Page 121 of Trapper Road

“She wasn’t with him, was she?” I press.

She grimaces and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

This can’t be happening. There has to be another explanation. I press my hands against the counter and lean forward. “Tell me exactly when you’ve seen them and who with.”

I’m making her uncomfortable, I know. But I can’t care about that right now. The only thing that matters is my kids.

She seems to understand my panic and concern. “Your son — Connor — came in Thursday. I think Vee — the girl — might have been with him, but she didn’t come inside. He sat by himself, playing on his phone most of the time. The two of them came in again the next day, and they spent a while with those two girls you asked about. They sat back there.” She gestures to a table in the back corner.

“You’re sure it was the same girls. You’re sure it was Willa and Mandy?”

She nods. “They tend to stand out.”

My mind scrambles for an explanation. Vee mentioned meeting Mandy the first afternoon we arrived. Maybe they ran into each other again and it just looked like they were old friends. “Any possibility it was just a chance meeting?”

“No, the two girls were obviously waiting for them. The four of them looked like they’d known each other a while, that’s why it didn’t occur to me they were your kids.”

How was this even possible? How could this have happened? And right under my nose!

Because they lied to me.

The realization leaves me breathless. Vee I can understand — she’s always played fast and loose with the truth. But Connor — my baby. I would have never thought him capable of something like this — deliberate subterfuge over the course of days. Especially given everything else that’s going on.

But it’s Willa and Mandy who are really causing the alarm bells to sound in my head. I still don’t fully understand their role in Juliette’s disappearance, and Trevor’s false confession, but I know they can’t be trusted.

They’re dangerous. And I don’t want my kids anywhere near them.

I fumble for my phone, pulling up the location app. Visions of Juliette’s broken and scattered remains spin through my mind as I wait for the screen to load. Their icons finally appear, and I sag against the counter. They’re both still at the motel, thank God.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re safe.

I shake my head, trying to talk myself down from imagining the worst.

Instead I let myself focus on my anger. I’m nearly vibrating with it, my skin burning hot. I trusted them. And they betrayed that trust. It’s not as though I like being so rigid about their safety, or that I like Sicko Patrol, or reminding them of all the horrors in the world. I don’t like that the first thing I do when I enter any room is scope emergency exits, taking note of places we could take cover if attacked. I don’t like looking at every person I meet as a potential threat.

This isn’t the life I would have chosen, but it’s the one I’ve been forced to live. By Melvin, by the Lost Angels, by Jonathan Watson. If I could keep my kids from it, I would. But I can’t keep the horror of the world at bay. I can only make sure my kids are prepared to face it when it comes.

And yet I’ve failed. Because if I’d succeeded, they would have never even considered sneaking around. They wouldn’t have lied.

“I have to go,” I tell Valeria, reaching for my purse to pull out my wallet.

She places her hand over mine. “It’s on the house.” I start to protest but she cuts me off. “It’s the last pot of the day. It would have been thrown out anyway. Please.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I can see that she understands. Whether she’s a mother, a sister, a daughter, a wife, a friend — she’s known what it is to have loved ones in need. She knows how much the simplest gesture can mean.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

She nods, and I turn, rushing for the door. The motel is only a couple of miles away, but the drive feels endless. It becomes impossible to remain reasonable, to keep the worst-case scenarios from playing out in vivid detail. Dark thoughts creep around the edge of my consciousness, horrible images of my kids hurt or in pain or lost, their remains scattered in the wilderness.

I veer into the motel parking lot, slamming on the brakes and jumping out of the car. I already have the keycard in my hand by the time I reach the door. The electronic lock clicks open, and I turn the knob, hoping to feel the jolt of the chain jerking the door to a stop.

It doesn’t come. The door swings open, banging against the wall.They just forgot the chain like always, I tell myself. But my heart’s already screaming, adrenaline pumping through my system. “Connor!” I call out. “Vee!”

My gun is in my hand, the motions of clearing the room automatic. I step inside, sweeping the gun in an arc. Bracing myself for anything: a stranger leaping out at me, my kids taken by surprise and yelling in alarm.

I move quickly to the bathroom, knocking aside the shower curtain. Clear. I race to the connecting door. I call their names again as I throw it open. I want so desperately to see Vee lounging on her bed, TV blaring. Connor sitting crosslegged, computer in his lap.

But the room is empty. The bathroom too.

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