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Leaving the cabin this morning was stupid.

Telling Sierra was stupid.

"Don't you tell nobody . . . it's our secret." I wanted to tell my mom the first time it happened. But he told me not to. Anyway, I was afraid I'd get in trouble if I told her. But then the more I didn't tell, the more I couldn't tell. It was like the secret was a huge snowball rolling after me—like in a cartoon. The longer I didn't tell, the bigger the snowball got. It was always there, just behind me, ready to flatten me.

After my mom left, things got even worse. "She only wanted one thing. Just wanted what I could get her. That whore just wanted one thing!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "You get that, girl? She didn't care 'bout me. Didn't care 'bout you. Just wanted what she wanted!"

His face looked like a boiled tomato, and it was so close to mine that his spit sprayed my face as he yelled.

Then he slapped me.

And he pushed me down.

I landed on the corner of my mattress—my head and shoulders hit the mattress, but my back and tailbone hit the floor. Hard. He held me down. I tried to get away from him, but he was on top of me and as hard as I tried, I couldn't get away. Then he . . . he hurt me.

"Cat got your tongue?"

After that, I couldn't talk. But it didn't matter by then because there was no one to tell anyway.

"You gonna let the cat outta the bag?" He used to ask me that. "Huh, Kaylee, you gonna let the cat outta the bag? Not now. Cat's got your tongue now." Then he'd laugh at me.

What do cats have to do with anything anyway?

But today, when I saw Sierra and she saw the bruise on my face, I knew that's just what I was doing. I was letting the cat out of the bag. I was telling her my secret—or at least part of it. I should have run earlier. I shouldn't have let her see me. I could never tell her the whole secret. I can never tell anyone.

Letting her see me today was stupid.

I'm such a moron.

mor·on—noun
1. a person who is notably stupid or lacking good judgment.

Then she wanted me to leave—to go with her.

Now I'll probably never see her again either. This thought makes my throat feel tight and tears blur my eyes again. It shouldn't matter anyway. It's not like I need . . . I mean . . . she's not important to me or anything. I don't even really know her. So it doesn't matter. She's inconsequential. Which means she's irrelevant. Which means she's not important anyway. Really. She's not.

Anyway, I couldn't go with her. I have to be there when my mom comes back.

What if today was the day?

What if she came today and I wasn't there? And she waited for me and I didn't come back? How long would she wait? If it was a good day, she'd probably wait a long time. But if it was one of her bad days, she wouldn't wait. On those days she doesn't have any patience.

I try not to think about her bad days—she couldn't help it if she didn't feel good. Instead, I think about how she liked to laugh and dance. She'd come home sometimes and turn on the radio. She'd find a station that was playing something she liked and then she'd turn it up real loud.

"Let's dance, Kaylee." She'd grab both my hands and we'd twirl around and around until she was so dizzy that she'd fall down. Then she'd laugh. Sometimes she'd fall asleep right on the floor while she was laughing. Before I went to bed, I'd go get a blanket and cover her up so she'd stay warm.

My favorite days with my mom were her medium days—not the bad days and not the good days—just the regular days. There were more regular days when we lived with Grammy. We moved in after my mom and Brent broke up. Grammy said she wanted to help my mom—help take care of her. At first my mom was sick. There were lots of bad days. But then she got better. She'd come out of her room and sit on the sofa and talk to me. Sometimes we'd watch TV together or play Parcheesi. Those were the best days.

But then one night my mom and Grammy got into an argument. My mom wanted to go out and Grammy wanted her to stay home. I begged her to stay home too. But she left anyway. Pretty soon after that, we moved to the cabin.

Then Grammy got sick.

I don't want to think about that either.

I convince myself that I didn't miss my mom today. This wasn't the day she came back—it couldn't have been.

My legs feel heavy like there are weights tied to them and my throat is dry and scratchy. I stop and listen. I keep hoping I'll hear running water—the stream. Once I find the stream, I can get back from there.

I walk and I walk. I walk until I can't lift my feet one more step. When I've taken my last step, I drop to the ground and just sit with my head in my hands. I look around and see the faint outline of a tree behind me; I scoot until my back is against the trunk and I lean on it. Pine needles and little rocks poke into my back end, but I'm too tired to care. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my arms and head on my knees.

I take a deep breath, bite my lip, and tell myself I won't cry again. But as hard as I try, I can't keep the tears from sliding down my cheeks.

It feels like all the hope is draining out of me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sierra

As the sun lowers on the horizon, shadows cast deceptive illusions. I think I see a deer up ahead, but instead, as I draw near, I see a gnarled tree stump. A branch appears as a winged creature. With the onset of dusk an eerie silence falls on the forest.

I've wandered for hours—in circles, in squares, in rectangles—each time covering a larger parameter. I've seen nothing except creatures. I flushed a gaggle of wild turkeys and several rabbits have scampered past. But there's no sign of Kaylee and no sign of anything that resembles a house or trailer. Nowhere someone would live.

I decide to make one last attempt before dark descends. Van is lagging behind, tongue hanging. I stop, open my backpack, and pull out a bottle of water. I pour some into my cupped left hand and let Van lap it up. I fill my palm again and let him drink. I take stock of where we are and where we've come from. I've left a trail for myself. Remnants from our lunch—a banana peel, cookie wrappers, plastic baggies placed under rocks. Once I've passed each piece in my loop, I pick them up and begin again.

This time I decide to work in a triangle—making the top of the triangle my farthest point in one direction yet. I ignore the shadowed illusions and press forward. This is my last chance today and I'm determined I will find something.

Let's go, Lord. This is it. I have to find something. Please show me the way.

My calves burn and my back aches. Although I'm used to hiking, I've never hiked with such purpose or under such tense circumstances. The knots in my calves and legs are likely as much from tension as overuse.

I trudge forward walking as far as I can while gauging how much light I have left—I need to figure it right or I'll never find my way back to my car. I figure I can go just a hundred more yards—the length of a football field. But I see nothing ahead.

As I approach what I've set as my stopping point, I see a light dim against the dusk. It's just to the left of where I'm headed. I stop and stare. Is it a house? I pull Van's leash tight and keep him close as we approach.

There in a thicket of redwoods is a small house or cabin. It's made of logs—likely fallen by loggers half a century ago. The shingles on the roof are in disrepair with bald spots dotting the sloped rooftop. The front window is cracked and appears to have boards across it and the front door is ajar. But there are lights on inside.

I notice a truck in the gravel drive so I assume someone is home. I find the largest redwood and tuck myself behind it and observe the cabin. I see movement between the boards on the window and within a few minutes a man comes out the front door. He stumbles down the steps of the stoop and keeps himself from falling by grabbing the railing of the deck. He pulls himself back to his full height—which isn't much—and weaves his way to the truck. He opens the driver side door, reaches inside, and pulls out what looks like a six-pack of soda—or beer. I'll bet on the beer based on his performance so far.

He pulls one can from the pack and pops open the top. He stands at the truck and guzzles the entire can, then he throws the empty back in the truck, slams the door shut, and retraces his weaving steps back inside.

Is this it? Is this where Kaylee lives? Could this be the person who blackened her eye and bruised her cheek? A knot forms in my stomach—this one a sickening weight warning of impending doom.

Is Kaylee in there? I don't know what I'll do if she is, but I have to know. I can't leave her. I won't.

I wait, hoping this guy is settling in for the evening. When I see no movement for twenty minutes or so, I walk a few feet to a sapling and tie Van's leash to the slender trunk. "Stay." I whisper my command and then tiptoe toward the front window.

Once there I realize the window is too high for me to see inside. I look around and notice a boulder, just to my right, almost hidden beneath the stoop but still within the range of the window. I climb on top of it. The vantage point is just right.

I peer through the space between the boards across the window. I see a bare room—makeshift shelves against one wall and a mattress on the floor in one corner. And there on the mattress is the man I'd seen. His legs are kicked out and crossed in front of him and he has a beer in one hand and—I take a deep breath—a rifle lying across his lap.

It looks like he's waiting for someone.

My jaw clenches and my pulse throbs in my temples. My shoulders ache, my neck is stiff. Tense, I stand at attention. And I pray . . .

Oh God, now what? What if he's waiting for Kaylee?

I beg God, I implore Him, I cry out as never before.
Help me, please help me! I have to save her from this. Show me the way . . .

No longer concerned about the darkness draping the forest, I determine to wait. I'll wait as long as he waits. I will stay here all night if I have to.

I step with caution, quietly making my way back to where I've tied Van. I untie his leash and we make camp at the base of the redwood I'd hidden behind. I sink down into the soft bed of mulch around the tree, Van at my side, and determine the darkness is advantageous. If he comes out again—I'll see him before he sees me. Here, I have a view of the door and can see anyone who comes and goes—including Kaylee. I'm close enough that I think I could stop her before she enters.

Yes, I've lunged over the canyon. But I'm no longer flailing and alone. I sense a presence waiting and watching with me.

Strong arms hold me.

As the first hint of dawn paints the morning sky, the front door of the cabin bangs open and the man steps outside. He stands there a minute, looks around, then reaches back and slams the door shut. He heads to the truck, rifle in hand, opens the driver side door, tosses the rifle inside, and then gets in and drives off.

I nudge Van who's asleep with his head in my lap and then move to stand up, which proves easier said than done. I stretch, do a few knee bends, and then shake my stiff limbs. My movements are reminiscent of doing the hokey pokey as a kid—but this morning I feel every one of my years. The limberness of youth is lost, especially after a night spent on the ground.

I walk toward the cabin, again keeping Van close. As I approach, I see the front door is still ajar. Although he slammed it, it doesn't appear to have latched.

I hesitate only a moment . . . then walk into the cabin. I have to know if this is the right place. Since I haven't seen any sign of Kaylee all night, I'm beginning to wonder.

As I step inside, my senses are assaulted. The air is damp, musty. The main room is dark. I search for a light switch, find it near the front door, and flick it on. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling glares at me. Cobwebs droop from the rafters, and fungus, mushrooms, and moss grow from the logs that make up the interior walls. The floor is nothing more than the concrete of the foundation—gray, hard, cold. A chill runs through me. This place is uninhabitable. Or should be.

I see the mattress in the corner covered with what looks like an old army green blanket. Empty beer cans litter the area. There's a small kitchen, and one bedroom and a bathroom. All can be seen from the main room. I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator—a few eggs, mayonnaise, pickles, and a loaf of bread—nothing more. The cupboards, with the exception of a few mismatched dishes, pots and pans, and a can of tuna, are empty. There's a portable radio on the counter next to the sink.

In the bedroom there's a rumpled bed, a dresser, and a nightstand piled with stuff—loose change, matches, a comb, a pen, miscellaneous papers, and a couple of magazines. One looks like a hunting magazine.

My pulse races as I look at the other magazine.

Oh, Lord, no . . .

I pick it up and flip through the first few pages.

Oh no. No. Not this. Please . . .

Anger, like bile, rises in my throat. The magazine is filled with lewd, sexually explicit pictures of men . . . with children.

Lord, please . . . no.

But then hope stirs. I realize I've seen nothing that indicates a child lives here. I walk back to the kitchen. The main room. Nothing. The only place I haven't looked is the bathroom. I turn quickly and take the few steps back to the bathroom. A toilet. A shower stall. A sink. Nothing.

Just as I turn to go, I see the edge of something—a piece of fabric maybe—poking out beneath the door. I step back into the bathroom, push the door closed, and there, behind the door on the floor is a small pile of clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt. I bend and pick up the T-shirt—it's the same one Kaylee was wearing the day I brushed her hair.

I hold the shirt close to my chest.
Oh, Kaylee, where are you? What have you suffered?
Thoughts and images crowd my mind and I want to yell . . . scream . . . rage. Urges I thought I was incapable of feeling course through me. I want to find him and turn his own rifle on him. I want to hurt him. Kill him, even. I want to make certain he never touches Kaylee or another child. I want justice.