Page 100 of Into the Dark, We Go
"Can’t call from here," he said slowly, his bloodshot eyes locked on mine. "Dead zone. Gotta get closer to town."
I took another step back before I could stop myself, the crunch of gravel under my sneakers sharp and damning in the quiet. My eyes darted up the road, silently begging for headlights—any car, any stranger.
He drummed his fingers on his car’s roof, each tap like a warning. "It’s getting dark. Soon enough, all kinds of animals will be out. You don’t want to be stuck out here alone."
Right. The animals. How could I forget?
I blinked fast, the first sting of tears gathering. Getting into the patrol car was not an option. I was convinced it would be my last mistake.
The Sheriff kept looking at me from under the brim of his hat, his dull, watery blue eyes cold and unyielding, devoid of any glimmer of humanity or compassion. He straightened from his slouch against the car and settled into a more deliberate pose. He was getting suspicious.
I steeled myself, ready to take my chances in the woods. But first, I needed to deceive the Sheriff, to convince him I was complying. I forced a hesitant smile, trying to appear cooperative, as I took a cautious step forward.
"Okay, thank you. Do you mind if I grab my jacket from the car first?"
"Make it quick," he growled, turning back to the cruiser, "I ain’t got all night."
I lifted the trunk lid. The jacket lay on top of the chaotic mess; my clothes and toiletries were scattered about like the deer’s intestines. I pretended to dig through the pile, my mind scrambling for a plan, but my eyes scanned the trunk with a growing sense of desperation. Then I saw it. My father’s baseball bat was tucked away in the corner. My mother hadn’t bothered to take it out of the car. It had always belonged in the Dodge, probably because she saw it as something akin to pepper spray—a tool for self-defense. And now, it could be exactly that.
This was my salvation. If I could lure the Sheriff close enough, I could land a solid swing. Even if I didn’t knock him out—he seemed like the type who could take a hit, especially with that damn hat—at least it would disorient him long enough for me to make a break for the woods.
"What’s takin’ so long?" His breath was hot and unexpected against my ear. I shrieked. He was right over my shoulder. "Grab your stuff and let’s go."
He yanked my jacket from the van and shoved it into my arms, then grabbed my elbow, hauling me away from the car—and the baseball bat. The trunk slammed shut with a jarringclunk. I twisted, trying to break free, but his grip only tightened, pinning me.
"No!" I protested. "Let me go!"
We both turned at the rumble of an approaching vehicle, and a shaky breath of relief escaped my lips. Maybe this wasn’t my final hour, after all. My body tensed, ready to scream, kick, or even throw myself in front of the oncoming vehicle if it meant getting the driver’s attention. But just as I prepared to act, the Sheriff’s grip on my arm loosened, and he turned to face me, his face flushing with rage.
"Don’t you say a fuckin’ word," he hissed.
A dark gray pickup truck rumbled to a stop beside us. The passenger-side window slid down with a slow, mechanical whine.
"Evenin’, Sheriff," Lucas’s father said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the scene. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Oh, hey, Rob. Comin’ from the sawmill?" The Sheriff tipped his infernal hat in a casual motion.
"Yeah, I went to check on things," Lucas’s dad replied, his tone friendly. "What’s goin’ on? You folks need help?"
The Sheriff motioned toward my battered minivan. "The girl got a flat. I’m just givin’ her a lift to town."
"Can’t you fix it, old man?" Rob smirked, stepping out of his truck.
"I don’t have the tools. It’s no problem. We were just going."
"Well, hold up a second. I’ll fix it for you. Just need to grab my wrench and jack stand from the sawmill. It’s not far." He turned to me, utterly oblivious to my spitting unease. "You’ve got a spare, I assume?"
I nodded, though I had no idea if I actually did.
The Sheriff stiffened. "No need to trouble yourself, I’m on it."
"Actually," I interjected, scrounging for an excuse, "I wouldn’t want to impose on your time, Sheriff. You must have more pressing matters to attend to."
I turned to Robert, careful to keep my voice steady. I didn’t want to alarm him or put him in danger. "Mr. Whitman, if you’re heading back to town anyway, could I trouble you for a ride instead?"
I nearly begged, my voice cracking as I fought to hold back a sob. I didn’t want to sound too desperate, but I needed Mr. Whitman to understand—we had to get away from the Sheriff. Lucas’s dad glanced at me, then back at the Sheriff, whose jaw was clenched tight.
"Of course, Nellie," the old man said, nodding with a kind smile. "No trouble at all. Hop in."
