Chapter Three
Dalton’s tiny red-with-rust-spots Civic sputters down the I-76 highway toward Lancaster. An hour and a half there and back and I’ll be home before Jane ever knows I ditched school. It’s almost Spring Break, anyway. I’ve turned in most of my work, I reason with myself.
Besides, Jane won’t care. She’s barely around to notice. The hospital is more her home than our house. I’m not even sure she’ll be there on Sunday morning to see Dalton and me off to that bereavement camp for kids she insists we go to over the break.
The gas light flashes on.
“Crap. Dalton,” I seethe under my breath. He’s always running out of gas. I’m approaching the next exit and turn on the blinker.
The Turkey Hill Minit Market isn’t as busy as I thought it’d be during morning rush hour. I pull up to the pump right beside a black Audi sedan with a front license plate that reads My God Carries a Hammer.
“Nice.” I snicker and pop open the gas tank cover.
I fill up the Civic and rush inside to get a horrible gas station coffee. The lanky guy behind the counter straightens. His wide-set eyes follow me the entire way to the coffee bar. A man, way over six feet tall, with red hair that’s short on the sides and fades up to a dovetail on top, has one of the refrigerator doors open. With his stare on the contents inside, he rubs his neatly cut beard.
The Styrofoam coffee cup plunks from the holder when I tug it out. I pour a premade cappuccino from the fountain.
The man steps back and looks over, his hand still holding open the door.
The air between the man and me feels off—tense. It’s probably just me, and the fact I’m practically alone with a suspicious man in a gas station. I secure a lid over my cup and turn to leave.
“Which one do you suggest?” he asks, stopping me. There’s a slight accent to his voice, but I can’t place it. Possibly Scottish?
I glance around, and my eyes stop on him. “Are you talking to me?”
“There’s no one else about.” His smile is off. Like he has to remember how to create one or something.
“I don’t drink the stuff, but my brother likes the one with the gold star.” I want to look away, but something in his eyes captures me. They’re like a kaleidoscope of fall leaves—orange, yellow, and brown. Their focus on me causes the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck to stand straight up.
He picks up a can of the drink I suggested and lets go of the refrigerator door, his eyes never leaving me.
Now he’s freaking me out.
I pretend to search the pastries near the coffee bar.
“A young girl such as yourself should not be traveling alone,” he says. “You should be in school.”
The pastries blur out of focus, the display stands are closing in on me, and the coffee cup shakes in my hand. Great. The creeper knows I’m alone. I have to lie. Tell him Dalton is in the back seat, sleeping.
I glance over at him. “I’m not alone—”
He’s gone. I search over the display cases, but he isn’t anywhere in the market. The guy behind the counter watches me intently while taking my cash for the coffee. It’s as if he’s never seen a dollar bill before. Probably hasn’t, with everyone paying with debit or credit cards.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I force a smile to back up my statement. “Thank you.”
“Have a nice day.” His eyes have left me to watch two younger guys shuffling around the display cases.
The front door slides shut behind me. A brisk wind whips dark strands of hair around my face. I wrap my arms around me and dart for the Civic. The black Audi is gone, and I wonder if the man who strangely disappeared owns it. He did look like someone who would have a Thor license plate.
I’m nervous during the rest of the ride to Lancaster, glancing through the rearview window, checking and rechecking that no one’s following me. That the black Audi isn’t there.
“In 1.5 miles, turn left,” the female voice on my phone’s GPS directs.
Lancaster is a pretty cool town, with nearby farmlands and Amish country. When Dad was alive, we’d take weekend trips here and do touristy things like buggy rides and hikes. He loved checking out the architecture.
“In five hundred feet, your destination is on the left,” the GPS says.
I’ve never been in this neighborhood before. The houses are older, and the area is quaint. I pull the Civic up to the curb and stare at the home. It’s a two-and-a-half-story stone house and resembles a French countryside chateau with its bay windows, dormers, steepled gables, and cone-shaped roofs.
Dalton and I went to the hospital the night of the accident to see how the old man was doing, but he hadn’t made it, dying only minutes after arriving in the ER. His family left before I could give the bag to his grandson.
I would’ve come sooner, but I figured the family needed space to mourn. His obit said they were having a memorial and reception for family and friends. So here I am. At his house. Two weeks after the accident. Feels like a lifetime.
It’s almost nine in the morning. He probably would’ve been at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper, as old people do. His day might’ve been spent tending to the beautiful and colorful flowers in the beds surrounding the lawn.
For all I know, the house might be deserted. His grandson could live somewhere else.
After grabbing the man’s bag, I pop open the Civic’s door and slide out. The sidewalk is uneven and broken in spots. Because I’m superstitious, I avoid stepping on the cracks. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers over the lawn. The door has several locks and a peephole at eye level. I count them.
Seriously? Five? The door is metal, too. Above my head is a security camera.
Someone’s expecting the apocalypse.
I press the doorbell and wait.
And wait.
I press it again.
When no one answers, I turn to leave but then pause. A faint bass comes from around the corner of the house. The stone pavers on the lawn lead me to the front of the garage.
The doors are open, and a guy about my age works a tattered punching bag hanging by a chain attached to the ceiling. He’s shirtless, and his shorts are slung low on his hips. Tall, with dark, wavy hair, the boy isn’t bad to look at.
With each throw of his fist or kick, his muscles flex then go slack. The way he’s hitting the bag, he’s definitely letting off steam. Maybe I should come back later when he’s calmer.
This is a bad idea. I could just leave the bag at the front door. But then I won’t find out why my name is on that list. Or why the man crossed my parents off that same list. The guy needs some cooling down. I can go find a coffee shop somewhere and come back when he’s less angry and more dressed.
His music is so loud, he hasn’t noticed my approach, so I ease around and head back the way I came.
“Hey,” he shouts.
Crap. He spotted me. I turn back around.
He’s walking my way. His bare chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. A nautical star medallion with a silver chain rests just below his collarbone. “You need something?”
“Um.” Don’t look at his abdomen. My eyes betray me and go there. His half nakedness distracts me, and I forget what I was going to say. “Um…”
His lips twist into a smirk, amusement igniting in his eyes, so dark they’re almost black. He places his fist on his hip. It’s obvious he’s doing that to flex his bicep.
The corners of his mouth lower, and his fist drops away from his waist. “Where’d you get that bag?”
My hand instantly goes to the satchel’s strap. “He gave it to me.”
His eyes fix on mine. “My grandfather would never let it out of his sight.”
“I was there. Um. At the accident.” I sound insensitive. “I’m sorry for your loss. My name is Ana. Analiese Jordan.”
“Thank you. I’m Marek Conte.” He grabs the back of his neck, and I look everywhere else but at him. The boys at my school don’t look like him. He must work out a lot.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Why would he give it to you?” he asks, nodding at the satchel against my hip. “His bag?”
“I’m not sure, but he told me to return it to you.” I remove the strap from my shoulder, step closer to him, and give him the bag. Our hands touch, and a rush of adrenaline surges through my body. It’s a strange-encounter kind of day. First the Thor worshipper, and now Marek in all his bare-chested glory.
Marek stares at the bag for several beats before walking off while saying, “Again, thanks.”
Is that it? I didn’t drive all this way to not get any answers.
“Wait,” I say.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “What? Is there something more?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I level him with my best “it doesn’t faze me that you don’t have a shirt on” look. “There’s a list in that bag. It has my name on it. More importantly, it has my parents’ names, too, and theirs are crossed off. Do you know why he put us on it?”
A confused look passes over his face, and his eyes drop to the bag. “I don’t know. Come inside, and we’ll check it out.”
“Inside?” With you? No matter how hot the guy is, being alone with him is probably not a good idea. Some serial killers aren’t bad looking. That’s how they trick their prey.
“Yes,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Plus, my gram just made apple bread. Do you drink coffee?”
“That’s like asking if I breathe.”
He laughs. It’s not genuine, but more like the laugh you do when you’ve heard a joke too many times before. “Good. We have something in common. Come on.”
I trail him to the front and up the porch. The house has a small foyer, decorated in warm browns and shocks of red. Paintings crowd the walls. Aging flowers arranged in cut-glass vases sit on a long entryway table with sympathy cards stacked to the side. Probably from the funeral. My heart sinks at the thought.
He drops the bag on a bench by the door, grabs a T-shirt hanging off the edge, and pulls it over his head. I try not to watch the soft blue material slowly cover his extremely fit torso, but can’t help it. His eyes meet mine just as I catch the last glimpse of his tanned skin above the waist of his shorts. The smile on his lips widens, and I quickly look away, pretending to study one of the paintings on the wall.
“My gramps’s work.” He smiles at the one my eyes are fixed on—a boy and his dog playing fetch with a red ball. “That’s Bandit and me. I’m six there.”
“He was really talented.” And I’m not lying, like you do when someone is proud of their kid’s work and it’s horrible. The paintings are beautiful. “I bet they’d sell well—”
My words jam in my throat when my gaze lands on a painting of a young girl with dark hair, cradling a doll, a death’s-head hawkmoth sitting on her arm.
“That girl is me.”