Page 90 of Trapper Road

I spin on my heel and leave his office. I ignore the reporters gathering outside and head straight for my car. Less than five minutes later I’m pulling up in front of Willa Devlin’s house. I’ve never much liked being told what I can and can’t do.

26

LANNY

I’ve been cooped up in Kez and Javi’s cabin before, and it sucks. There’s nothing to do, and the Wi-Fi’s crap, and it looks like I’m going to be stuck here by myself most of the day. Which leaves nothing for me to do but sit around, thinking about what I’m missing at Reyne. I want to text my student-host Heather and ask what she’s up to, but I’m worried I’ll come across as weird and stalkery. It’s not like we’re actually friends. I mean, we hung out a ton and stayed up half the night talking, and we seemed to really hit it off, but I’m sure to her I’m just another random perspective student she may never see again.

I flop onto the couch, letting my hand hang off the edge to rest on Boot’s head. He nudges me, wanting more scratches, and I halfheartedly twitch my fingers behind his ears. I check the time on my phone and groan. It will be hours before Kez or Javi are home from work, and who knows when Sam will be back. He texted earlier he had to go give a statement at the station, and that it could be hours.

I open the photos app and start scrolling through pictures from the last few days. There are at least a dozen, half of them selfies around campus with me and Heather and various friends of hers. There’s us on the quad throwing a frisbee, at the dining hall with three bowls of cereal, sitting together in a large lecture hall, dancing at a frat party.

In all of them I look so… normal. I mean, I’m still me, I still stand out with my pink and purple hair, baggy pants, and black eyeliner. I’m pretty much the opposite of Heather who is way, way preppy and pretty much lives in J. Crew and Ralph Lauren. But I look normal in that I could be anyone. There’s nothing about my appearance that screams Melvin Royal’s daughter.

To Heather and her friends, I was just some girl from Knoxville, Tennessee who liked different music and dressed different but who still seemed kind of cool and fun to hang out with. Heather even told me I had a wicked sense of humor.

At first I thought maybe I had a crush on Heather, but then I realized that I have a crush on her life. I don’t know that I want to date Heather, just that I want to be her. Or someone like her. I want the freedom of college, the anonymity of starting over fresh.

For the first time I can remember, I felt genuinely included. I felt free to be myself. I didn’t worry that all of my behavior would be filtered through the lens of “do you know who her father is?”

I didn’t realize until I stepped onto that campus how much all of that weighed on me. I thought I’d gotten over my father, buried him in my past. I wasn’t aware of how much of a constant presence he’s been in my life, affecting the way I act and what I expect from the people around me.

Now that I’ve seen what it’s like to be normal — to be Lanta Cade — I’m not sure how to go back to being Lanny Proctor. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t responded to Vee’s recent texts. I’m just not ready. Which is strange because usually Vee and I talk pretty constantly.

Without a doubt, Vee is my best friend. Sometimes she’s been more than that, though I’d never go so far as calling her my girlfriend. Vee isn’t the girlfriend type. She sees that kind of label as belonging to someone, and she’s sworn she won’t belong to anyone but herself. She spent too long trying to escape her momma’s control to give that over to someone else.

Vee likes doing whatever she wants, when she wants, without having to worry about anyone else.

It’s what makes it hard to be with her sometimes.

Ugh, I’m tired of thinking about these things. I need to escape. I need to run.

I change quickly, lacing my shoes tight before stepping onto the porch and stretching. It’s several miles to Stillhouse Lake, but it’s a route I’ve jogged before and it’s pretty easy. I start slow, letting my pace increase as I go. It feels good to run, to push my body harder and harder until it takes over my thoughts. I follow familiar routes without thinking, which is how I find myself at the base of the driveway to our old house.

I hesitate, wondering just how ticked off at me Sam would be if I dropped in to check on him. It’s weird to be back in Norton, so close to home, and not actually be at home. It occurs to me then that I still consider Stillhouse Lake home, even though we haven’t lived here in a while. Knoxville has always felt somehow temporary, like all the other places we stayed while on the run.

I decide it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission and start toward the house. There are cars and trucks lining the street and I make the mistake of thinking they’re official vehicles — police and forensics. It’s not until too late that I notice the markings on the side of one of the vans: the blocky blue letters of the local news station.

Someone recognizes me and shouts my name. That’s all it takes. Like a tidal wave, the focus of half a dozen cameras and twice as many reporters spins toward me. I stand, frozen, taken by surprise.

I’m about to turn and run when one of them shouts, “How does it feel to learn that your adoptive father may also be a murderer?”

I know better to engage. I know I should ignore them, but the question takes me completely off guard. “What?”

The reporter pushes her way toward me, her lips a bright red against naturally white teeth. “You haven’t heard?”

I shake my head dumbly.

She’s like a shark smelling blood. “Sam Cade was taken in for questioning earlier today in the connection with the attack that happened at your house. Sources say he’s the leading suspect.”

I blink, trying to understand what she’s just said. I’m still not sure what even happened at our house, but I know one thing for sure: there’s absolutely no way Sam is involved in any kind of attack. “You’re lying,” I say, but it’s under my breath.

She shoves her microphone toward my face. “What was that?”

“I said you’re lying!” I shout. “My dad would never hurt anyone. He’s loving, and loyal, and—”

“Which dad?” One of the reporters calls. “Melvin Royal or Sam Cade?”

I jerk my head back. The question horrifies me. “I only have one dad, and his name is Sam Cade,” I spit at him.

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