Page 19 of Caring for Cailin

Then.

I shudder at the memory.

The wind picks up, sending a rush of goosebumps across my skin.

I couldn’t have been at the door for more than twenty seconds or so when a deep voice came from beside me. Not inside the house, but emerging from the side of the porch, where an out-of-control shrub encroached on it.

“Don’t move,” the man ordered. “Don’t make a sound.”

Out of the corner of my eye, something metal glinted.

Then I heard a tiny click that I recognized all-too-well as a trigger cocking.

“Drop your keys on the ground,” he said. “Your money. And your phone.”

“Please don’t do this,” I pleaded. “Just let me go.”

He chuckled. It was a dark, oily sound. “I don’t think so. Now, do what I said. Or I’ll have to shoot you.”

So I did. How could I not?

I could almost hear Memphis in my head, saying,“Cars, money, phones—they can be replaced. You can’t, Cailin. So do what he says.”

As the man bent down to collect my things, I actually thought he might let me go. I hadn’t seen his face, after all. I couldn’t identify him. And who knew, maybe this trailer wasn’t even his.

It would make sense,my inner voice of logic reasoned. Why would someone give their own address to the restaurant if they intended to rob the delivery person? It would be much smarter to find someplace vacant to use as a trap.

Then the man stood back up and took a step towards me.

I saw his eyes.

They were dark. Flat. Predatory.

That’s when I knew he wasn’t going to let me go.

That’s when I realized he had something much worse than robbery in mind. And I needed to act fast to keep him from doing it.

So I cast my mind back to all those true-crime documentaries I’d watched. I tried to remember what some of the surviving victims said in their interviews about how they escaped. I scanned the porch with a desperation I hadn’t felt since I was back in Dario’s basement, hoping to find something to use.

Then I saw it—a faded planter half-filled with dry soil—and I had an idea.

I pretended to sway, like I was about to pass out. As I let my legs fold beneath me, I pitched forward, so my hand landed in the planter. Grabbing a handful, I turned and flung the soil in his face. And as soon as he yelped and flinched away, I ran.

At first, I paid no attention to where I was going. Terrified, panicked; all I cared about was keeping to the shadows and getting as far away as I could.

Eventually—after ten minutes or an hour, I’m not sure—I finally began to notice my surroundings, or at least what little I could see of them in the dark. I made my way close to a road and followed beside it, not too close, though, in case the man was looking for me.

And I’m still following it, however long later. Like my time at Dario’s, time is funny out here. For all I know, only thirty minutes have passed, or it could have been hours.

Straining to see in the distance, I search the horizon for a hint of light. For some glimmer of hope that safety is in sight.

And Memphis.

Oh, I wish he were here, like he was in my fantasy. But I’m sure he’s back in Salem by now, watching one of those outdoor shows he likes, or possibly working on one of his giant jigsaw puzzles. He’s sent me pictures of them—massive five-thousand piece puzzles that he works on for weeks. I even had one custom-made for him with Gus printed on it.

Even though it still hurts that he left, I can’t bring myself to be mad at him.

No, I love him too much for that.