Nice Girls(93)

Watching.





49




I wasn’t putting enough distance between us.

Night was falling quickly. The dark was now dripping over everything—the snow, the trees, me.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other, crushing through the unbroken snow. My legs and my feet were drenched. While the rest of me froze in the cold air, the bottom half of me was growing numb. But I kept moving.

My life depended on putting one foot in front of the other.

The trees were never ending. I kept moving away from the cabin. The car keys were frozen in one hand, the knife glued to the other. If I could make it out of the woods, then I could make it to Mom’s car. If I could make it to the car, then I could leave. If I could unlock the door, if the car wasn’t buried, if I hadn’t died of the cold . . . There were too many ifs.

I passed tree after tree. There were no birds in the sky or animals scurrying about. No clearing in sight. I felt like I wasn’t moving at all, like a hamster trapped in its wheel.

When I felt tired, I would look back. And I would see that I was right, that I hadn’t moved at all. No matter how long I seemed to walk, I could still see the cabin behind me. I couldn’t seem to shake off the large gray husk that brooded between the trees. I could even see a black tank of a car that had been hidden behind the shed.

I was making no progress. And I was leaving a trail of prints behind me. I was making it easy for him. If the cold didn’t kill me first, then he would.

My head was pounding, as if I’d just woken up all over again. The cold seemed to intensify the pain, making it sharper, realer. I could feel each pulse in my head, a wave of throbbing pain like ripples in water. The cold air cut into my hands and my face. I could feel the skin start to split open, bit by bit. The frostbite had already crept over my fingers.

The longer I hiked, the faster my head spun. My mind was racing through the cabin, flipping past each scene. I could see the kitchen and living room, all trashed. I could see the freezer in the basement and the pool of blood and the ax in the air. I could see John Stack behind the glass, watching me.

I twisted around.

Nothing.

I tried to pick up speed, but my legs were stiff. I couldn’t feel them anymore.

I imagined myself moving on like this forever—lost and half-frozen. There were cars and houses and people out there, but I would never reach them. They were all so far.

Purgatory was a wood full of snow.

It was nearly as dark as the basement had been. But I could see the shadows of trees just ahead of me. And on the horizon, the dark seemed to lessen.

My body was growing heavy, as if weighed down by stones. I hobbled over to a tree and leaned against it. The fatigue and the cold crashed over me in one swift wave. I needed to close my eyes for a bit. It was fine, I was getting my strength back.

When my eyes were closed, everything was warm. Safe. Peaceful. I was drifting away into the darkness, the warmth. If I gave in, I would no longer have to worry anymore. I was at peace.

Then a car engine roared. The noise rumbled through the air like thunder.

Through a gap in the trees, I saw a flash of yellow light.

And I knew what had happened, deep in the pit of my stomach.

John Stack was coming for me.





50




I felt the panic spreading through me, warm as booze. I started hobbling through the snow again, one foot in front of the other. I didn’t care where I was going, so long as it was away from him.

I was so cold. My hands were in pain, the knife and car keys frozen into my skin.

I was stumbling in almost complete darkness. And my mind was panicking. Every shadow near me seemed to become something else: a witch, a wolf, a demon. If I tripped, they would reach out and pull me under . . .

I felt the corner of my upper lip start to split. The cold was ripping me open. I was dying, and if it came suddenly, I wouldn’t know.

My body shook.

And I realized I could beat the cold—I had a knife, I could end it all. Save myself from the misery of John Stack.

I didn’t want to die like Olivia had, her body hacked open and torn apart. Olivia would have fought back until the very end. If she’d had a choice like me, she would’ve chosen to die at her own hands rather than at John Stack’s. That was the way she was.

That was why I’d loved her as much as I’d hated her.

My eyes stung.

It was our last summer together, aged twelve, before the start of junior high school. We spent it at Littlewood Park Reserve.

But that summer, Olivia grew friendly with the junior high boys who passed by on the bike trails. They mostly spoke to her and ignored me. It was the same with the girls we met. They fawned over Olivia.

And I saw what separated the two of us: I was big. Olivia was small. She was beautiful. And I was dull.

I could already sense the end of us in the air, like storm clouds in the distance.

I spent that summer being ditched. Olivia often ran into people she knew, and the group of them would speed up, talking to each other. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just clung on from behind, like a leech. Other times, Olivia drifted off on her own while I struggled to follow.

She once disappeared for two hours. I wasn’t even concerned—just bitter. She’d begun running, and I gave up after the first few seconds of pain. I could only walk. I continued on the trail by myself, crossing a little wooden bridge. A small stream ran several feet below. I rounded the corner and saw Olivia.