TESS DECIDED TO leave Montreal that evening. She regretted it almost immediately, but even then she did not turn around. A foolish and impulsive decision. An uncharacteristic decision. When the dark mood descended, though, she would do almost anything to wriggle out from under it.
At the Home, she could bury herself in schoolwork or books or sewing. If the darkness was particularly smothering, she’d grab a bicycle from the shed and ride as fast and as far as she could, until she’d left that cloud behind and could collapse, exhausted, in a patch of grass and stare up at the sky and dream of freedom.
Here, there were no books or needles or bicycles. There was only the open road, her goal at its end. To go to the hotel would mean lying in an empty room, with nothing to do but wait for visions and nightmares. Foolish or not, she had hit the road, and she would stay on it, even if that meant tramping along at midnight.
She’d taken an electric trolley bus across the city. That had been interesting enough to temporarily lighten her mood. The streetcars were gone from Montreal. She’d heard someone on the train talking about a subway, but that wasn’t due to open for a couple of years. So they had buses and yellow trolley buses running on endless wires. She’d taken one of them and then transferred to a regional bus, which the Montreal bus-terminal clerk said would take her near Sainte-Suzanne.
To Tess near meant “within walking distance,” and she was generous with her interpretation of that because she had no aversion to walking. It was only seven in the evening when she got off the bus, with nearly three hours of light left.
“Sainte-Suzanne?” The bus-depot clerk switched to English as soon as Tess unthinkingly greeted her with Good evening. “It is nearly fifteen miles, miss. They should have told you that in Montreal.”
“Is there another bus?”
The woman shook her head. “No, you will need to take a…” She searched for a word. “Hired car?”
“Taxi?”
The word was the same in French or English, and the woman laughed. “Yes, a taxi. There is one in town, but it is not operating tonight. You can stay at the inn until morning.” The woman gave directions. Tess thanked her and left.
Tess took one look at the inn—a grand Victorian that made Tess envision herself standing at the desk, counting out twice as much money as she had paid for her scarf—and decided to push on.
She would hitch a ride. It wasn’t the safest way to travel, but she’d read several magazine articles by people who’d crossed the entire country that way. From them, she’d learned simple rules. Smile. Keep walking—you’ll look lazy if you stand still with your thumb out. Target older vehicles—they’re more likely to stop. If you’re a young woman alone, look for women and families, and if it has to be a man, make sure he’s old.
Before she left town, she called Billy. She’d forgotten to do that in Montreal, too wrapped up in her gloom. Now she found a pay phone, put in her dime and added more for the long distance. They kept the call short—mostly just a check-in. She kept it light too, telling him about the gorgeous silk scarf and the elderly couple who had bought her tea and skipping the rest, including the part about the hitchhiking, because she knew he’d tell her to splurge on the inn and the taxi, and maybe he was right, but she just wanted to get where she was going.
She used her new scarf to tie her hair in a ponytail. The bright splash of color would make it easier for drivers to see her. More than that, she could see the end draped over her shoulder, fluttering in the evening breeze, and it lifted her spirits.
She was in Quebec. She was wearing new boots and a new scarf, and she was going to be a new girl. A new Tess. One with a past and answers. Yes, she knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. She wouldn’t walk up to this address and find loving parents who’d lost her in a marketplace fifteen years ago and had been searching for her ever since. Those were the dreams of orphans—that they were really only misplaced children. Which was never the case, but it was better than admitting their parents were dead or, worse, had abandoned them.
Still, the answers would be at that house, buried, waiting for a determined girl to ferret them out. And Tess was nothing if not determined.
The universe decided to reward her resolve, and the first car that came along stopped. It was a woman with two little ones. Tess sat in the back and amused the older child—a toddler who took great interest in her scarf. The woman spoke only French, but they managed enough of a conversation for Tess to understand that the woman could only drive her five miles before she needed to turn off. Her husband expected her home by eight, and they were already late. Tess took the ride with gratitude, and soon was walking on the road again, waiting for the next.
She swore she’d walked five miles before another car stopped. A truck this time—a gray-haired man driving a pickup with mud on the fenders and hay stacked in the back.
“Sainte-Suzanne?” she said.
“Oui.”
She presumed either he could take her there or that he was heading in that direction. She wasn’t certain of the right words to ask for clarification. It seemed that being at the top of her class in French did not mean she was actually equipped to carry on proper conversations here. The accent and inflections were different than what she’d learned. Some of the words too. So she settled for a quick “Merci” and hopped in.
When the man said something in quick French, she made the dreaded admission. “Je ne parle pas très bien Français.” I do not speak French very well.
The man grinned, and she realized he wasn’t as old as he’d looked. Prematurely gray. Maybe only in his late thirties.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I don’t speak it very well either. Lived here half my life, and I’m told my accent is atrocious. I was saying you can toss your suitcase in the back if you like, but it’s kinda dirty.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
He pulled away from the side of the road. “Sainte-Suzanne, huh? You’re not taking that au pair job for the Chastains, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, because the kids are brats.” He winked her way. “And it’s John, not sir. Please. So you have family in town?”
She considered her lie carefully. If there was no bus service to Sainte-Suzanne, it wasn’t very big, and the fact that this man knew about a local job suggested he was from the area.
“I’m traveling,” she said. “My family comes from the region originally, and I wanted to see it.”
His brow creased. “On your own? What are you? Sixteen?”
“Eighteen.”
“You don’t look eighteen. Your folks know you’re here?”
“They’re…not around anymore.”
“Oh.”
They drove at least a mile in silence. Then he said, “So you’re camping? I can’t imagine a tent fitting in that little bag.”
Tess cursed herself. She should have come up with a better story. Or taken the taxi in the morning, when no one would ask where she planned to stay the night.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. Then added, “Thank you.”
“There aren’t hotels in town, miss. Nearest one is ten miles back.”
“I’ll go back to it. Or find a place.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” he said. “I’ve got a spare room. You can stay with me. Us, I mean. My wife and me.”
There was no ring on his finger. That didn’t mean he wasn’t married, but something about the way he’d quickly corrected himself said he wasn’t.
“That’s very kind,” she said. “But I’ll be fine.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
They drove another few miles. When he turned onto a dirt road, Tess’s heart revved again.
“Is this the way?” she said.
She expected him to say yes or that it was a shortcut. In other words, to lie. But he shook his head. “I’m not taking you to Sainte-Suzanne at this hour. It’s almost dark. You’ll stay with me.”
She shook her head vehemently, her scarf and ponytail whipping. “No, sir. Please. Just take me—”
“Stop that.” He glared at her. “I’m not some dirty old man. I’m being a Good Samaritan. Your family wouldn’t want you wandering around out here on your own.”
“Just take me back to the main road. Please. You’re right. I should have come out tomorrow. I’ll catch a lift back and stay in the inn.”
“No, you’ll stay with me.”
His hands gripped the wheel and, jaw set, he punched down the accelerator. She knew this wasn’t a misunderstanding.
She dropped her head and let out a sob. “P-please, sir. Let me go.”
He lifted his foot off the accelerator and leaned over. “Hey there. Don’t cry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve got a spare bed, and I just want to help. I’ll drive you to town in the morning—”
She threw open the door—one hand pushing it wide, the other clutching her purse. The man let out a cry of surprise and hit the brakes, and she flung herself out the door.
It was, in retrospect, a very foolish thing to do. It had seemed clever enough at the time. Trick him with the fake crying so he’d slow down enough for her to jump out. She’d read the scene in adventure stories—the plucky hero escaping from the villain by leaping from a moving vehicle, rolling gracefully into the ditch and racing off.
It did not work like that.
Perhaps part of the problem was that she’d taken the suitcase with her. She’d considered leaving it—while she’d feel guilty abandoning the clothing Billy had given her, no guilt was worth risking her life for. But it was wedged between her legs. If she went, it had to go too. So she flung herself—suitcase and all—out the door and, perhaps not surprisingly, did not land in a graceful roll.
Tess hit the road so hard that for a second she thought, I’m dead. There seemed no way it could be otherwise. The air whooshed from her lungs, and pain ripped through her as she skidded over the gravel, her entire body on fire.
Then she stopped. She lay there, suitcase flung aside as she’d jumped, her arms and legs pulled into an awkward cannonball, as if she’d instinctively rolled up when she hit the ground.
As she vaulted to her feet, pain screamed through her again, and she thought, What if I’ve broken my neck? She hadn’t. Her vault, though, was more of a staggering, stumbling, rocking push to her feet, teeth gritted against the pain searing through her hip and left arm, which were studded with gravel. That’s when she heard the slam of the truck door.
She spun to see the man jogging around the vehicle. His face was livid.
“What kind of crazy stunt?” he shouted.
Tess didn’t hear the rest. She grabbed her suitcase and ran into the long grass.
“Get back here!” he shouted. “You need to see a doctor!”
She called back that she was fine, still hoping she was being paranoid, that he really had just been trying to help and she’d read too many scary novels, and he’d see she was okay and back off. He did not. He ran after her, shouting that she needed a doctor, that he wasn’t going to let her run away when she was injured.
He wasn’t going to let her escape. That’s what he meant. He’d keep telling her—and maybe himself—that he was doing the right thing. But the right thing would be to see she was terrified and leave her alone. He didn’t.
She ran for a strip of trees about fifty feet from the road. When she reached it, she realized how thick the forest was, no path to be seen, and she stumbled and knocked about, struggling to carry the suitcase.
She threw it aside. That was all she could do. Throw it and send up a silent apology to Billy. At least she’d stashed all her money in her purse.
The man didn’t stop for the suitcase. He stayed right on her trail, maybe thirty feet back. Branches lashed her as she ran. They whipped against her skinned arm, and she bit her lip against the pain. Her hip throbbed. One knee hurt. It didn’t matter. She had to run as fast and as far as she could.
She stumbled a few times over fallen branches and thick undergrowth. He seemed to be gaining ground. That’s when she heard a cry and spun to see him going down, arms flailing as he fell. He howled in pain. Tess kept running.
“My leg!” he shouted after her. “I think I broke my leg!”
She slowed and turned. She couldn’t see him now; he was lost in the undergrowth. She listened for the heaves of panting breath, the sounds of pain. None came. Silence. Then, “Oww. My leg—I think I broke it.”
When she didn’t answer, he said, “You wouldn’t leave me here, would you? I’m hurt.”
No, he wasn’t. She was certain of that. Well, at least 75 percent certain.
“Your truck is that way,” she said. “Start crawling.”
“You little bitch!” He leaped up and she started to run, but his fall must not have been faked, because she heard an honest hiss of pain and looked back to see him holding a tree for support, wincing.
She kept running, and this time she did not look back. Nor did he follow. He shouted after her. Called her an ungrateful brat. And worse. He was hurt. Not as bad as he’d faked but enough that he couldn’t give chase. That didn’t mean Tess stopped running. Not until she burst from the forest, her sides aching, lungs burning. She looked around. The dirt road was to her right. To her left, more trees. She headed for them.