Lies You Never Told Me(73)

I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.

But I didn’t drive all this way to sit in my car. So I climb out, legs stiff, and take stock of my surroundings. There aren’t many cars in the lot. It’s the off season, and while it’s not cold enough here to deter all travelers, it’s definitely not outdoor-recreation weather. Most of the windows in the motel are dark. The trees crowd in around the property.

Almost by habit I pick Orion out from the stars above. Over to the east I see Andromeda. I remember the myth we learned about in astronomy last year—Andromeda, the princess chained to the rock. Sacrifice to a monster. The thought steels me. I start toward the motel—and then turn around. I get the tire iron out of the back.

The window for room eleven is brightly lit. I pause outside, trying to listen for sounds from within. I can hear the mutter of a TV inside. I rest a palm lightly against the door . . .

. . . and jump backward as it swings inward.

Open, all along.

“Hello?” I crane my neck to see around the door. The lights are all blazing. There’s an old black-and-white movie I don’t recognize on the TV. There’s no luggage, save a sooty bag propped on the floor next to a dresser. I recognize it right away; it’s the bag Mr. Barstow went back for in the fire.

“Hello?” I hold my breath and listen for any sign of life. “Catherine?”

Nothing. I step into the room and shut the door gently behind me. I peek in the bathroom. There’s a bunch of dirty towels lumped on the counter, but no one’s there.

I grab the messenger bag.

Inside is a thick bundle of paperwork. I frown, leafing through, trying to see what was so important that he’d risk his life for it. At first glance it just looks like a bunch of legal documents. It’s not until I find a bundle of cards, held together with a rubber band, that I understand.

There are four different driver’s licenses, all with Catherine’s face—all with different names. Catherine Barstow. Sarah White. Emily Woods. Olivia Roberts.

I turn quickly through the other pages. Passports, birth certificates, social security cards. All in different names, but with the same pictures. Identities for her father, too—he’s gone by Louis, James, Mark. My pulse pounds in my ears; the pages trickle from my fingers and scatter across the threadbare carpet.

Who are these people?

Then I notice something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

There’s a faint red smear on the doorjamb.

I walk back to the door, almost in a trance. My fingers clench and unclench. The red is bright against the white paint. Closer up I can see the swirls and whorls of the handprint, too small to be a man’s. The blood is fresh.

My hand feels far away as it pushes the door open again. I float out into the dark parking lot, my eyes darting right and left, my breath coming quick. I look for some sign. I pray, desperate, for some sign. Out beyond the motel’s yellow lights it’s dark; the moon is hidden behind pale clouds. There’s no way for me to know where they went if I don’t have a sign.

I stand frozen for a long time. Then I see it; there, on the edge of the ice machine. Twenty feet to the right. Another smear of blood.

The tire iron is a comforting weight in my hands. I follow the trail: flecks of red along the siding, on a windowpane. It takes me around the side of the motel—to the woods, black and fathomless in the moonless night.

For just a moment I hesitate. Then I turn on the LED flashlight on my phone and push my way into the thicket.

The woods are dense and dark. She could be anywhere. “Catherine!” I shout. “Catherine!” My voice echoes back to me, eerie and warped. I can hear the Pedernales murmuring on the other side of the trees. Something rustles behind me, and I spin around in time to see an armadillo waddling away into the underbrush. I take a quick, gulping breath, my fingers tightening around the tire iron.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

Then, in the flashlight’s bleached-out glow, I see something else. A scrap of cloth—green plaid. Caught on a branch. One of Catherine’s shirts. Beyond, I can just barely make out the ghost of her path: broken branches, compressed grass.

“Catherine!” I shout.

I hear rustling again. I move the flashlight’s beam left to right, trying to pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

The light doesn’t land on her until she’s two feet away from me.

Her face is so caked in blood I barely recognize her. Her hair is damp and tangled with dirt and sticks. I drop the tire iron and run for her. My eyes scan her body, trying to see if she’s hurt.

“You came,” she says. Tears streak down her face, cutting a path through the dirt and blood. “You came.”

“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?” I’m afraid to touch her, not knowing where the blood has come from. But she throws her arms around my neck.

“You came,” she sobs. So I pull her close. I rest my cheek against the top of her head. Even with everything that’s happened, she feels like she was made for my arms.

“Of course I came,” I whisper.

She suddenly pushes away from me. “We have to go. Right now, we have to get out of here. Did you bring a car?”

“Yeah, of course, I . . .” I trail off.

A man moves out of the shadows, quick and quiet. The first thing I see is the glint of the gun. Then I see a face I don’t know—white, clean-shaven, tight with anger. It’s not until he speaks that I recognize him.