Page 35 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

11

August 12th

8:14PM

THE DRIVE TOLong Grass takes me twice as long tonight. First it is because I convince myself to drive under the speed limit, a safety measure against my mental state and drunk drivers alike. Then it is because I put on my hazards, pull over, and use every trick in my therapeutic arsenal to bring me back from the brink. Focus on your five senses, exactly what is in front of you, nothing more.

Sight: the black, starless sky.

Sound: the rumble of my engine.

Smell: the cigarette I just ashed against the window.

Taste: cigarettes and chokecherry pie.

Touch: my clammy skin adhering to my fake leather seats.

I chain-smoke four cigarettes, smoking each one down further than the last. My father never smokes his all the way down to the filter. Suddenly I’m back at the dining room table, only now I’m a knock-kneed fifteen-year-old and the cigarette in my hand is the first one I’ve ever smoked. He watches me take dragafter drag until it burns just past the halfway point, and then he plucks it from my lips.

“Never smoke further than this, butterfly,” he said, pinching the filter to a pulp between his ragged nails. “This is where the cancer is.”

As I light my fifth cigarette with the cherry of my fourth, a car pulls up behind me. The driver is illuminated by the cabin light, and even though his face is lowered, I know exactly who it is. I’d recognize that stupid cowboy hat anywhere.

“You stick out like a sore thumb with those Missouri plates.” Josiah stoops beside my window to meet me at eye level. Shadows obscure his face, only the whites of his eyes and the brown of his teeth visible. Together, we exhale a single noxious cloud of nicotine. My cigarette commingles with his chewing tobacco.

“There’s nothing illegal about pulling over to smoke a cigarette.”

“Technically? Shoulder’s closed here,” he says.

“Short on your ticket quota this week?”

“Believe it or not, Providence, I pulled over to make sure you were okay.”

“I don’t believe it.” I imagine him watching me. Staking out my father’s house. Biding his time. Following me into the inky darkness. My eyes drift toward the barren prairie surrounding us. We’re the only living souls for miles around.

A terrible thought emerges. “How did you know where I was?” I ask.

“Out on patrol, and like I said, those Missouri plates.”

“Or maybe my father told you I’d be in town tonight.”

Josiah chuckles. “See, that’s how I can tell you’re a city dweller now. In small towns, not everyone is out to get you.”

But Annesville is not like every other small town. This is my own personal haunted house with monsters lurking in every corner, distorted by every shadow.

“If I can be honest, I’m only interested in talking to you if you know something about my mother.”

“As soon as we find her, you’ll be my first call. You’ve got my word.”

I’m seduced by the thought of being the first person to know my mother’s fate—so seduced by it, I nearly divulge my conversation with Gil about Mitch Perkins, but I swallow the words before they take shape.

He sweeps his tongue over his bottom teeth, lower lip protruding from the disturbance. “Honest to God, I believe we’ll bring your mother home safe. I know the odds and the statistics, but I also know to trust my intuition when it feels this strong. She’s still alive.”

Grace and her podcasts. She’d have a sharp comeback for Josiah, but all I can manage is a half-hearted nod. Her words from yesterday rattle through my mind—you’re useless, Providence—but I drown them out before I can start to believe them. If I was useless, I wouldn’t have faced Tom Byrd at dinner.

“Mind if I take a look at your registration? I promise I’ll be out of your hair after that.”

I nod and reach for the glove box. When I open it, my gun stares back at me.

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