Page 69 of Trapper Road

It’s probably one of the best nights of my life, and the wonderful feeling of freedom doesn’t end there either. The next day I accompany Heather to her classes, and I get to sit in massive lecture halls where no one stares at me. No one whispers when I walk by. No one gives a shit about me. It’s amazing!

I keep meaning to text Mom and Connor and Vee and check in, but every time I have a moment of downtime and I pull out my phone I hesitate. I know I need to reach out, especially to Connor. I know he’s going through a lot after the shooting, and I need to be there for him. I know it isn’t easy for him.

And I do text a few times. I let Mom know I’m okay. I send Vee a selfie dancing at the frat party. I ask Connor how he’s doing. He says he’s fine, and I should press for more but doing so feels like being dragged back into that other world — Lanny Proctor’s world.

I don’t want to go back to that world. I don’t want to exist in it, even for the brief amount of time it takes to send a text. It’s Connor I feel the most guilty about going radio silent on, given what happened earlier this week. But he’s got Vee. While most people see her as nothing but sharp edges, she can be pretty solid when you need someone to lean against. She’ll take care of him. I know she will.

That gives me the freedom to continue pretending I’m Lanta Cade, normal girl and prospective Reyne University student.

My second evening at Reyne is the prospective parent tea in the botanical gardens, and I wear an actual dress. It’s still black, but it’s retro and Heather squeals when she sees me in it and lets me borrow a red leather belt that cinches in my waist and makes me look pretty damn good.

Even Sam notices when I meet him at the entrance to the gardens. He beams when he sees me, and holds out his arm for me to take. He’s wearing khaki pants and a blue button down shirt with his name tag already fastened to the pocket. His hair is still damp, and he smells like cheap hotel soap, but as we walk into the party all I can think is that to everyone else we’re just Lanta Cade and her dad Sam — a normal, regular father and daughter.

As we mingle with faculty and meet other prospective students, I realize just how badly I want this to be my life. It’s as if the last seven years never happened. Melvin Royal no longer exists in my life — as meaningless to me as most everyone else at this party.

Sam glances down at me as I sip a lemonade, staring off toward a clump of trees shedding their brilliant fall colors. “You look different,” he says.

“It’s the belt,” I tell him. “I never wear color. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

He grins. “It’s a nice belt. But there’s something else.”

I’m about to tell him that it’s because I’m happy — that for once I’m actually free from my past — but just then his phone buzzes and when he pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen, he frowns. “It’s your mom. Hold on,” he says as he answers.

Something is wrong. I realize it as soon as I see the shift in Sam’s expression. His eyes narrow, his mouth tightens in concentration. He glances my way, notices me paying attention, and then turns, walking a few feet away and lowering his voice so I can’t hear.

I watch his back as he talks, my mind cycling through all the various things that could have gone wrong. Guilt overwhelms me. What if something happened to Connor? What if the fallout from the school shooting is worse than I thought? What if me not being there to support him caused whatever happened? What if it’s somehow all my fault because I was so selfish coming to prospective students weekend instead of going with him on Mom’s case?

I wrap my arms around my middle, feeling physically ill. I can’t stand the not knowing, I can’t stand the panic clawing its way up through my body. I stalk over to stand in front of him, blatantly listening in.

His eyes flick to mine and hold. He nods and says, “I’ll call as soon as we get there.” Then he hangs up.

My chest feels all fluttery. My breath catches in my throat. I try to ask him what that was all about, but the words won’t come. The reality of my world comes crashing in. The constant threats always circling, the knowledge that we’re all at risk and anything could happen.

The understanding that every phone call could be the one ripping my life to shreds and telling me someone I love is gone.

“Is it Connor?” I finally manage to croak.

“He’s fine. They all are.” He puts a hand on my shoulder which is a good thing because my knees go a little weak with relief.

“Then what?” I ask.

“That was your mom. Kez called. There’s been an accident at the house in Stillhouse Lake. Someone may have been… hurt.” He trips over that last word.

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

He’s not making sense. “Then how do you know someone might have been hurt?” He pauses, and I can see him trying to choose his words carefully. “Just tell me.”

“There’s evidence. Blood, apparently. But no body or indication what happened. Kez called your mom — they need someone to come down as soon as possible to give a statement, help them sort through the scene.”

Here, he hesitates, and his expression turns apologetic. It takes me a moment to understand why, and then I get it. Someone needs to go to Stillhouse Lake, and it’s going to be him.

And if he goes, I’m going with him.

Which means leaving prospective students weekend early. It means no concert with Heather, no row house party after, no staying up late listening to her gossip with her friends about people I don’t know, imagining this being my life.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Just when I was starting to relax into the possibility that I might be able to have a life where I’m not defined by who my father was, where no one knows who I am, where I can just be myself — or the self I choose to be rather than the self everyone else expects me to be.

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