“Wait!” She latched onto that final sentence. “Leave? You mean every Trader can leave the ten-mile area?”
“Yes.”
“With our parts? We can keep our traded parts?”
“Yes.”
She almost didn’t want to ask. “What’s the catch?”
“Must be done by sunset tomorrow. Before the blizzard.”
Ash’s heart sputtered. She couldn’t believe it. Tomorrow’s sunset worked perfectly. That would give her enough time to drive to Florida and catch a nap before the Deathgrip show. This was exactly what she needed.
And for that reason, she hesitated. The music industry had taught her not to trust. She’d been scammed by bogus talent agencies and shifty managers before. They promised exactly what she wanted and burned her after she committed to their offers. Snare appeared to be running the same scheme.
Yet something prickled within her chest, right under the skin between her tits. She wanted that hand. Needed it. And not just for Friday but for the rest of her life. Refusing a new hand was like refusing a deathbed cure. She couldn’t refuse. But she wouldn’t accept either. Not until she adjusted the terms.
“Here’s the deal,” Ash said, meeting her reflection’s eyes. “I’ll help you, but not on your terms.”
The mist thinned from her cheeks. “Do you decline?”
“What? No! I just need a reason to trust you.”
“Submerge your hand.”
“Why?”
“You’ll trust.”
Her face went numb. Despite how badly she needed to grip a guitar, this demand terrified her. Just yesterday she’d been slammed unconscious in the same scenario.
But how could she ignore what she wanted most?
She dipped her broken fingers into the frigid water. They ached brutally. She dunked the entire cast, wincing at the cold. Beneath the surface, something changed. The purple bruises faded from her fingertips. The puffiness drained.
It had to be a trick.
Then she flexed her fingers.
Her normal, unbroken, pain-free fingers.
“Remember,” Snare said. “Kidneys, jaw, skin, lower leg, ribcage. Then this becomes your permanent reality.”
Catching her breath, Ash said, “Please. Can I keep this hand?”
“Five parts.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Tomorrow’s sunset.”
“Answer me! Otherwise, why should I trust you?”
After an uncomfortably long pause, Snare responded. “I need you as much as you need me.”
“How so?”
“I need to see my son again. I was a mother once, and I’ll be one again after leaving this creek.”
“You have a son? Who?”
“Five parts.” The mist faded, grew weak on her tongue. “Tomorrow’s sunset.”
“Wait!”
The mist vanished. Her mouth felt dry in its absence.
Beneath the surface her hand remained unbroken. She flexed her fingers, moving them quickly as if tapping out a solo on the lower frets of her Gibson. The muscle memory remained. Unbelievable. Though the cast limited her range, she felt like she could play right now.
Eyeing the creek, she wondered if she could pull her hand out in perfect condition. It was worth a try. In one swift, desperate motion, she yanked her hand free with a splash.
“Fuck!”
It was like the Dark Diamond parking lot all over again. Bombs went off in each finger, and a firestorm spun inside her palm. Clenching her teeth, she studied her purple fingers. They looked every bit as horrible as they felt.
Water dripped from her cast onto her pants. She held it over the creek while it drained.
The splashes on the surface sounded like laughter.
13
The sight of the Welcome to Hollow Hills sign sent a cramp to Trent’s leg, a nasty spasm that turned his calf muscles to stone. He couldn’t wait to exit the passenger seat, stretch his leg, and collapse with relief. This cramp was the worst of the month, maybe the year. Not that it surprised him. His hometown never failed to make him feel shittier.
As his wife’s Subaru Legacy rumbled over the entry bridge, the tightness in his leg worsened. Sweat slicked his brow as he gritted his teeth, begging his nerve-damaged muscles to settle. Sometimes he got lucky, but not now.
“You okay?” his wife Lauren asked from the driver’s seat.
“Best I’ve ever been,” Trent muttered.
“Should I pull over?”
“Screw it,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Hoping to distract himself from the pain, he turned toward the backseat, where his eight-year-old son sat in moody silence.
“Hey, Jake,” Trent said, softening his tone. “Champ, we’re almost there. Ready to see Grampa?”
If Jake was ready, he didn’t show it. He sat in the middle seat with his sunglasses on, his aluminum baseball bat lying across his lap. Four months ago, Jake hit a game-winning double at his second-grade all-star game with that bat. Nowadays it went everywhere with him, although not for baseball reasons.
“Jake? You excited?”
Jake turned away, facing the window. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left New Jersey that morning.
“Trent, don’t force it,” Lauren whispered. She adjusted her glasses and checked on their son in the rearview. “He’ll warm up eventually.”
Eventually. Easy for her to say. Jake actually talked to her. Trent, on the other hand, hadn’t got more than a yes or no out of Jake since the lake incident back in August.
“You’re doing great,” Lauren whispered. With one hand on the wheel, she buttoned her plain-Jane white cardigan and smoothed out a wrinkle in her long turkey-patterned skirt. Though she was only five years older than Trent, she dressed like someone entering retirement. “Jake will cheer up soon. We all will. A nice family weekend will make everything better. You’ll see.”
Trent wished he had her optimism.
They passed the hometown eateries. Narducci’s Pizza nabbed his attention. He could almost taste their signature sauce. Soon as the place opened, he would order their chicken-bacon-ranch pie. Jake loved those. And it wasn’t like he lost his sense of taste.
“Hey, Jake,” Trent said. “Wanna get Narducci’s for lunch?”
Silence.
“Oh, Jaaake,” Lauren said, her voice commanding yet sweet. “Your father asked you a question.”
“I don’t care, Mom.”
“But it’s Thanksgiving. We’re a family. Don’t you think you should talk to your dad, pumpkin?”
“I’m not a pumpkin,” he muttered.
“I’ll stop calling you pumpkin if you answer your dad.”
No answer came. Apparently, being called pumpkin was more tolerable than talking to Trent.
They turned onto Winterbrook Ave. The townhouses popped into view. Seeing the surrounding woods triggered fond teenage memories of guzzling Keystone Light with his buddies, as well as that time Brittany Hoyer shagged him beside a campfire to spite her ex-boyfriend. Glorious times. Sadly, those memories clashed with ones of his twatty twin sister Ash. He still hated her for ditching town just weeks after wrecking his leg.