Sam squeezed Charlie’s hand.
“We decided that we couldn’t give up. It’s our baby, right? So we went to see a specialist at Vanderbilt. He did some scans, and then he took us into this room. There weren’t any pictures on the wall. That’s what I remember. The rest of the place had babies everywhere. Photos of families. But not in this room.”
Charlie stopped to dry her eyes again.
Sam waited.
Charlie said, “The doctor told us that there was nothing we could do. The cerebrospinal fluid was leaking. The baby didn’t have … organs.” She took a shaky breath. “My blood pressure was high. They were worried about sepsis. The doctor gave us five days, maybe a week, before the baby died, or I died, and I just—I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t go to work and eat dinner and watch TV knowing that—” She clasped Sam’s hand. “So we decided to go to Colorado. That’s the only place we could find where it’s legal.”
Sam knew she was talking about abortion.
“It’s twenty-five grand. Plus flights. Plus the hotel room. Plus taking off work. We didn’t have time to take out a loan, and we didn’t want anyone to know what we were using it for. We sold Ben’s car. Dad and Lenore gave us money. We put the rest on credit cards.”
Sam felt a crushing sense of shame. She should have been there. She could have given them the money, flown with Charlie on the plane.
“The night before we were supposed to leave, I took a sleeping pill, because what did it matter, right? But I woke up with this burning pain. It wasn’t like before with the cramps. I felt like I was being ripped apart. I went downstairs so I wouldn’t wake up Ben. I started throwing up. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. There was so much blood. It looked like a crime scene. There were pieces I could see. Pieces of—” Charlie shook her head, unable to say the rest. “Ben called an ambulance. I’ve got a scar, like a C-section, but no baby to show for it. And when I finally came home, the rug was gone. Ben had cleaned up everything. It was like it had never happened.”
Sam thought about the bare floor in Charlie’s living room. They had not replaced the rug in three years. She asked, “Did you talk to Ben about it?”
“Yeah. We talked about it. We went to therapy. We got past it.”
Sam could not believe that was true.
Charlie said, “It was my fault. I never told Ben, but every time, it was my fault.”
“You can’t believe that.”
She used the back of her hand to rub her eyes. “I saw Dad do this closing argument once. He talked about how people always obsess about lies. Damn lies. But no one really understands that the real danger is the truth.” She looked up at the white casket. “The truth can rot you from the inside. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.”
Sam tried, “There’s no truth in blaming yourself. Nature has its own design.”
“That’s not the truth I’m talking about.”
“Then tell me, Charlie. What’s the truth?”
Charlie leaned over. She put her head in her hands.
“Please,” Sam pleaded. She couldn’t stand her own uselessness. “Tell me.”
Charlie inhaled deeply, drawing air between the gap in her hands. “Everybody thinks I blame myself for running away.”
“Don’t you?”
“No,” she said. “I blame myself for not running faster.”
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO CHARLIE
“Run!” Sam shoved her away. “Charlie, go!”
Charlie fell back onto the ground. She saw the bright flash of the gun firing, heard the sudden explosion of the bullet leaving the barrel.
Sam spun through the air, almost somersaulting into the gaping mouth of the grave.
“Shit,” Daniel said. “Christ. Jesus Christ.”
Charlie scrambled away, crab-like, on her hands and heels, until her back hit a tree. She pushed herself up. Her knees shook. Her hands shook. Her whole body was shaking.
“It’s okay, sweetpea,” Zach told Charlie. “Stay right there for me.”
Charlie stared at the grave. Maybe Sam was hiding, waiting to spring up and run. But she wasn’t springing up. She wasn’t moving, or talking, or shouting, or bossing everybody around.
Zach told Daniel, “You cover this bitch up. Lemme take the little one off for a minute.”
If Sam could talk right now, she would be yelling, furious at Charlie for just standing there, for blowing this chance, for not doing what Sam always told her to do.
Don’t look back … trust me to be there … keep your head down and–
Charlie ran.
Her arms flailed. Her bare feet struggled for purchase. Tree limbs slashed at her face. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs felt like needles were stabbing into her chest.
She heard Sam’s voice—
Breathe through it. Slow and steady. Wait for the pain to pass.
“Get back here!” Zach yelled. The air shook with a steady thud-thud-thud that started to vibrate inside of Charlie’s chest.
Zachariah Culpepper was coming after her.
She tucked her arms into her sides. She forced the tension from her shoulders. She imagined her legs were pistons in a machine. She tuned out the pine cones and sharp rocks gouging into her bare feet. She thought about the muscles that were helping her move—
Calves, quads, hamstrings, tighten your core, protect your back.
Zach was getting closer. She could hear him like a steam engine bearing down.
Charlie vaulted over a fallen tree. She scanned left, then right, knowing she shouldn’t run in a straight line. She needed to locate the weather tower, to make sure she was heading in the right direction, but she knew if she looked back she would see Zach, and that seeing him would make her panic even more, and if she panicked even more, she would stumble, and if she stumbled, she would fall.
And then he would rape her.
Charlie veered right, her toes gripping the dirt as she altered direction. At the last minute, she saw another fallen tree. She flung herself over it, landing awkwardly. Her foot twisted. She felt her anklebone touch earth. Pain sliced up her leg.
She kept running.
Her feet were sticky with blood. Sweat dripped down her body. She scanned ahead for light, any indication of safety.
How much longer could he keep running? How much farther could she go?
Sam’
s voice came back to her—
Picture the finish line in your head. You have to want it more than the person behind you.
Zachariah wanted something. Charlie wanted something more—to get away, to get help for her sister, to find Rusty so he could figure out a way to make it all better.
Suddenly, Charlie’s head jerked back.
Her feet flew out in front of her.
Her back slammed into the ground.
She saw her breath huff out of her mouth like it was a real thing.
Zach was on top of her. His hands were everywhere. Grabbing her breasts. Pulling her shorts. His teeth clashed against her closed mouth. Charlie scratched at his eyes. She tried to bring up her knee into his crotch but she couldn’t bend her leg.
Zachariah sat up, straddling her. He worked his belt back through the buckle. His weight was too much. He was pushing the air out of her.
Charlie’s mouth opened. She had no breath left to scream. She was dizzy. Vomit burned up her throat.
Her shorts were wrenched down. He flipped her over like she was nothing. She tried again to scream, but he shoved her face into the ground. Dirt filled her mouth. He grabbed her hair in his fist. She felt a tearing deep inside her body as he ripped into her. His teeth bit down on her shoulder. He grunted like a pig as he raped her behind. She smelled rot from the earth, from his mouth, from what he was pushing inside of her.
Charlie squeezed her eyes shut.
I am not here. I am not here. I am not here.
Every time she convinced herself that this wasn’t happening, that she was in the kitchen at the red-brick house doing her homework, that she was running the track at school, that she was hiding in Sam’s closet listening to her talk on the phone to Peter Alexander, Zachariah did something new and the pain wrenched her back into reality.
He was not finished.
Charlotte’s arms flopped uselessly as he turned her over. He shoved inside of her from the front. She was finally numb. Her mind went blank. She was aware of things, but as if from a remove: Her body shifting up and down as he started to thrust. Her mouth hanging open. His tongue jamming down her throat. His fingers digging into her breasts like he was trying to rip them away from her body.