The Overnight Guest(68)

Sylvia cautiously moved forward, using her arms to part the vast green sea of prairie grass. Flies buzzed noisily around her head, and as she followed the limp length of rope, she knew Jupiter had a hit.

Sylvia found him waiting for her, sitting at attention. His eyes mournful. Lying on the ground next to Jupiter was a rag, stiff with what Sylvia knew was dried blood.

She patted Jupiter and fished out a treat from her pocket and offered it to him. “Good boy, good boy,” she said, then pulled out her radio to call for help.



34


Present Day

It was nearing 4:00 a.m., and Wylie was running on fumes, but she couldn’t rest. The woman and girl sat next to one another on the sofa, while Wylie used the fire’s light to read through the manuscript.

The book was finished. There was little left to add. She considered adding a Where Are They Now section that explained what happened to the major players in the story, but there really wasn’t too much to say there. Everyone was either dead, impossible to locate, or simply wished to remain in the shadows, limping along in their broken lives.

Once this nightmare was over, after the storm ended and after she made sure the woman and her daughter were safe, Wylie would get the hell out of Blake County and go home.

She would deliver her manuscript to her publisher and try and repair her relationship with Seth. She’d even try a little harder to get along with Seth’s father.

Wylie looked up to find the little girl staring at her from her spot on the sofa. The girl’s mother was curled up so that the uninjured side of her face rested on the pillow, the quilt pulled up to her chin.

“How did you get your name?” the little girl asked.

Wylie was surprised that of all the things the girl wanted to talk about, it was her name. She was used to it. Upon learning her unusual name, everyone wanted to know how she got it. “It’s a family name,” Wylie said simply.

“What’s your name?” Wylie tried, hoping the girl would let it slip.

“My mom says I can’t tell you,” she answered, slipping out from beneath the covers and coming to sit on the floor by Wylie.

The light from the fire illuminated the girl’s face—her large brown eyes, the grimy residue left behind on her face by the duct tape that had been used to cover her mouth. Wylie couldn’t fathom what the girl had been through.

“How about your last name?” Wylie asked. “Mine is Lark. What’s yours?”

“I don’t think we have one,” the girl answered as if considering this for the first time.

Well, that wasn’t possible.

“What’s your dad’s name?” Wylie kept pressing.

The girl’s forehead creased with worry and she stayed quiet. “It’s okay,” Wylie said, glancing at the sleeping woman. “You can tell me.”

“He’s just Dad,” the girl whispered.

“Okay,” Wylie said in resignation. “Oh, hey, I meant to give something back to you earlier after I washed your clothes.” Wylie got to her feet and went through the darkened kitchen to retrieve the toy she found in the girl’s pocket hours earlier.

Wylie shivered when she left the relative warmth of the living room and, using her flashlight, scanned the countertops until she found it.

Wylie took a closer look at the toy. It was a figurine of one of the lesser-known action heroes. His green mask was nearly worn away, his white gloves were now a dingy gray, and the plastic exterior was scratched and dented from years of play.

Wylie hadn’t seen one of these in years. A wave of nostalgia swept over her, but she quickly brushed it away.

“Here you go,” Wylie said, returning to the living room and handing the toy to the girl. Wylie smiled at the way the little girl’s face lit up, the way her eyes snapped with joy at being reunited with her toy. Then Wylie’s smile faded. She stood there for a moment, trying to think.

“Thank you,” the girl said, holding the toy tightly in her grasp, and she climbed back onto the sofa and beneath the covers next to her mother.

Wylie reached for a flashlight that sat dormant on the end table and flipped the switch. She did the same with another flashlight and another and another until the room was filled with light. Wylie took a seat opposite the woman and child at a loss for words. The fire popped and crackled ineffectually; Tas snuffled.

Wylie moved to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of water. “Here, you need to drink.” Holding the lantern, Wylie went to the woman’s side and knelt so that she was looking down on her.

The woman, now awake, squinted painfully against the glare and held up a hand, fingers slightly black at the tips from necrosis.

“I brought you some aspirin,” Wylie said. “It might help a bit with your pain. I don’t want to give you anything stronger in case you have a concussion.”

Wylie broke the pill in half and laid the pieces in the woman’s open palm and that’s when she saw the horseshoe-shaped scar. Instinctively, Wylie grabbed the woman’s hand knocking the pills to the floor.

“Ouch,” the woman said, pulling away.

“Sorry.” Flustered, Wylie bent down to retrieve the aspirin. “Here you go,” she said handing the woman the pills again.

The woman looked at Wylie suspiciously, but placed the pills on her tongue and grimaced at the bitter taste.