Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(22)

5


Gertie Wilson sits midway on the bus, earbuds in, Taylor Swift drowning out the noise from the engine and the other passengers.

A notification sounds in her ears. She looks at the cell phone.

It’s a text from Hugo:



Why do we live on opposite sides of town? ?



Gertie taps her reply and sends it in seconds.



Because it makes you miss me even more?



Hugo’s reply is instant.



I always miss you. I don’t stop thinking about you. Does that make me sound like a fucking stalker? LOL



Gertie smiles.



If you are then you’re MY stalker. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.



She looks out the window at the town rolling by. Gertie is the first in her family to attend college and do something other than work the dirt for a living. She plans to keep her hands clean.

Her phone pings.



Love you. Call me tonight XXX



Gertie’s stop comes up, and she joins the half dozen people about to get off. The bus slows, the doors open, and they spill out. She would be glad to be free from the hot confines of the bus if it weren’t raining. Gertie darts beneath the shelter of the bus stop and taps a reply.



Promise. Love you too, Hugo ? xxx



She riffles in her bag for her umbrella. It’s a pocket-sized contraption that just about manages to keep the rain off her head and shoulders. The rest of her is getting steadily soaked. As she crosses the street and heads for home, walking by the side of the road, she can feel the water getting in her shoes, seeping in around her toes.

Her father continues to nag her about taking driving lessons and getting her license, and she’s seriously considering it. Days like this, she could put her environmental concerns to one side if it means getting home dry. Her studies so far have incorporated the cause and effect of climate change. In all good conscience, she can’t warrant expending the additional carbon just for her own comfort . . . but there comes a point, sometimes.

A car would make sense.

“Hey!”

The voice makes her jump. She looks to her right. A truck has slowed next to her, the window down so that the driver can call out to her.

She ignores him and continues walking.

“I faid hey!”

Gertie stops. “Can I help you?”

The rain drums down around her, beating the top of the umbrella.

“Are you going far? I could give you a lift. You look foaked!”

Gertie looks at the man. He appears harmless enough. Funny scar running along his top lip, lifting it up a shade to reveal his gums and teeth. “I’m okay, thanks.”

“If you ain’t got far to go, jump in,” the man says. When she hesitates, he shrugs. “Look, I’m juft doin’ my good Famaritan bit.”

She knows she shouldn’t. She knows it goes against every impulse to get in the man’s car. But he looks honest enough. Perhaps even a little simple. “I just live up the road,” she tells him, getting closer to the driver’s-side window.

“That farm up there? I know it.”

Now she remembers his truck driving past her the day before. He really does drive through there on a regular basis. Perhaps he even knows her parents . . .

“Yeah it’s not far,” she says, deciding. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m pretty soaked. I don’t want to ruin the inside of your car.”

The man laughs. “Thif old thing?”

Gertie walks around to the passenger side and gets in. The man waits for her to buckle herself up, then takes off. The wipers just push sheets of water around the windshield; the rain is falling so heavy.

“Thanks for doing this,” Gertie tells him. “It’s not often someone does something for someone else around here.”

“I know what you mean,” the man says. “There are fome rude people out there.”

“Do you live far?”

“Outfide of town. Got my own place.”

“Married? Kids?”

The man guffaws like a simpleton next to her. “Gofh no!”

Gertie laughs along with him, the ice broken between them. “Ah, this is my place coming up on the left. My daddy owns most of this.”

“One of them big-time farmerf, huh?”

“You could say that,” Gertie says, frowning as the man drives straight past her front gate. “Hey, uh, that was it back there.”

“Oh fhit! Here, let me turn thif old girl around,” he tells her, slowing the car and bumping it up on the mud. He turns the steering wheel, as if he’s getting ready to do a U-turn and head back the way they’ve come. Gertie looks back through the rain-smeared window at her front gate.

So close to it.

“I can get out and run along, it’s no—”

Gertie feels a sudden sharp pain in the side of her neck. She turns to look at the man. He holds a syringe in his hand, face studying her.

She tries to open the car door, manages it, but only halfway. Gertie swings one leg out, and that’s as far as she gets. Going any farther is impossible, as if her limbs are filled with lead. She struggles to keep her eyes open and can hear her own heartbeat in her ears as she watches the man get out, run around the front of the truck, and tuck her right leg back inside. He closes the door, then runs back to his own side. Now they’re moving.