Page 35 of The Stranger

I wanted to protect her, and I’ve failed. I just wanted to find us a safe place to rest for the night, but instead, I’ve gotten us tied up in a murder with our DNA all over the crime scene.

And, though it’s the least of my problems, I wanted to make it to my family’s house for the holiday, but I won’t. Every shred of my plans tonight have been torn apart.

And Ernest is dead.

And Tibby saw it.

And now we’re going to ride with strangers because I fucked up.

I wish I could take it back. I wasn’t thinking.

I’m tired. I’m so, so tired, and my body hurts, and I just need to sleep, but I can’t because, more than anything else, I owe it to her to keep her safe.

This is all my fault.

What was I thinking?

I just don’t understand how any of this could’ve happened. Things have gone so wrong, and I don’t know how it’s possible.

I pull open the car door with trembling hands, mindlessly grabbing a pack of gum from my center console and a pair of sunglasses from the visor. Nothing I’m doing makes sense and I’m aware of this, but I need to look like there was a reason for me to go to my car if she asks.

I lock the doors and make my way to the trunk, checking over my shoulder to be sure no one is watching.

I’m not sure what the road conditions are like, and I don’t trust this woman’s driving, but I can only hope we make it out of this. That we get somewhere with service and can call this in. I’ve never been more grateful we paid in cash and can potentially remain anonymous with our tip, though I suppose the car being in the parking lot puts a damper on those plans.

I pop open the trunk and stare at the bag of my nieces’ Christmas gifts. I’d nearly forgotten about them in my rush to leave. I grab the bag with the gifts inside as my eyes land on the real reason I came back to the car. The one thing I can’t leave here: the knife. The silver blade glints in the moonlight as I reach inside and close it. Checking over my shoulder one last time, I slip it into my pocket, then slam the trunk shut and head for the getaway car.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TIBBY

We ride in complete and total silence. The couple doesn’t speak to us or to each other. Walker doesn’t speak to me. There is no music playing. Only the quiet sounds of the road and the snow and ice underneath our tires.

Partly, I assume it’s because the woman is a cautious driver and wants to keep her mind clear on the roads, but partly, I think it’s because she’s keeping an eye on us and trying to decide if she’s made a mistake by letting us ride with them. I squeeze my hands in my lap, shivering from the cold that seems to be seeping in from outside through the thin car windows and from the nerves currently wreaking havoc in my stomach.

I feel like a rubber band waiting to snap or a flame waiting to be snuffed out. Like I know something is coming, something is going to happen, but I don’t know what.

I only know that I feel safer away from the motel, though I can’t get the image of Ernest’s body out of my mind. The way he stared blankly into space, the way the blood was drying on his skin. Everything about that situation was wrong.

And his wife…

Oh, his poor wife. Alone in the chair. Sick. Helpless. Waiting for her husband to return with no idea that he won’t. Will anyone ever care for her the way he did? Is she even conscious enough to understand what it means when he doesn’t come back?

Even worse, she could be the one to find him.

Tears brim my eyes, and I force myself to think of anything else. I can’t be weak right now. Ernest and his wife were strangers. For all I know, they were horrible people. I can’t allow myself to grieve over them right now. I have to remain focused. To figure out a plan.

As soon as I find a phone, I’ll call Jess. Well, no. I’ll call the police first, then Jess. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll call my parents. They won’t be happy about it, but I have to believe they’ll come for me. They won’t want me to be in danger, no matter how much of a disappointment I am to them.

Every once in a while, the man lowers his visor and stares at me in the mirror, his beady eyes gleaming in the glow from the stereo.

“Where are you kids from?” the woman asks, breaking the silence finally.

“Um, I’m staying near Atlanta right now.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, staring out the window. It’ll take my parents hours to get here. I can only hope, wherever we stop, the place will be safe and warm. Maybe I’ll end up at the police station, giving them my statement. But I don’t know anything, really. I saw the blood, sure. And the trail leading toward the door. Will I get into trouble for not calling sooner?

Then again, how was I supposed to call when none of the phones were working? At least, ours wasn’t. And neither was Walker’s cell phone. I can’t say for certain about the rest. Will they blame me for not checking all of them? What if the phone in the lobby was working and I could’ve called for help as soon as I saw the blood? Now that I think of it, was there even a phone in the lobby? I can’t remember. What if it was only the phone in our room that was out? What if, by the time the police get there, that phone is back up and running, too, and I look like a liar? Or what if there was a code I wasn’t aware of that I was supposed to dial first in order to place a call?

My thoughts and panic are dizzying.