I stand up and ask, “Is it okay if I borrow your suitcase? I promise to send it back when I get to—”

I cut off when I turn around to see the person standing at the door.

Not Meemaw.

Waylon.

He stands there in only a pair of camo pants and boots. He’s shirtless and sweaty like he was hard at work somewhere else before he came over here.

His hair is tied back, which makes his face seem even more furious when he asks, “You really thought I or anybody here was going to let you leave?”

CHAPTER 9

Waylon.

Waylon is here glowering down at me instead of nice Meemaw, who must have betrayed me and told him I was trying to leave.

My heart is a frantic beat inside my chest. I thought I was so close to getting out of here. But now, all that hope is dying like the light in Stephanie’s eyes.

Still, I dare to answer his question, “You really thought I wasn’t going to try to leave? I have a life in Delaware. A job I need to try to get back. You can’t keep me here!”

He looks at me for a hot, angry beat—then surges forward.

This time I’m not as brave as when I returned to the apartment and found him out of his handcuffs. He was angry then, but he’s a different kind of furious now. I cringe and brace when he comes right at me.

But he doesn’t grab me. He grabs the suitcase I just packed. Grabs it and heads toward the modular house’s sliding back door, his heavy boots clomping across the laminate floor.

“What are you doing?” I demand, following in his wake.

Instead of answering, he stomps outside with the suitcase.

“What are you doing?” I demand again, jogging through the sliding glass door he opened into what turns out to be a shared backyard.

Four other trailer homes are circled around it, and there's a fire pit in the middle of the green with a grill. I can imagine people meeting out here with beers, barbecuing, roasting marshmallows on sticks fetched from the nearby woods, and having a good time.

Not today. Shadows peak out at us from behind the other trailers’ glass doors—nosy neighbors who want to see what’s going on but somehow know better than coming out here.

Probably because of the look on Waylon’s face, furious and crazed.

I mean, I wouldn’t be out here if he didn’t have the suitcase.

“What are you doing?” I ask the question again, even though the answer becomes obvious when Waylon rips the grill off the top and tosses it to the side.

He unzips the suitcase and upends it over the pit. All the clothes I packed fall out along with the piece of paper with Stephanie’s name written across the front.