“Morgan, wait!”
Even if it’s a trick, I’m willing to believe. Stumbling, I slow and spin to see Clay illuminated by the headlights of the beater that replaced his Corvair. He jogs toward me and before I can say anything, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the car. Instinctively, my arms go around his neck. His body is solid and steady, heartbeat better than a lullaby. With gentle hands he deposits me in the passenger seat and then vaults the hood of the car in a move that leaves me dazed with grateful appreciation.
Creepy Jack wasn’t the only one who knew, I realize then. I told Clay I’d be there in half an hour. When I didn’t show, maybe he came looking.
Though he didn’t exactly save me, I’m so touched that it feels like my throat’s clogged up with words and tears. Wordless, he hands me a bottle of water and I sip from it, conscious that I’m filthy. He doesn’t speak even after we’re on the road, heading back toward town. At this point his place feels like sanctuary because Creepy Jack won’t dare approach me where there are witnesses who can testify to his crimes. I have no proof he’s the reason I look this way, but I want so bad to call the cops as soon as we arrive at Clay’s house and tell them everything. Maybe I can’t prove he basically carjacked me and made me run for my life, but I still have the pictures Oscar took. Those are enough to mess up Patterson’s life permanently.
And yours, a small, frightened voice whispers. My sigh comes out as a little moan.
“You’re not asking.” I’m not surprised how hoarse I sound.
“It’s obvious something serious went down.” His tone is calm, but his hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, like it’s all he can do not to lose his shit.
But I appreciate his composure. It allows me to wrap up mine like a tattered ball gown I’ve been wearing for days in the forest. I can almost tug at the satin edges, threading myself together with will and grit; I’m an oyster with secrets layered beneath the pink of my flesh. Maybe if I hold them long enough I can produce a pearl for Clay to admire. Or maybe the constant scrape of it will leave me bleeding and raw.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I was worried when you said you weren’t okay … and when you didn’t show up, I nearly lost my mind.” Still conversational, but his concern reaches me like a hug, untangling the knots of anxiety from the constant terror of the last few hours.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Did you do it on purpose?” he asks.
“What? No. Of course not.” I’m genuinely startled by the question.
“Then there’s no need to apologize. Just point me at the asshole that hurt you and I’ll break him in two.”
That’s not a threat, I realize. It’s a guarantee. My resolve to share everything falters. If I tell him all about Creepy Jack, he’ll end up in jail. Patterson has power around here, money, influence, access to expensive lawyers. While I desperately need someone on my side, I don’t want Clay immolated on the pyre of my screwed-up life. It doesn’t help that these problems started before I took over as Morgan Frost. No matter what, I’m the one stuck dealing with the situation as it stands.
“Can it wait until we get to your place? I’ll clarify as much as I can,” I say finally.
“That explanation better include a name.” He doesn’t look away from the road, each turn bringing us closer to the moment of truth. “I protect what’s mine. Before now, it hasn’t been much, but I’m twice an asshole if I let anyone treat you like this. I don’t care what it costs me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter.
Clay ignores that, or maybe it was too soft for him to catch. He touches my knee lightly, comfort, reassurance, or both. “Sorry, forget that. I always come on too strong when I’m scared. Right now I need to patch you up, not figure out who to kneecap.”
The mental image of Clay ambushing Creepy Jack with a bat is satisfying. I enjoy that mental image for a while. Then I say, “I’m not badly hurt. You can relax.”
“Easy for you to say. They just did a special report tonight on a college girl two counties over who went missing on her way home from church.”
Only the good die young, pops into my head but I swallow the macabre joke. Dark humor doesn’t help and it will only reveal my ragged nerves. “Really? Damn. I’m not sure what that has to do with me, though.”
“You fit the general profile,” he says.
For a few seconds I can’t parse that. “Huh?”
“Dark hair, blue eyes, sixteen to twenty-two, between five seven and five nine. The girl who vanished isn’t the first, apparently. There have been two more in the last six months. The anchors were talking about a possible taskforce or something.”
“So that’s why you were so panicked,” I whisper.
Questions burn a hole in my mind, two sides of the same awful coin—am I in danger of being taken because I look like them … or is someone snatching them because they look like me?