Chapter 37

Theresa had walked these woods a hundred times with her parents in her young life. Summers spent camping and standing up to her knees in the river to catch tadpoles, autumns identifying leaves, and winters cross-country skiing. Late morning conveys the sensation of dusk as the dreary clouds linger overhead, darkening the land, and the cool breeze settles into her bones. She pulls her bag of essentials from the passenger seat and activates the flashlight on her phone. The woods are deserted. The flashlight lands on a pair of eerie, shining eyes in the distance. Raccoons, most likely.

 

She shivers from the rain and pulls the hood over her head, wrapping her coat around her torso, imagining her father’s hug. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t have to run like this. She shouldn’t have to return to this place of youthful innocence as a fugitive.

 

She sees headlights dance through the line of trees as a vehicle winds its way through the trail from the road to the parking lot. Her heart races over the thought, and sweat mingles with rain on her palms. They’ve come for me. How did they know? She turns the flashlight app off and realizes her mistake. My phone. They’ve tracked my phone. A stupid misstep, but she’s hardly a hardened criminal with the wherewithal to plan something like this. She turns her phone off just the same. The car may just be a couple of teenagers out for an evening make-out session. She remembers those days too. They seem a lifetime ago now. The headlights fall on her, and she steps behind her car, now covered in branches and other forest camouflage. The vehicle stops a few yards away, and a door opens.

 

“Theresa,” a voice calls out. It’s him. It’s Harlow. Her heart sinks, and anxiety enters. She takes another step back and turns to review her escape route. The light of a full moon provides a momentary glimpse of the forest floor, returning a second later behind the fast-moving, charcoal clouds.

 

“I’m not coming with you,” she returns to Harlow’s silhouette. Is it moving closer? Adrenaline floods her muscles, and she feels the warmth build in her thighs, bending her knees, forcing her into a sprinting position. Her trembling hand falls to the pistol secured in her pant pocket. It’s heavy and a reminder of her present predicament. She doesn’t want to draw it, but destiny waits for no one. The progression therapy she’d done on herself tells her that much. There’s no reason to wait and find out if the detective will charge.