Page 58 of Made for You
I make a face.
“Your hair is kind of orange,” he continues, “and you’re mellow and sweet and—”
I shimmy my hips. “Juicy?”
He cracks up, and so do I. Hearing him laugh, my fears don’t exactly flee. I have more digging to do before I can put these new concerns to rest.
But France is ahead, and there’s plenty more time, and for tonight, I have a rose.
NOW
I swerve and release a sharp yelp. Yank the car back into the lane, my headlights weaving like spooked animals on the dark road. Adrenaline follows, burning through my gut. Shit. I was milliseconds away from plummeting down a dark embankment.
“Wake up, Julia,” I say, giving myself a dry smack on the cheek. I fumble for the fast-food bag on the passenger seat, but the French fries I fed myself one at a time to try and stay alert when I cleared Chicago are long gone.
I roll down all the windows, bringing in a blustery chill. Just a few more minutes. I can stay awake. Have to stay awake. I break into a full-volume rendition of “Bad Romance,” which gets me to the County Road HH turnoff. Then I hit the brakes.
The reporters. What if they’re camped out in my yard? I can’t risk getting closer, so I pull the car onto the dirt shoulder and kill the engine. Almost home. And also, not. Without Josh and Annaleigh, I’m just heading toward a place to sleep.
Purse slung over my shoulder, I emerge into the night and lock the car. It’s 10:30 and the moon is playing peekaboo with the clouds. A humid chill is already seeping through my sweater. The trees are quiet, the sinews of their branches disappearing into the black above, like instead of trees they’re the roots of the sky, and the world at night some dank underground.
I turn on my phone flashlight and head straight through the grassy strip that lines the road, soft with mud, making my way toward the woods that curve around this whole little section—my best hope at approaching my own house without being spotted. A final glance behind me shows the black hulk of my lonely car, and the lonelier road behind it. I try not to think about the horrors these woods have seen. Did Royce do his deeds at night, under this same moon? On that stump over there—or that one? Did he swing true and make clean cuts, or did he hack...and hack... There’s a nasty edge to my heartbeat as I step into the inky trees. It feels like being swallowed alive. Would anyone bat an eye, passing my remains? Will my synthetic skin last, year after year, under the sun and rain and snow, or have they programmed it to imitate the natural rot of human flesh?
My pulse pumps in my ears as I walk through the trees, the ghost-white light from my phone jittering with each step. The forest dances around me like a creature in its death spasms, with me creeping between its ribs. I’m trying to see if I’ve already passed the first house when my flashlight falls on something white. I gasp, recoiling—a bone? No—just a reflection off a beer bottle. I scan my light around and see evidence of people. A scorched area where there must have been a bonfire. A pile of ash. More beer bottles. Keep going.
A disturbance in the air becomes a hum, which soon becomes something deeper: the growl of machinery, churning like a restless creature. Snatches of dull, orange light appear through the trees—and there’s the shape of Bob’s barn, backlit against the glow. Is he grinding up deer meat? At this hour?
I use the cover of sound to hurry forward a little faster without worrying about how much noise I’m making. The black finger-shapes of the trees make his barn jump in and out of sight as I run, like a skipping projector. What does Bob do, exactly, in that barn? With no one to watch, what might he be feeding into his machines—
My mind jumps to the baby monitor, the male growl of his voice. Shhhh, little lady... I shiver. Annaleigh is safe now. For all I care, Bob can spend the rest of his days singing his lullabies into the fucking void.
His property is much wider than ours, and I’m soon surrounded by more trees and zero light. It feels too silent, and my footsteps overloud.
“C’mon, it’s not that hard to find your own house,” I whisper to myself, though I’m also dreading my arrival. Walking in alone. At least Captain will be there.
“No! She didn’t kill him!” comes a clear voice, so sudden that I stop in my tracks, immediately pressing my phone’s flashlight into my jeans to conceal my presence. “I’ve told you already. I saw him leave Saturday night with my own two eyes. She was home drinking and like...watching Netflix!” There’s no mistaking Eden’s voice. “Three strikes you’re out means there was a third time. There were only two.” Her breathing is quick, agitated. “No. I have a view into her house, for fuck’s sake...From the woods...Yes...No...No...I’m in her house all the time. I would have known.”
My heart is like a revving engine. There’s black behind me. Black in front. And somewhere in that blackness is my babysitter. I try to breathe evenly, quietly. A fiery glow briefly lights the darkness and I try to estimate the distance between us. Thirty feet, maybe?
“No, she’s not home yet.” Silence, another burn of orange. The earthy smell of weed filters toward me. “Of course I’ll call you...Anything new...Sure, boss.”
There’s a brief illumination from her phone that casts her profile in white light. Then the woods go dark again.
Do I stand here? Wait for her to leave? Something tickles my ankle and I move my foot. A twig cracks. Fuck.
“Who’s there?” she calls out.
Should I try to hide? But it’s so dark, I can’t see what to hide behind.
“Who’s there?” Eden repeats. “Don’t move! I have a gun!” There are sounds of fumbling, then a bright light shines in my eyes. I whip out my own phone, shining its light on Eden. She looks small and pale in the darkness. She’s wearing an oversize sweatshirt over jeans and holding her joint in one hand, her phone in the other. Definitely no gun.
“Julia? What are you doing here?” Her look of fear melts into concern as she tromps toward me. “Are you okay? Is Annaleigh safe?”
“Who were you talking to about me?” I say, my voice shaking. I can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or rage at this point.
“Fuck, Julia.” She sighs and walks closer, her steps cracking and crunching. “It was the sheriff, okay?”
“At this time of night?”