Page 3 of Blood Revealed

There’s rustling on the other end, as if someone is about to speak, and I can’t have that. I jam my finger excessively hard against the redend callbutton.

I think excessive is fully called for in this situation, but that’s the only thing I allow myself to think because I’m pretty sure I heard my mom’s murder on the other end of the line.

Here I’d thought she left us, but she’d been there—wherever there is—with Escalante, or someone who knew Escalante and would speak openly about him freaking buying me and coming to collect on his purchase.

How long had the Pythons been dealing flesh? I’ve known for years Grizzly was a bad man, but this—this takes the cake. And it hits me.Stupid Hannah. Stupid, stupid Hannah. That party last month. Why hadn’t I put it together then? Maybe because who wants to believe they know people into that stuff, let alone being forced into it by no fault of their own?

I run into my room to pack a few things. Clothes mainly. A couple of pictures of me, Brin, and Mom. Tampons and stuff. Silent tears roll down my cheeks. Leaving Brinley kills me, but bringing her will only slow me down. It’s harder to thumb a ride with more than one person. Passersby get edgy, nervous. And it’s not as if they’ll touch her here, not at her size. If there was even a chance that one of those men would want my sister, Cassandra would’ve told me to get Brin out, too.

She didn’t.

While Brinley sleeps, I take the two extra minutes I don’t have to spare to tuck a blanket around her, leave a quick note, and slip out of the front door, making sure to lock it before I leave, jogging down the stairs.

One last, quick look at the apartment of the best friend/little sister I’ll ever have and will probably never see again, then I run. Run like my life depends on it—because it does. With hardly a cent left to my name but a bus pass with money on it, I hoof it to the closest stop. The bus shuttles me across town toward the safest place for a girl like me to find an escape.

Thirty-five minutes later, I disembark out front of Trucker’s World—the giant truck stop near the onramp to the interstate. It’s like a city unto itself, lighting up the nighttime sky to almost daylight overhead.

White lights flood the massive parking lot while white lights and bright neon colors advertise everything from a truck wash to a convenience store to a 24/7 restaurant.

It’s still a crapshoot. Most of these guys have a daughter or sister and will treat you well, but then there are the ones who wouldn’t mind taking advantage of a situation when it presents itself.

One of the best ways I’ve heard to vet the truckers is to hang out in the restaurant and listen to their conversations.

“What can I get you?” the waitress asks me before I ever even take a seat. She’s pretty. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. She looks about the same age as me. I wonder if her life is as complicated as mine. Tonight, I feel a hundred years older than her.

“Just a Coke,” I answer while slinging my bag from my shoulder to the seat next to me.

The waitress snickers. “Be right back.”

A minute later, she slides an icy Coke in a bright red plastic cup across the bar top with one hand while discreetly pointing to a man sitting at a booth all alone.

She leans into my space. “He’s been on the phone with his wife for the past half hour—even had the woman put the baby on so his ‘baby girl can hear his voice.’” She uses air quotes, which means she got that info firsthand. “Safest bet,” she finishes and I am grateful for the heads-up. Though I didn’t know I was being so transparent.

“Thank you,” I whisper back before sipping on my soda. I’m about halfway finished with my drink when he hangs up his call and walks to the counter to pay his bill.

I shove the money for my drink toward the waitress, grab my things, and scramble to follow the man outside without being seen by him. He heads to a large rig with a white trailer and a red cab parked under one of the parking lamps.

He starts up the engine and the lights go on, which means he’s heading out tonight. That’s a good sign. While he situates himself, I walk up to his door and knock. It’s now or never.

The first thing I notice is the smile on his face when he rolls down the window. A mouth full of clean, white teeth. That’s another thing to list in the pro column. Good oral hygiene—not that murderers and rapists can’t murder and rape with white smiles and fresh minty breath.

No, Hannah… quit talking yourself out of this. You’re just scared. Things will be fine. If only I believed that as much as my head wants me to.

“What can I do you for, little lady?” he asks. Do you for? Do murderers saydo you for? They can’t; it’s too sweet. Okay, another good sign.

He looks maybe thirty or so. His eyes appear kind but have squinting lines at the corners of each. A job hazard for truckers. Even wearing sunglasses, the sun can be bright shining through the windshield.

He’s wearing a red hat, showing his love of or loyalty to the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., that mostly covers his head, with tufts of wavy, golden blond hair sticking out from underneath. Clean T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. All those I noticed when he was walking.

Sinceel maestrois probably looking for me as I stand here deciding on whether or not to take a chance, I do it.

Sucking in a calming breath to keep my voice from trembling, I ask him, “Where you headed?”

“Going northeast. Heading for St. Louis. Need a ride?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I answer.

“Climb on up.”

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