Page 45 of Trapper Road

For the first time, I understand why that technique is so successful. Willa’s silence is almost painful. I’m frantic to find a way to end it. “How long have you been waiting here?”

She shrugs. “Not long.”

She’s lying. Something in her features gives her away, but I can’t quite put my finger on what. I’m not sure I care, though. The thought of her waiting for me makes my cheeks warm.

“How did you know where I was?”

Another shrug. “Only one motel in town, so wasn’t hard to guess. Especially when I saw your mamma’s car parked out front.”

I glance at the spot where Mom had parked her car the night before. She’d left early this morning, before eight, which meant Willa had her eye on the place for a while. I’m trying to decide whether to call her out on that when she asks, “You wanna go for a walk?”

The question takes me by surprise, and I barely stop myself from blurting out “why?” Instead I glance back at the motel. Vee will be asleep for hours, and Mom won’t be back for a while. If I stay here there will be nothing for me to do, and with nothing to occupy my mind, I know I’ll just keep thinking about Kevin and what happened and all the articles saying so much awful crap about me.

I’ll do anything to avoid facing that.

I know I should ask Mom, or at least tell her where I’m going, but having to tell Willa I need to ask for permission makes me feel like a little kid. I’m fifteen years old. I know how to take care of myself. I should be allowed to go on a walk if I want to.

My phone’s still plugged into the charger on my bedside table, and I consider taking a moment to grab it. But I’m afraid if I do so, Willa might change her mind and wander off without me. Besides, the last thing I need is for Mom to check the location app and see that I’m not at the motel and call me all frantic and treating me like a child. To have that happen in front of Willa would be mortifying.

She holds out a hand. “Come on.”

That makes up my mind right there. I surreptitiously wipe my palm against my pants, trying to dry it, before sliding my hand into hers. She gives me a huge grin. My stomach flips pleasantly in response.

With a chime of laughter, she takes off across the parking lot, pulling me behind her.

There’s something strange about this entire encounter, and I know I should have my guard up, but nothing about Willa even hints at the possibility of danger. In fact, just the opposite. She’s bright and cheery and genuine, and I feel my spirit lifting just being around her.

Plus, she actuallywantsto spend time with me.

It feels nice after the horror and emotional toll of the last few days.

Instead of heading toward the entrance to the motel and out onto the main road, she leads me toward a copse of trees bordering the back of the parking lot. “Where are we going?”

She glances my way. “The woods.” Her nose crinkles. “I hate cars and asphalt.” She pauses and tilts her head, a sudden expression of concern on her face. “That’s okay with you, isn’t it? You don’t mind the woods?”

I think of the trees and mountains that surrounded our house in Stillhouse Lake. I’ve missed the quiet solitude of that since moving to Knoxville. “Just the opposite.”

She brightens. “Oh good.”

When we reach the end of the parking lot I notice a narrow path through the woods. It doesn’t appear heavily used, weeds having already started to reclaim it. Willa leads the way while I trail behind her. She has a bounce to her step when she walks, making it almost a skip. It causes the short little dress to rise even higher, and I try to keep from staring, but I can’t help it.

She glances over her shoulder at me, and for a moment I worry she’s caught me staring, but she smiles. “You good?”

I smile. “I’m good.” And I realize that for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, I mean it.

The trail meanders for a bit, far enough that we soon leave the sounds of traffic behind. Now it’s just us, the sound of our breath mingling with the breeze through the trees and birds shuffling overhead. Soon the path dead-ends onto an old overgrown logging road that hasn’t seen cars for decades. She turns and waits for me to catch up before beginning to meander along it.

Finally, we’re able to walk side by side and every now and again the backs of her fingers brush against the backs of mine. It causes my stomach to squeeze tight every single time. She glances my way and ducks her head, giving me a shy smile. “So, Connor, tell me about yourself.”

It’s a broad question. “What do you want to know?”

She shrugs. “Whatever you think is important.”

I watch my feet for a moment, feeling like this is some sort of trick question. If it’s a test, I desperately want to pass it. “My name is Connor Proctor. I live in Knoxville, TN, though I spent most of my life in Wichita, Kansas. I’m fifteen. I have a sister named Lanny. No pets. My mom’s name is Gwen — she’s a private investigator, and my dad’s name is Sam — he’s a pilot.”

In reciting these dry, boring details, I’m aware of all the things I could be telling her that I’m not. My name wasn’t always Connor. My father was a serial killer. I was once kidnapped by a cult who drowned its followers. I watched my closest friend shoot two of my classmates at point-blank range.

Willa doesn’t seem impressed by what I’ve shared, and it causes a panicky flutter in my chest. I want her to like me. I want her to find me interesting and cool.

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