Dark Roads

by Chevy Stevens

  “You staying here for good?” Beth said.

  “For now. Jonny wants to travel, so I might stay with my aunt. We’ve been talking. She needs help with my cousin.”

  Beth tried not to react to the news about Jonny. It didn’t matter where he was going. She had her own plans. “Before I leave, I’m going to visit Amber’s cross.” She rubbed at her arms. The breeze lifted strands of her hair and brought with it a hint of fall and damp leaves. Things to come.

  “Cool.” Hailey looked away, paused. “Those are wild roses.” She pointed to a green bush at the front of the house with red berries clustered on vines. “They’re finished blooming, but the rose hips will last for a couple of months and feed the birds. Wild roses are tough. You can mow them down to the roots, or set them on fire, and they’ll still come back. They never stop living.”

  “So, basically they’re weeds.”

  Hailey frowned, still staring at the bushes. “Something like that.”

  Beth had the feeling that she had messed up. Hailey had been trying to tell her something, and she’d let her down. She hadn’t understood. She’d wanted this goodbye to go well. Hailey had saved Beth’s life, and she was her last connection to Amber. She didn’t want to break it.

  Beth took a couple of steps closer to Hailey, reached for her hand, and lifted it toward her. She dropped Amber’s bracelet into her palm. Hailey stared at the gold chain.

  “What’s this?”

  “She would want you to have it. You found her. You took care of her.” Hailey looked up at her suspiciously. Beth laughed. “Jesus, I’m not proposing.”

  “Good, because you’re not my type.”

  “I’m everyone’s type.” Beth earned a smirk that time and thought Hailey might keep sparring, but she folded her hand around the bracelet.

  “Does this make us sisters?”

  “Something like that.”

  Hailey smiled. “I’ll get Jonny for you.” She turned around and walked over to the bikes, where Jonny handed her a helmet. He glanced at Beth and said something to Hailey. Beth shoved her hands into her pockets.

  Jonny strode toward her, his motorbike boots giving him that familiar swagger. He stopped in front of her, his eyes locked with hers.

  “Guess you don’t have time to go for a ride.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was serious or if it was some sort of icebreaker. “My parents are waiting at the motel. My mom is probably on her tenth cup of coffee.”

  “Gotcha.” He was quiet for a moment, his gaze aimed over her shoulder toward her car, and she didn’t know if she should say goodbye, but then he let out his breath and looked at her. “I’m sorry for being an asshole. A lot of stuff was coming at me. I didn’t deal with it well.”

  “Me neither.” She studied her hands, like she was holding the key to making the next words easier. All she saw were chipped fingernails. “I have to see a doctor. I’m hooked on pills. Maybe I need rehab. I don’t know. Something.”

  He didn’t seem surprised, and she realized he already knew about the pills and the drinking, but she didn’t feel ashamed. She wasn’t perfect. She didn’t want to be perfect anymore.

  “After that?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced over at Hailey, who was astride her bike, one leg braced on the ground, the other on the foot pedal. “Everything’s still screwed up, but I’m trying.”

  “Trying is good. Can I call you sometime?”

  She jerked her head back toward him. He wanted to talk? Did she want that? She’d gotten used to thinking they were a one-way street that had ended in a wall. Now he was looking at her with a guarded expression like he knew she might shoot him down, but he was ready for it.

  “What if I ask you to visit me?”

  “I’ve got a truck.” He stepped closer and leaned in until his cheek was next to hers—a smooth slide of skin—then brushed his lips against her ear. “When in doubt, throttle it out.”

  She was hit with the memory of when he took her riding on his dirt bike, her arms tight around him, how wild and free she’d felt when he took those sharp corners. Faster and faster.

  “You bet, farm boy.”

  Jonny smiled as he backed away, the whisper of his breath still traveling from her ear to her neck. He slipped his helmet over his head, only his eyes visible, and walked to the bikes.

  Beth got back into her car, sank into the seat, and rolled down her window to let the hot air out, but she didn’t want to leave just yet. They had started their dirt bikes, the motors roaring, blue exhaust filling the air. Hailey led the way, Jonny followed, and Wolf loped behind.

  They were at the edge of the forest. They would disappear out of sight soon. Beth held her breath. Hailey’s bike merged into the shadows, leaving a haze of dust from the trail.

  At the last second, Jonny looked back at Beth, then he rode after Hailey into the woods.

  * * *

  Beth’s tires crunched on the soft gravel shoulder. The car vibrated as she slid the gearshift into park. She sat for a moment and stared out the windshield at the ditch, the green shrubs, tree boughs that touched the ground, long, yellowed grass. The engine ticked as it cooled down, the air conditioner hissing. She wanted a Xanax, but she had handed them all over to her mother.

  She closed her eyes. Long breath. Short breath.

  The door hinges squeaked loudly in the still summer air, her palm nearly burning on the metal frame. She clutched it, steadying herself, then took a few clumsy steps down the side of the road. She focused on the sound of her flip-flops and the hum of a fly near her ear. The grass was so thick and long that she didn’t see the white cross on the other side until she was standing in front of it. If Hailey hadn’t noticed the ravens that day, Amber might never have been found.

  Pressure built in Beth’s chest, a sob escaping in a strangled breath that she couldn’t hold back.

  Someone had placed a photo of Amber in a plastic sheet and pinned it to the top. Beth didn’t recognize the picture. Amber was sitting on a tailgate with some guys, her mouth open in a big smile as she held out a beer, cigarette in her other hand. It was a bad photo. It made her look like a party girl. Like someone who would end up dead in a ditch. Beth reached to rip it off, then stopped. Amber was happy that night. Someone wanted to remember her that way.

  Beth sank to her knees, grass soft around her, vines scratching and grabbing at her skin. The base of the cross was crowded with flowers, some in vases. Plastic ones and real ones that had dried. She picked up a fallen teddy bear, rubbed the moss and dirt away, and put him back upright. Letters and cards were left in plastic bags or pinned to Amber’s cross. Beth pulled one free and read the poem inside about a life gone too soon. Her eyes burned with dripping mascara and suntan lotion. She pulled another one free. A letter from someone who knew Amber through the diner, who’d loved her cheerful smile. Beth read them all. From people who’d never met Amber and people who had. Words of regret and sorrow. Prayers, and Beth didn’t feel the anger she had expected. She felt comforted that they remembered her sister. She looked back at the photo of Amber sitting on the tailgate, her smile. Their shared crooked tooth.

  “I’ll never forget you.” She stopped and cleared her throat. It felt strange to be speaking out loud to the silent woods, the empty air, but she had to hope that, somehow, Amber would hear her. “You loved nectarines, and you ate them until they gave you stomachaches. You painted your toenails pink in the summer and red in the winter. You liked Taylor Swift and knew the words to all her songs. You wanted to write a book about traveling and the people you would meet. You thought that unicorns must have been real at one time and you were angry that they were gone. You believed in heaven and you said death was only sad for the people left behind.” Beth stopped again and took a few breaths. “I’m going to choose to believe the same, okay? I’m going to believe that you’re at peace and I’ll see you again.”

  Beth’s vision slowly came back into focus as she stared at one of the bushes growing in t
he ditch. She frowned when she noticed the thorns, the red berries. She plucked one of the berries so she could see it closer, rolled the oval shape between her fingers, breathed in the sweet scent. She looked around. The bushes were everywhere, covering where Amber’s body had rested. The vines tangled in the trees, sprawled through the ditch like rolling smoke.

  Wild roses.

  EPILOGUE

  I followed her out of the ditch to her car, my steps drifting over hers. I settled in the passenger seat beside her. I hoped she would keep the window down. It made her hair blow across her face and she would brush it away with that quick flip of her hand, the air pushing against me. The closest we could touch. Her eyes were softer now, still glassy from tears, but with that look that the lake got after a bad storm. All rippled and then nothing. Flat. Calm. I’d heard everything she’d said, of course.

  We were able to do that, dip in and out. Not always by choice. I’d been with her at the diner, the motel, and when she was in his garage. I’d wanted to help, wanted to scream in his ear and claw at him, but he could never hear us—we had tried before. The most I could do was try to hold her soul’s light when I saw it leaking from her body as she twisted from the rope, spinning in circles, the colors fading with her breath. I’d cupped my hand around her light, kept it warm, then she made that small gasp, and it came back to her, all soft yellow with blue tinges.

  Once, Hailey almost saw me in the forest. She’d looked so pretty, her hands quietly slicing into the river and scooping up water to drink. Her soul’s light was pink, but she’d be furious to know that. She’d want it to be black or red.

  Usually I stayed away from Hailey. Her memories of me still had the sharp focus of first love. She had been mine too. I would cry, but I couldn’t do much more than make a sound that was somewhere between a breathy gust of wind and an eagle’s call, and if I got too close, she felt me like a razor running across her skin. That day at the river, I came up beside her, needing to be in that small space that existed between us and the living. Sometimes, if we were lucky, and we timed it right, we could send them a scent, the words of a song, or a little thought to bring them comfort. In this moment, though, she was bending over, and I was bending over, and then for a startling second my shadow was mirroring hers in the water. We shimmered together for a beautiful heartbeat, and then I rushed backward, and my wind blew the surface of the water clear.

  She sat there for the longest time, staring into those depths. What I wouldn’t give to tell her that I was with her. Wolf saw me, that much I know for sure. His head lifted, his ears turning, and he’d looked straight into my eyes. It wasn’t the first time. Wolf and I had walked together in the woods before, watched over Hailey while she slept. He liked it when I made the grass move so he could pounce at imaginary rabbits.

  As Beth drove on, clouds blew over the sun, and a light drizzle turned the faded pavement to charcoal. The air through the window was tinged with the scent of ozone, a summer thunderstorm. Violent and unpredictable. She would need to leave town soon to beat the weather.

  The car passed through a shape standing in the middle of the road. Beth didn’t see it, but she shivered and turned up the radio, a frown flickering across her face as though she were trying to figure out where the strange sensation had come from. I turned and watched the woman with the backpack on her shoulder, a hoodie over her bent head, and shorts with cowboy boots.

  She stuck her thumb out. A blue truck appeared from the shadows and slowed beside her, the chrome grille like shark’s teeth, headlights bleeding through Beth’s rain-streaked rear window. The passenger door opened, and the girl jogged toward the truck. She was stepping in, long legs climbing up. Then the road went dark. Their journey had ended years ago.

  We had reached the end of the highway. A First Nations girl was crouched on the side of the road near the billboard, her arms around her legs, her face ravaged with tears. Black straight hair, dark eyes, and a red dress. More women came and stood behind her.

  Beth was talking on her cell. Her voice was gentler, less angry, as she spoke to our mother, but I felt the fear tingling under her skin. She was wondering if she could do it, if she could get through without me, but she would, and she had our parents now. They were waiting at the other end of town. Once they connected, she’d follow them to Vancouver.

  I looked behind me at the women and watched as, one by one, they stopped whispering, stepped back into their stories, and disappeared. Those women had grieved with me, had been the ones to cradle me when I was lost, torn from my body, cast into the nothing land, but they knew I didn’t need them anymore. Not like I had. That’s how it goes sometimes. People move on, even those whose lives on earth had ended.

  I turned back to Beth. We had only a short time left. I could feel myself wavering, changing. My hand flickered over hers. Did she feel my love? Did she know that for me there was no more pain? No more sorrow or anger? I hoped so. She’d done it. She’d set me free.

  In front of me, the road turned white, expanded to a beautiful light. The most beautiful light I’d ever seen, drawing me forward. I was there, then I wasn’t.

  Letter from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  When I begin the process of creating a new novel, I typically try to avoid being influenced by real events, but sometimes there are crimes so disturbing that they linger in my mind for years. One of those for me is the Highway of Tears in Northern British Columbia, where women have been murdered or gone missing since the 1970s. To this day, most of the cases remain unsolved. When I was a teenager, the highway was a terrifying reminder to never hitchhike, of how dangerous it can be when you’re traveling alone in a remote location. The image of a desolate road haunted by the lost souls of women, searching for answers to their deaths, stuck with me. I found it comforting to change history and write an ending where justice was served.

  Out of respect for the victims, their families, and the RCMP, who have worked and continue to work on the Highway of Tears case, I didn’t want to use that highway, or any of the towns involved. Instead, I created the fictional town of Cold Creek, the Cold Creek Highway, and the campground by the lake. The details of the crimes, the characters in my novel, and the events that take place have sprung from my imagination, but it continues to be a terrible truth that Indigenous women experience a disproportionately higher rate of violence and homicide than the average woman in Canada. There are several important groups bringing awareness to this national crisis. You can read the final report of the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls on the MMIWG website at www.mmiwg-ffada.ca.

  To learn more about the Highway of Tears, and the significant work being done by Carrier Sekani Family Services (CSFS) to prevent violence against women, visit their website at www.highwayoftears.org.

  The RCMP’s investigation into the highway murders, Project E-PANA, began in 2005 and is still active today. If you have any information that could help, contact BC Crime Stoppers at www.bccrimestoppers.com or call the 24/7 tip line at 1-800-222-8477.

  This story may trigger disturbing memories in victims of crime. If you, or anyone you know, needs support, please contact the Canadian Resource Centre for Victims of Crime at www.crcvc.ca, or your local crisis center.

  All best,

  Chevy Stevens

  Acknowledgments

  There is a reason this book is dedicated to Jennifer Enderlin, my patient, astute editor, and Mel Berger, my equally esteemed agent. I feel very lucky to have worked with both of them from the beginning of my career, now more than twelve years ago. This book was the hardest for me to write. Not so much the work itself, but the finding of the story. They never pushed. Never made me feel terrible for my fumbles and false starts. Mel would say, “The book will be done when the book is done.”

  Guess what, Mel? You were right! It’s finally done. Yes, I promise I’m working on my next, and Jen, you are simply the best and cooler than the rest.

  Carla Buckley, my dearest friend
and critique partner, who has read sections of this book nearly as many times as me. Thank you for always being just a FaceTime session away and answering the thousands of emails that I send you when I am approaching the end of a book. You’re the yin to my yang. The butter on my toast. The lid to my pot. The sugar in my coffee.

  Beth Helms, who lent me her name, makes me take a second look at the hard stuff that I would really rather avoid, and keeps me entertained with her witty texts. I’ve learned so much from you. Most of which can’t be repeated in here. I look forward to our next sloth-cation.

  Robin Spano, thank you ten times over for being willing to read a draft while dealing with a young child at home in the midst of the COVID crisis. I know how precious each minute of your day is, and your insightful feedback and positive encouragement is always appreciated.

  Ingrid Thoft, my sister-wife, we have been separated for far too long. I look forward to the day we are reunited and can drink Grasshoppers in the sun at the Hotel Valley Ho.

  Roz Nay, my favorite, pretend archnemesis, you know what you’ve done.

  At William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, I’d like to extend my gratitude to Tracy Fisher, Caitlin Mahony, Carolina Beltran, Sam Birmingham, Anna Dixon, and James Munro.

  At St. Martin’s Press, Brant Janeway, Katie Bassel, Lisa Senz, Kim Ludlam, Tom Thompson, and Erik Platt. Erica Martirano, one day we will hang out in matching corgi pajamas, eat chocolate, play with dogs, and gossip about celebrities. Thank you for all your help with all the things. Mike Storrings, you did an incredible job with this gorgeous cover. David Cole, you have now copyedited six of my books and I remain in awe of your keen and thoughtful eye.