couldn’t help being captivated by the rugged scenery that slid past the window.
Breathtaking, rust-colored rock formations jutted up behind wide, rolling farms and green pastures. Livestock paddocks and pole barns let out onto acres of well-tended land, most of it hemmed in by low white fences that seemed to go on for miles on the winding valley road. Against the far horizon, hazy, snow-covered peaks of jagged mountains loomed, making even the highest ridges in the Northeast look like meager hills.
After a few miles, the picturesque homesteads, farms, and clusters of rural neighborhoods gave way to less prosperous-looking patches of land. Few homes or trailers sat on the stretch of twisting asphalt ahead of them now. The land was flat and dusty, most of it gone to seed or littered with rock and boulders. Here and there a rundown farmhouse or neglected camper squatted at the end of an unpaved driveway.
It was near one such place that Tori noticed they had begun to slow down.
Up ahead on the left, a rusted metal mailbox with the name “Wm. Davis” painted onto it sat atop an S-curved length of plumbing pipe. At the end of the long, dirt path leading back from the road was a ramshackle, sun-bleached gray two-story farmhouse with a sagging, faded red barn behind it.
She glanced at Ethan as he brought the van to a crawl as they approached. A strange shiver worked its way up her nape as she took in the sad, sorry condition of the house and land.
It was a lonely place. A home that had been long in ruin, devoid of joy.
And suddenly she knew where they were without needing to ask him. “You spent some time in the area,” she murmured quietly, his words back at the river. “This is the house where you grew up.”
He stared at the old house, the van now paused in the empty road. “Yeah. This is it.”
“The mailbox doesn’t say Jones on it,” Tori pointed out, looking at him in question.
“I dropped the family name after I got into the Phoenix program. Henry Sheppard helped me start fresh, bury my past. I’ve been Ethan Jones ever since.” He turned into the narrow driveway.
Tori could see that he wasn’t happy to be there. His fingers were coiled around the wheel, his jaw clamped tight.
“What are we doing here? Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Staying anywhere else right now is too much risk. We could be spotted at a motel, and I’m not going to make you sleep in this van tonight.”
“But here, Ethan?”
“I’ll keep you safe.” A solemn reassurance, spoken like a vow.
He kept driving, the silence in the vehicle punctuated by the pop and crunch of gravel as they rolled slowly toward the old house.
She didn’t understand until now how deep Ethan’s dread must be that the killer on their tail, or the ones who hired him, might find them.
If he thought seeking shelter at his father’s house was less terrifying than facing his other enemies, then Tori could only hope they survived the night so they could run far and fast again tomorrow.
She sat ramrod straight as the van crawled up the driveway to the side of the house. Inside, a curtain swung back into place in a dingy bay window, as if someone had just peeked out. Before the van had slowed to a stop, the side screen door opened.
An old man stepped out onto the covered wooden porch. Tall and thin, hunched at the shoulders, he poked his thinning, gray-haired head around one of the rails and scowled at his uninvited visitors.
He wore a white, short-sleeved undershirt and dark green work pants. Sagging, faded black tattoos rode his forearms. His glower was piercing, terrifying and forbidding.
He peered at the van’s windshield for a long moment, then the glare faltered. Just a fraction, and only for a moment before he called it back and scowled even more furiously.
Ethan put the van in park, but left the engine running as he opened his door and got out.
Tori didn’t feel quite as brave as him, yet she couldn’t let him face his father
Breathtaking, rust-colored rock formations jutted up behind wide, rolling farms and green pastures. Livestock paddocks and pole barns let out onto acres of well-tended land, most of it hemmed in by low white fences that seemed to go on for miles on the winding valley road. Against the far horizon, hazy, snow-covered peaks of jagged mountains loomed, making even the highest ridges in the Northeast look like meager hills.
After a few miles, the picturesque homesteads, farms, and clusters of rural neighborhoods gave way to less prosperous-looking patches of land. Few homes or trailers sat on the stretch of twisting asphalt ahead of them now. The land was flat and dusty, most of it gone to seed or littered with rock and boulders. Here and there a rundown farmhouse or neglected camper squatted at the end of an unpaved driveway.
It was near one such place that Tori noticed they had begun to slow down.
Up ahead on the left, a rusted metal mailbox with the name “Wm. Davis” painted onto it sat atop an S-curved length of plumbing pipe. At the end of the long, dirt path leading back from the road was a ramshackle, sun-bleached gray two-story farmhouse with a sagging, faded red barn behind it.
She glanced at Ethan as he brought the van to a crawl as they approached. A strange shiver worked its way up her nape as she took in the sad, sorry condition of the house and land.
It was a lonely place. A home that had been long in ruin, devoid of joy.
And suddenly she knew where they were without needing to ask him. “You spent some time in the area,” she murmured quietly, his words back at the river. “This is the house where you grew up.”
He stared at the old house, the van now paused in the empty road. “Yeah. This is it.”
“The mailbox doesn’t say Jones on it,” Tori pointed out, looking at him in question.
“I dropped the family name after I got into the Phoenix program. Henry Sheppard helped me start fresh, bury my past. I’ve been Ethan Jones ever since.” He turned into the narrow driveway.
Tori could see that he wasn’t happy to be there. His fingers were coiled around the wheel, his jaw clamped tight.
“What are we doing here? Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Staying anywhere else right now is too much risk. We could be spotted at a motel, and I’m not going to make you sleep in this van tonight.”
“But here, Ethan?”
“I’ll keep you safe.” A solemn reassurance, spoken like a vow.
He kept driving, the silence in the vehicle punctuated by the pop and crunch of gravel as they rolled slowly toward the old house.
She didn’t understand until now how deep Ethan’s dread must be that the killer on their tail, or the ones who hired him, might find them.
If he thought seeking shelter at his father’s house was less terrifying than facing his other enemies, then Tori could only hope they survived the night so they could run far and fast again tomorrow.
She sat ramrod straight as the van crawled up the driveway to the side of the house. Inside, a curtain swung back into place in a dingy bay window, as if someone had just peeked out. Before the van had slowed to a stop, the side screen door opened.
An old man stepped out onto the covered wooden porch. Tall and thin, hunched at the shoulders, he poked his thinning, gray-haired head around one of the rails and scowled at his uninvited visitors.
He wore a white, short-sleeved undershirt and dark green work pants. Sagging, faded black tattoos rode his forearms. His glower was piercing, terrifying and forbidding.
He peered at the van’s windshield for a long moment, then the glare faltered. Just a fraction, and only for a moment before he called it back and scowled even more furiously.
Ethan put the van in park, but left the engine running as he opened his door and got out.
Tori didn’t feel quite as brave as him, yet she couldn’t let him face his father
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