Chapter 1
Burning a large, white passenger van was more difficult than Chloe thought. A thin layer of crusted sweat covered the top of her back, and the collar of her shirt was still damp. She rubbed her fingers up and down the vertebrae in her neck while looking around in the darkness. There has to be a place somewhere up here, she thought. The van’s high beams illuminated little else beyond the road. The thick mess of forest contained it.
“Yes,” she whispered out loud, pulling on the wheel. An opening had appeared between the trees. The van veered off the road towards the clearing. Dirt and grass tugged at the wheels, slowing it down a little. In the back, cans of gasoline sloshed. She was exhausted, but it didn’t matter. It’s not like she could stop now. Her hand searched the passenger seat for another 5-hour energy.
She fumbled with the plastic wrap covering the drink while holding the wheel steady with her knee. It must have been bruised because it throbbed when she bent it. After passing over several bumps in the ground, she finally got her nail under the plastic wrap of the drink and tore it clean. The liquid soaked her dry throat. It didn’t matter that it tasted like diesel fuel and Splenda. She only wished there was more than a single shot’s worth. She tossed the trash over her shoulder and retook the wheel with her hands.
The van crept forward until she was convinced she was far enough away from both the street and any lingering trees. “That’ll have to do,” she said to herself, shifting the gear into park. The headlights illuminated a field of tall grass, and a gust of wind sent a shiver through it. The blades rose and fell in waves. Chloe sighed and pressed her head to the rubber of the steering wheel. “Almost there.”
The door creaked like microphone feedback as she opened it. If she weren’t so far from town, she would have been worried about the noise. But no one else was out here. There hadn’t been another car on the road for miles. As she stepped into the field, she realized the grass was much taller than it looked. It almost came up to her knees. Shit. She hadn’t considered that. The blades were dark green though, which gave her some relief. She bent down to feel the soil. Damp, almost mud. That should be fine, she thought. There weren’t really any other options. She was running out of night.
She made her way to the back of the van. On the other side of the window, her bike laid pressed to the tempered glass. As she swung the door open, it slipped against the upholstery and fell towards her. Fortunately, her reflexes were still decent enough to keep it from completely smacking her face. The back tire butted up against her neck, and after a night of running around, it felt heavier than usual. She managed to bring it down the rest of the way and wheeled it through the grass—away from the van. She didn’t stop until she reached the tree line. This should be far enough, she thought.
The wind gave another roar, whipping her hair against her face. She let her bike lean against a tree and started jogging back to the van. Now, the wind worried her. Hopefully, it would stop or at least die down. Stalks of grass tried to wrap around her legs as she approached the open door. The three red gas cans of gasoline were still there, shoved against the seats. She pulled them each out, to the ground, and got on her good knee to start unscrewing them. The smell hit her in the face immediately—hard enough for her to taste it. It was a mixture of cat piss and those menthol cigarettes her dad smoked. The back of her eyes stung. She looked away and tried to blink out the chemicals.
Once she could see straight, she started pouring.
The gasoline spewed against the back floor of the van. It came out quicker than she meant it to. She bounced the stream up and down, trying to evenly coat what she could. But most of it still ended up as a large pool on the floor. Once that can was empty, she took the second one to the front of the van to repeat the process. Driver seat, passenger seat, dashboard, radio, glove compartment, cup holders, the pockets in the door—she doused everything she could. She kept going until the fuel stopped pouring.
One can left.
She proceeded to the van’s side door with the last of the fuel. But instead of opening it, she pressed her palm to the cool metal frame followed by her forehead. She had to prepare herself. The grass brushed against her jeans, threatening to wrap around them again and pull her into the earth. She almost wished they would. But they didn’t. She still didn’t feel ready.
She slid the door open anyway—just a crack. It was small but enough for the wind to sweep up several pieces of her trash, throwing them into the field. “Fuck,” she swore before dropping the canister and darting after one of the plastic drink labels. It spasmed through the air, flying in front of the headlights and back again, before she finally caught it. The sudden movement had loosened more adrenaline into her system. Her heartbeat sped up.
In that time, the door had rolled itself open entirely. Chloe could see directly into the van. Her pile of empty 5-hour energy bottles lay next to a pair of sneakers—Randy’s sneakers. The fray of his jeans fell over them both, but she didn’t let her eyes look any further up. Instead, she walked slowly back towards the van, trying to keep her focus on anything but him. Once she got to the door, it was too much. She couldn’t help but look.
He was bent over, even with the two seatbelts that had been used to try and strap him upright. His back arched down, and the curve of his spine led to a mop of scarecrow-blonde hair. It dangled towards the ground, blocking his face. His palms lay flat against his sides, pointing upwards. The dull remnants of a rejected tattoo were visible on one. Chloe’s hand shook from guilt and adrenaline. The gasoline sloshed in its tank as she slowly lifted the can to his head.
“God, grant me the fucking serenity,” she said.
It glugged as it tipped over. The liquid consumed his head like diluted honey, dripping from the matted tips of his hair to his jeans. It rolled down his neck, beneath his shirt, and down his back before puddling into the seat. She brought it down to his shoes, filling them until they overflowed and seeped into the car floor. It was overkill, but she didn’t stop pouring. Only after the last few drops came through, was she satisfied. She tossed the empty can inside and slammed the door.
Chapter 2
Connor Zeigler.
His name is Connor Zeigler.
Grace drove down the empty highway. Towering evergreens unzipped the night sky above and filled the resulting rift with stars. They were brighter out here than back in New York. But even combined with her high beams, they failed to illuminate anything beyond the dense mesh of forest. A pothole shook the car, jostling her collection of crime-scene statistics notes, and an “Elements of Journalism” textbook in the passenger’s seat.
Every forty-one seconds a child is abducted in America.
His name is Connor Zeigler.
The stars pierced down. He might be looking at the same ones right now. Their light reflected off the hood of Grace’s car—the spots that weren’t rusted over—and glared against the windshield. What were the chances that he was alive, somewhere in this tangled forest? A single scream away. Reflective road paint zipped past like a mantra.
Fifty-five percent of child abductions are committed by a family member.
His name is Connor Zeigler.
Statistically, it was one of his parents. The mother, most likely. Grace had written an entire tree’s worth of articles detailing similar cases. Mom poison’s toddler. Wife gasses family. Aunt drowns nephews. Grandma shoots grandchild. Grace had spoken to them all, all the perpetrators. Never once had any of them named their victims. It was always “my husband’s kid,” or “the ten-year old,” or “the kindergartener,” or “the one who would never stop crying.”
His name is—
GPS Offline
“Damn it,” Grace muttered, picking her foot off the gas pedal. Her phone had lost service again. She pulled over to the side of the road. Checked both mirrors. Turned on the hazards. The engine hummed as she put the car into park and grabbed the phone. The map display spun around in undecided circles, unable to orient itself. She’d have to memorize the rest of the directions.
“Exit 23, right onto Old Creek, take that for a while, left onto Frontier, then eventually Stewart Street,” Grace repeated out loud to cement the directions into her mind. “23, Old Creek, Frontier, Stewart.” Almost there. Tree’s whistled beyond the highway’s guardrail.
Grace shot a look towards the sound. The red hazard lights from her car flashed against branches and bushes, but nothing moved. Without averting her gaze, she reached down for her bat, her fingers gripping the wooden handle that jutted from under the seat. Neon red pulsed against the darkness, unable to fully penetrate it. The wind howled again, like steam trying to escape its kettle, and loose dirt swept through the air.
A convicted mother once told Grace that some people were born dead. Ghosts sent to haunt us. They hide in the wind. The shadows. The woman had been sentenced to life in prison for grinding a handful of Xanax into her daughter’s applesauce. Fortunately, Grace didn’t believe in ghosts. She peeled her fingers away from the bat as the wind softened outside and shifted her car back into gear.
Thirty-seven percent of convicted killers blame the supernatural for their actions.
Branches stretched above like a tunnel, and only flecks of starlight glinted through. It was much darker now that Grace had made it off the highway. She lulled the car forward, waiting for the reflection of street signs. But they didn’t come. No Old Creek. No Frontier. No Stewart. She checked her phone. No signal. The needle on her gas gauge dipped below the final line. She could see the headline now: Journalist investigating missing toddler also goes missing.
Her high beams blinked off, then back on. Something had darted across the road right in front of her. A shadow. Before she could think to break, it rushed straight back across the road like a ricochet. “Shit!” Grace jerked the wheel in reflex to avoid collision. The car bounced over loose rock and dirt as it swerved off the smooth asphalt of the street. A large tree trunk clipped her side mirror and squealed against the metal of her car before she came to a stop.
Nearly ninety percent of all auto related homicides occur from impairment.
An entire two-thirds of Americans have never used their vehicle’s emergency lights.
Warm air pumped through the vents in Grace’s car. It curled into her lungs as she breathed in deep to try and stop her body from shaking. Outside, dust hung suspended in high beams while branches and bark pressed against her windows. She threw the car into park and flipped on her hazards. The flashing red immediately illuminated the small dark figure. It slunk across the ground next to her. Her heart stopped. She reached for her bat as the creature crawled towards the front of her car.
Mew.
In the sharp glow of her headlights, an orange tabby cat stretched itself out, yawning. Yellow eyes flashed up at Grace as the animal sat back up and crooked its head to the side. “Jesus Christ,” Grace exhaled, laughing. “I need to sleep.”
The interior lights clicked on as she opened her door. “Hey,” Grace pitched her voice up. “What are you doing out here by yourself?” The cat cried louder the closer she got, but purred once Grace bent down to scratch its ear.
No collar. But the little orange devil was well groomed. She had to be close to town, or at least some civilization. “You know?” Grace started, scratching deeper, “you look just like my ex’s cat.” The animal meowed loud at this and nibbled at her fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re much prettier, of course.”
A series of pops echoed from down the road, like muffled firecrackers spitting off in unison. The cat hissed towards the noise before darting off under a bush and into the woods. Grace stood up and squinted her eyes to look down the dark street. “Hello?” A faint glow peered between branches. It didn’t look like another vehicle, and it definitely wasn’t a street lamp.
She gripped her bat tighter, peering into the night. Maybe it was someone’s house, or if she were really lucky, a gas station. She started walking towards the source. The strange light blinked in and out between the trees.
The smell gave it away. Like a homeless camp in a New York winter, smoke stung her nostrils. Her walk turned into a jog as the fading illumination from her car’s headlights was replaced with the warm glow of a fire. She ducked off the road and between a small outcrop of brush.
On the other side was a clearing. An umbrella of smoke bloomed high over the treetops, trailing back to its source—the large metal frame of a burning van. Heat danced against Grace’s face. The fire itself thrashed against bursts of wind, crawling at the sky like it was trying to pull itself away
Over eighty five percent of property fires are accidental.
Over eighty five percent of property fires don’t occur in the middle of nowhere with no one around.
Something in the van popped. A burst of sparks shot upwards and fresh heat rolled over Grace’s body. The towering plume of smoke thickened, further dampening the once bright starlight.