2

The palm trees waved against a balmy sunset as my flight took off from Palm Beach. I clamped my headphones in place, tugged my sleep mask over my eyes, and willed myself to rest.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but Scranton came as a shock—the airport tiny and the air biting cold. Flying into a tiny regional airport had one benefit, though. I made it from the plane to my rental within ten minutes.

Although the car came equipped with dashboard GPS, Leah had cautioned that I probably wouldn’t receive much of a signal once lost in the Endless Mountains. She’d also warned against stopping to ask for directions, claiming that a woman of my plain looks and small stature was practically begging to be kidnapped. In her infinite wisdom, Leah had prepared turn-by-turn directions ahead of time, along with a confirmation number for my StayAway rental.

Feeling like a time-traveler, I dug my notebook from my backpack, flipped to the proper page, and studied the route. Confident I’d remember the turns, I tossed the notebook onto the passenger’s seat and reversed at snail speed, wary of black ice. I wasn’t entirely sure what black ice was, but someone had warned me about it. I thought it best to take precautions.

Though the GPS cut out a time or two—especially west of Montrose—it stayed connected at the critical moments. As it turned out, I should have been less worried about the driving directions and more concerned about the actual driving.

I’d learned to drive late, as many foster kids do. I’d also learned to drive in Florida, where streets were laid out in parallel North-South, East-West grids. A place where everything was flat and nothing froze. While the twists and turns of the Endless Mountains weren’t the steepest, they were steeper than anything I’d tackled. Plus ice. And possibly bears.

Hitting a bear would do some damage to the rental—although I was much more likely to hit a deer, apparently. I’d already spotted several along the road, their glassy eyes shimmering in the glare of the headlights.

I took my time. When vehicles roared up behind me, I pulled over and let them pass. But I needn’t have worried. Once off I-81, I encountered no traffic of any kind. Which, though unnerving, really shouldn’t have surprised me. It was, after all, the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere.

Leah had hardly been able to believe her luck in finding a StayAway rental out here. Although I couldn’t imagine who would bother venturing that far into the boondocks. Maybe writers on crazy deadlines or people in witness protection, Leah had suggested in an e-mail.

When I’d first read those words—snug in my Florida kitchen—they’d had a different effect than they did now, as I drove down a deserted highway in the dark.

My navigation system pinged, signaling a left turn. I spun the wheel to comply, easing from Route 267 onto a sharply inclined gravel lane. The sweep of headlights illuminated a row of choppy headstones. Behind them, starkly white against the black, loomed a white clapboard church, steeple stabbing skyward.

Birchardville was real, and I had arrived.