Page 67 of Protected

When I roll over, I’m looking right at Deck, who is lying a few feet away. He’s awake too. We stare at each other.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He nods.You okay?

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

Talk to me now?

Once again, I’m bombarded by waves of fear, but I control it enough to keep my soft murmur gentle. “I told you. I don’t have anything else to say to you. I’ve told you everything. Why won’t you believe me?”

His tender expression tightens into frustration.Not talking truth.

“Yes, I am. And you really need to stop all this. It’s getting old.” I get up, my hope that we can put all this behind us and get back to normal totally dashed.

So we’re still in whatever weird fight we’ve fallen into as we get dressed and ready for the day.

I can’t ask to ride the ATV again this morning, so I reluctantly climb into the back of my normal pickup with Micah, Burgundy, and Deck.

Deck gives me a sad, sober look.

“Shit, would y’all just kiss and make up?” Micah mutters. “All this tension is getting under my skin.”

“There’s nothing to make up,” I say, trying to sound normal but ending up way too cool.

Micah snorts, and Burgundy shakes her head at me. “You guys are normally so close. What even happened?”

“Nothing! Can we please stop talking about it?”

Burgundy turns toward Deck for the answer I won’tgive her, but he just shakes his head and gestures toward me.

Either saying it’s my fault or it’s mine to say.

Probably the latter.

He’s never been the kind to blame someone else.

So the mood in our truck is a downer all morning. After stopping for our midday break by a river, I’m so upset and rattled that I can’t stand the thought of climbing back in with the others, so I spontaneously generate a passable excuse about having pulled a muscle so I can ask Logan if I can ride somewhere else in the afternoon.

If he doesn’t believe me, he makes no sign of it. He says I can get in the supply Jeep with Trisha.

That would never be my first choice, but right now any sort of escape from the way Deck is making me feel is a gift. As everyone is climbing into their assigned vehicles, I walk back to the Jeep at the end of the line and open the back hatch.

No Trisha.

Everyone else is nearly ready to head out—in their vehicles or right beside them. Laid-back, greasy Carl is sitting behind the steering wheel of the supply Jeep, and he looks over his shoulder to where I’m standing in the back. “Said she had a bathroom emergency. Headed that way.” He nods sideways toward where the river cuts into some tangled woods. “Maybe you can go round her up. We’re ’bout to leave, and I hate havin’ to rush to catch up to the others.”

“I’ll go get her,” I tell him.

Logan’s Jeep has started to drive, followed closely by the ATVs. The pickup truck where I usually ride starts off, spinning some gravel beneath its wheels, and I accelerate to a jog.

Hopefully Trisha isn’t sick. Dealing with diarrhea on the road with no working toilet is a nightmare.

I slow down when I reach the trees. I couldn’t tell you why. An instinct tingles at the back of my neck, making me stop jogging and move more quietly toward the edge of the river.

It’s not until I come into sight of Trisha that I understand what triggered the feeling.

Trisha is there, and she’s not alone.

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