“Ten miles out?”
“Yep. Can’t drive past Clarks Summit if you’re going north. And if you’re heading south, you won’t get much farther than Wilkes-Barre.”
“What if I did? Would my hand revert back to its damaged self?”
“No, Ashlee. You’d lose it. Permanently.”
She felt herself sinking into the mattress. A trade was her only chance of getting healthy for the Deathgrip show. But now he was telling her that even if she replaced her hand, she wouldn’t be able to take it beyond the local area. That couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t accept it.
“So, wait,” she said, trying to reason out a solution. “It sounds like there’s this invisible fence surrounding the area. And if you try leaving, your part gets snagged on it. Is that right? What if there’s a gap in the fence?”
“Nope. No gaps.” He frowned. “We already checked.”
Why would anyone bother to trade if this was the cost? There had to be a way around it. Had to be.
“What if the barrier is only so high? Bet I could fly over it.”
“Few years ago somebody tried flying out in a chopper. Her traded part buzzed and burned till she begged the pilot to turn back.”
“Planes fly higher than choppers.”
He sighed and patted her unbroken hand.
She pulled it away.
“The doctors said I won’t play guitar again.” Wet heat prickled behind her eyes. “I have to trade. When I do, I’ll escape somehow.”
“What if you can’t? You okay spending your life here?”
Tough question. Staying local would severely limit her choice of recording studios. It would mean no touring, no gigs beyond the ten-mile radius. Keeping Bad Parts together would be impossible. Post-breakup, she’d at best have a solo career with guest appearances on other albums. Then again, it’d be hard to network while she was stranded here.
Bad as that sounded, she needed guitar in her life. And it wasn’t like she had other options. Job interviews got awkward when she showed up covered in tattoos and had to explain why she quit school. Besides, desk jockey wasn’t her thing, and she sure as shit wasn’t gonna become five-oh like her father.
“Fuck it,” she said. “I’m trading.”
“Listen.” He stared out the window. “When I first visited that creek, I saw things I shouldn’t have. Things that still haunt me.”
“Yet you traded your knees.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Bullshit.” She sat up more. “You had a choice.”
“Ashlee, I got kneecapped!” He snatched her plate away. “My choice was between a wheelchair and walking. And that was in the early days of the trades. We didn’t understand Snare then like we do now.”
“Snare?”
“The creek demon, or whatever it is. We named it after the creek. Now, don’t—”
“Dad.” Her eyes burned with moisture. “I live my life through my left hand.”
“Then you shouldn’t have punched that wall.” It came out snarky, knowing.
“I didn’t! I—” She stopped herself. If she told him, he’d go all cop-mode. Probably try to hunt down whoever did it. She wanted to kill the prick herself, but revenge wouldn’t fix her hand. “Just tell me how to make Snare appear.”
He frowned.
“Dad.”
“No.”
Her fist slammed the mattress. “See? This is why I don’t return your calls or texts. It’s always secrets with you. Just like with that corpse you buried ten years ago.”
His tone went sharp. “That had to be done. Otherwise the Traders—”
“I don’t want an explanation. I want you to trust me. I’m supposed to be your daughter, right?”
For a moment he looked hurt, then narrowed his eyes. “You want honesty? Fine. Truth is, I don’t want you near that creek. Last thing I want is you upset because you can’t leave here without your hand disappearing off your arm.”
“My hand’s useless anyway—hell, I’m useless!” She hadn’t meant to sound desperate, but she was. She needed her hand back. Needed her life back. “Dad, please.”
“You try fixing the unfixable, bad things happen. It’s not worth it.”
“The hell it isn’t.” She met his eyes. “Please. It’s the least you could do after all those years of prioritizing the Traders over me.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. He turned, headed for the door.
“Where you going?”
“To take care of something.” He sounded tired. His hand squeezed the doorknob so hard it rattled. “Thought we could catch up today. Guess I was wrong.”
“Dad…”
“Talk to Candace about trading,” he said. “She’s probably eating breakfast at the burrito shop. Pretty sure you’re still banned there, though.”
He slammed the door and thumped down the steps.
11
Ash checked her bedroom, hoping Dad hadn’t thrown out her old shit. She expected the worst, but everything looked exactly the way she’d left it years ago—her sun-faded Metallica posters, her acoustic guitar lineup, even the chipped bongs and goat skulls littering her bookcase. Aside from dusting and vacuuming, Dad had preserved her room like a crime scene.
Flitting through her closet, she found a bulky leather purse and slung it across her shoulder. She adjusted the strap till the bag rested against her hip. It made a solid hiding place for her cast.
None of her old clothes fit, so she dressed in her muddy jeans and jacket from yesterday. The pants were stiff with dirt, but they loosened up as she rushed out into the morning cold.
On her way to meet Candace, Ash checked the ninety-two text messages clogging her inbox. Her bandmates were more worried than ever, especially Cheeto. Since being attacked, she’d done everything she could to prevent him from seeing her like this, even going as far as arranging separate rides to the hospital. Now she needed to keep him in the dark a little longer.
With her good thumb she texted back.
ASH: Relax, Cheets. I’m fine. Hitched a ride to Hollow Hills. Visiting the fam.
CHEETO: You ok? The detective I talked to said you were admitted at the ER. Same place as Flanny.
ASH: I’m good. Just landed in some broken glass during the fight. Had to get some bits removed from my hand.
CHEETO: Your hand? Shit! Can you play Friday?
ASH: Yeah. Need a day to heal.
CHEETO: You ok otherwise? That asshole didn’t hurt you, did he?
ASH: Hell no. One kick to his nuts sent him running. You’re welcome for avenging you.
CHEETO: LMAO! Wish I’d been awake to see that.
ASH: You missed a show. How’s your busted ass doing?
CHEETO: Got a swollen lip and a bruised noggin. Think I need Nurse Ash and her top-notch care LOL.
ASH: How’s Flanny?
CHEETO: Pretty rough. We’re driving to Philly for a second opinion. Leaving at noon.
Noon. Shit. That didn’t give her much time to make this creek trade. She pocketed her phone and hurried.
After picking her way through backyards and driveways, she reached the main road. Cars crammed both sides of the tire-beaten street. At this early hour the Downhill Diner attracted its share of coffee slurpers while the burrito shop caught the fast-food crowd. Ash headed for the burrito shop. Its door decal—an animated laughing cactus—mocked her by giving a thumbs-up. In a nearby speech balloon, the cactus asked, “How’ve Ya Bean?”