The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(25)

“I drove around until I found you; I saw your Jeep pulled off the side of the road,” she finished quietly. Her honesty amazed me. She had no artifice. And when she tried to disguise her feelings I saw right through her. She was like glass—pure and clear and plain as day. And like glass, her honesty cut me.

I yanked at the shard in my knee, cursing as I did, and the diversionary tactic worked, because Georgia’s eyes dropped to my wound. She moved her flashlight to get a better look and cursed right along with me when she saw the blood that was turning my pants black in the moonlight.

“It’s not that big a deal.” I shrugged. But it did hurt.

“Come on. I’ve got a first aid kit under the seat.” She beckoned me with the flashlight, making a looping circle of light as she turned, expecting me to follow. Which I did.

She wrenched open the door, pulled out an orange plastic case from under the passenger seat and patted the seat expectantly.

“Can you climb up?”

I grunted. “It’s just a scrape—you’re not going to have to amputate or anything.”

“Well, it’s bleeding like crazy.”

I eased my pant leg up and Georgia made herself busy playing doctor as I stared at the top of her pale blonde head and wondered for the millionth time why in the world she kept hanging around me. What was the appeal? The girl loved a challenge, that was easy to see. I’d watched her ride that black horse over fences and fields, flying like she belonged in the sky. I’d watched her coax and wheedle the stallion until he was so bewitched he now ran to her when she called him. But I wasn’t an animal and I didn’t want to be her next conquest, and I was pretty sure that’s what I was.

The thought made me angry and as soon as she was done I pulled down my pant leg and stepped out of the cab, heading for my Jeep without a word. She trotted behind me.

“Go home Georgia. You’re breaking another one of my laws. Thou shall not follow me.”

“Those are your laws, Moses. I didn’t agree to any of them.”

I heard her trip behind me, and I paused in spite of myself. There was broken glass and and beer cans were everywhere. This underpass was a hangout on the weekends. More high school kids got drunk here than any other place in town, if the empty cans and bottles were any indication. I didn’t want her to hurt herself. I walked back to her and took her hand, escorting her back to her truck.

“Go home, Georgia,” I repeated, but this time I tried to say it a little more kindly. I opened the driver’s side door to the rust bucket she had named Myrtle because it rhymed with turtle and that’s about how fast it drove.

“Why did you paint that girl? On the overpass. Why did you do that? What does it mean?” Her voice was sad, almost like she felt betrayed. Betrayed by what, I couldn’t guess.

“I saw her picture. So I painted her,” I replied easily. It was mostly the truth. I really didn’t see her picture, not the way I made it sound. Not on a flyer—though there was one on the post office bulletin board. I actually saw her in my head.

“You liked the way she looked?”

I shrugged dismissively. “She’s pretty. It’s sad. I like to draw.” Truth. She was pretty. It was sad. I did like to draw.

“Did you know her?”

“No. I know she’s dead.”

Georgia looked horrified. Even in the moonlit darkness I could see how much I had upset her. I think I wanted to upset her. I wanted her to be afraid.

“How?”

“Because kids on flyers usually are. She’s from around here, right?”

“Not really. She’s from Sanpete. But it’s a small town like this one. And it’s weird that she just disappeared. She’s the second girl to disappear like that in the last year. It’s just . . . weird. Scary, you know?”

I nodded. The girl’s name was Molly. And she was definitely dead. She kept showing me things. Not about her death. About her life. I hoped now she would leave me alone. This had been going on long enough. I had no idea why she’d come to me at all. Usually there had to be some connection. I’d never met Molly. But she would go now, I hoped. Paint them and they leave. It was the way I acknowledged them. And usually that was enough.

“So you being out here in the middle of the night, painting her . . . That’s weird too,” Georgia said bravely, her eyes holding mine.

I nodded again. “Are you afraid, Georgia?”

She just looked at me like she was trying to get in my head. My little horse whisperer, trying to whisper to me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. She wasn’t my horse whisperer. She wasn’t my anything.

“Yeah. I’m afraid. I’m afraid for you, Moses. Because everyone is going to see this. The police are going to see this. And people are going to think you did something to that girl.”

“That’s what they think everywhere I go, Georgia. I’m used to it.”

“Do you always paint dead people?”

Her voice rang out like a whip, and I felt the truth slash across my face with all the crack and sting that secrets wield.

I stepped back, stunned that she had so easily unraveled this piece of me. I walked toward my Jeep, wanting nothing more than to run, run, run and keep running. Why couldn’t I just keep running? I had seven months until the school year was up, but I was working on my GED and saving up all my money. Seven months. And then, as much as I loved Gi, as much as the thought of never seeing Georgia again hurt me, I was leaving this funny little town with all its nosy people with their suspicious minds, interfering hands, and busy mouths. And I would keep moving, painting as I went. I didn’t know how I would survive, but I would, and I would be free. As free as I’d ever be.