I could and locked up before it brought me to tears. I climbed back into the car with Marx, and we started our long road trip to Kansas.

  Chapter 33

  THICK TREES BLURRED by in a kaleidoscope of colors as we drove down a back road. We were nearing the end of the second half of our trip, and my anxiety of small spaces melded with my anxiety about coming back to a town I didn’t remember.

  “Get your tiny shoes off my dashboard,” Marx scolded lightly.

  I was hunkered down in my seat with my feet on the dashboard, bouncing on my toes. I shifted upright in my seat and dropped my feet to the floor. “Sorry.”

  “Do you need a break?”

  I shook my head. “Not here.” As beautiful as the fall colors were as they streaked by, thick patches of trees made me nervous. At least now I knew why. Apparently, when a psycho killer chases you through the woods, it leaves you with a slight anxiety problem down the road.

  “They know we’re coming, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. I spoke with Jordan over the phone and let him know we would be there sometime after dark.”

  “Does he know I don’t remember him?” The last thing I wanted to deal with was having to explain that, while we might have been childhood friends, I had no idea who he was. There was no way someone wouldn’t get hurt during that conversation.

  “I told him. He’s aware of the situation. But I expect it will still surprise him that you don’t remember him.” Marx glanced at me. “That’s a difficult thing for a person to wrap their mind around.”

  “You believed me.”

  He smiled warmly. “Yes, I did.”

  I leaned forward and dug through my bag in the floorboard until I found
a package of Swiss rolls. I gripped the plastic with shaky fingers and tried to pull it open.

  “You’re gonna eat sugar?”

  My fingers froze on the package, and I glanced at him. “Yeah,” I said slowly. Did he have some kind of weird sugar ban in his car?

  “You’re already bouncin’ off the roof,” he observed, and I followed his gaze to my leg bouncing up and down at a rapid pace.

  “But . . . I like Swiss rolls.”

  “Lord help us,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  I grinned and finally succeeded in ripping open the package. I peeled one of cakes off the cardboard and took a small bite. Sugary sweetness melted over my tongue. Mmm.

  I looked at the second roll, considering, and then glanced at Marx. I offered it to him. “Want one?” Ordinarily, I was very protective of my food, but I could share with a friend.

  “I don’t know. That’s the first thing I’ve seen you willin’ly eat in days. I’m afraid if I eat it you’ll starve to death.”

  “Trust me, I have more.”

  He accepted the treat. I continued nibbling mine down to a nub as I peered out the window. Although the trees were scary, they were strikingly beautiful at the same time.

  “How long until we get there?”

  “About an hour. I know you’re not terribly fond of the trees, but if you’re gonna need a break anytime soon, I’d rather stop before it gets dark,” he replied.

  I dragged my eyes away from the trees to look at the horizon. The sun was dropping quickly, and it would be dark in the next ten minutes or so. “I think I can make it.”

  I was both relieved and rattled when our headlights glinted off a worn wooden sign hanging on a post alongside the road that read, “WELCOME TO STONY BROOKE. Population 1,492.”

  Well, they were precise. What would happen if a resident died tomorrow? Would someone drive all the way out here to repaint the population number?

  Marx popped open the console between the seats and pulled out a small purple box with a sparkly ribbon on it. He held it out to me on the palm of his hand. “I got you a little somethin’.”

  I gazed at the pretty gift box on his palm with uncertainty. Hot chocolate and iced tea were innocuous and thoughtful, but a gift made me a little wary. “Why?” Was I supposed to give him something back? I didn’t have anything I was willing to give.

  His brow furrowed. “Because I wanted to. I don’t expect anythin’ in return.” He looked more concerned than offended by my wariness. “If it makes you feel better, you gave me cake. So we’re even.”

  I plucked it gently from his palm and turned it over in my hands. It was so pretty and delicate looking that I didn’t want to ruin it by opening it. “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t think you understand the concept of a gift, Holly. You’re supposed to unwrap it.”

  I turned it upside down and shook it lightly. “Is it breakable?”

  He smiled. “Well after that let’s hope not.”

  I observed the perfect bow. “Did you wrap it?”

  “Accordin’ to my mother, I tie bows like I tie my shoes, which for some reason seems to be a problem. So no, I had someone else tie it. A bow is a bow in my opinion.”

  I couldn’t help it: I glanced at his shoes, taking note of the haphazardly tied laces, and then tapped the box with a finger. “Your mom’s right. This one’s nicer.”

  “It wouldn’t be if you would just open it.”

  I nestled it on my lap and slowly untied the pretty ribbon. Sparkles peppered the seat cushion and floorboard. “Um . . . I think we just emasculated your car.”

  “It’ll recover.”

  I opened the box and parted the purple and pink tissue paper. In the center of the gift box was a sleek purple canister on a lanyard. I lifted the canister out of the box and examined it. It was a slightly different design, but I had held one of these before. “Pepper spray?”

  “If for any reason we get separated in this town, I wanted you to have somethin’ to protect yourself with.”

  “It’s purple.” My favorite color. That probably hadn’t been easy to find.

  “It comes with a lanyard, but don’t wear it around your neck. It’s too obvious that way, and it also makes it easier for an attacker to strangle you. Please keep it in your pocket.”

  Good to know.

  “There’s a lever on the back. You have to move it to the left to unlock it before you press it down. It’s a safety feature.”

  I knew how to use pepper spray, but I let him explain because I knew he wanted to. He enjoyed making people feel safe.

  “Thank you,” I said with a grateful smile. I tucked it into my coat pocket.

  “Let’s just hope you never need to use it,’’ he said, and I could hear the worry in his voice.

  It was dark when we finally arrived at the sheriff’s department in Stony Brooke, and I surveyed the autumn trees and Halloween decorations warily as I stepped out of the car.

  The sheriff’s department resembled an old library from the outside—quaint and outdated—and someone had plastered colored leaves across the inside of the windows.

  Marx closed his car door and kept one hand on his gun as he turned in a slow circle. “Festive people,” he remarked absently, but I knew he was searching the darkness for danger.

  I didn’t remember this place, and he was out of his element. The killer had sent me a note card from this town’s address with the very obvious message of “come home,” which meant he wanted me here. Neither of us had any doubt he was watching from somewhere in the shadows.

  Marx walked around the car to my side and put himself between me and the ominous parking lot. A few cars were scattered throughout the lot beneath dim security lights, but overall the parking lot had a very dark, eerie feel to it.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  I clung to the door, a little reluctant to let go and step back into a world I couldn’t remember.

  “You don’t have to do this, Holly,” he reminded me. “You have nothin’ to prove. We can find another way to help you remember that doesn’t involve puttin’ you in harm’s way.”

  “He’s gonna be wherever I am, which means whether I’m here or whether I’m in New York, I’m always in harm’s way.” I closed the car door and tucked my cold hands into the pockets of my jacket. My fingers wrapped around the small container of pepper spray Marx had given me, and I steeled myself as I started toward the building.

  Something stirred in the brush beyond the parking lot, and my footsteps faltered. Marx paused beside me and surveyed the darkness. There wasn’t a lot of ambient light in the country—no orange glow cast off by nearby factories or neon street signs. It was just . . . dark.

  “It’s probably just an animal,” he said, but his eyes remained fixed in the direction of the sound. He nudged me forward with a gentle touch on my arm. “Keep walkin’.”

  I started up the sidewalk with him by my side, but came up short when a figure stepped out of the doorway less than six feet ahead of us. Marx drew his weapon on instinct as he stepped between me and the unexpected man, but he kept it angled toward the ground.

  A bulb over the door illuminated the man in a pool of yellow light. He was around six feet with blond hair and a lithe frame that reminded me of Jacob, but his eyes were too shadowed to be visible. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but his right hand was clearly resting on a gun attached to his belt.

  “Detective Marx?” the man asked, and his voice was low and smooth.

  “Jordan?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. He moved his jacket aside, and a badge gleamed in the lamplight.

  Jordan. I knew that name. My stomach tightened at the memory of the little boy with the football. He wasn’t so little anymore. The sight of him made my nerves flutter.

  His attention moved from Marx to me, and there was a subtle shift in his posture when he noticed me. There wasn’t much to see in the darkness, but he tried.

  “Hello, Holly,” Jordan fin
ally said, and his smooth voice was suddenly tense with restrained emotion. “It’s good to see you.’’

  “Hi,” was all I managed to say.

  Marx glanced down at me as he holstered his gun. “I’d like to get her inside quickly.”

  His voice seemed to snap Jordan’s focus back to the matter at hand. “Of course.” He stepped aside and held the door open.

  “After you, Holly,” Marx prompted, urging me forward, and I gripped the canister in my pocket a little tighter as I walked stiffly up the sidewalk. I hugged the wall to put as much space as possible between me and Jordan as I slipped through the doorway.

  “We weren’t expecting you for another two hours,” Jordan said as he followed Marx through the doorway. “We intended to meet you in the parking lot.”

  “We made good time,” Marx explained vaguely.

  Jordan locked the door and dropped the blinds after we were all inside.

  “What’s with the glass door? It’s not gonna keep very many people out,” I whispered to Marx.

  His lips twitched in amusement, and he whispered back, “Believe it or not, there aren’t that many people who try to break into a sheriff’s department.”

  “Right,” I muttered, feeling dense.

  Jordan turned around, and I caught a glimpse of the sparkling blue eyes from my memory. I got the sense that I had trusted the boy with those eyes implicitly, but I didn’t know the man.

  “Marx, it’s good to meet you,” he said as he offered his hand.

  Marx shook it briskly. “Same to you. Is your father here?”

  “No, he actually retired. He’s almost seventy. But he stops by from time to time. I run the department.”

  Marx looked him over. “Awfully young, aren’t you?”

  Jordan gave him a tight but unoffended smile. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time his abilities had been called into question due to his age. “I’m twenty-eight, Detective, not twelve. I do know how to handle a crime.”

  His gaze shifted to me, and he took a small step forward—whether to hug me or shake my hand, I wasn’t sure—but I took an equally small step closer to Marx that stopped him in his tracks.