You Can't Hide Theresa Sneed (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

she had told him to meet her there, instead of coming to the house. She didn’t feel like answering any more questions.

Halfway to the church, a white van pulled up alongside her. “Excuse me, kid,” the man said. He flipped his cigarette out the opened window. “Where’s the nearest gas station?”

She had been taught not to talk to strangers, but he seemed harmless. She pointed down the street beside them. He beckoned for her to come closer, cupping his hand to his ear, as if he couldn’t hear.

She took a step toward him, but stopped. Something in the way he looked at her sent a prickle up her spine. She stepped back and repeated her former instructions.

His face screwed up in frustration. “What?” He put his hand on the door, as if he would open it, but just as he did, Breccan came up between them. The man put his hands back on the steering wheel, and the van took off down the street.

She was shaking all over. “Breccan,” she exclaimed breathlessly.

He fumbled over his words. “What’s wrong, Sally?”

A sob caught in her throat. “That man.”

Breccan looked at the white van, as it drove down the street. “Who is he?”

Her voice trembled. “I don’t know.”

Breccan pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper. “I’ll have my dad run the plates.”

That brought her back to reality. It was just a guy looking for a gas station—nothing more. She looked at him incredulously. “What did you say?”

He gave her a serious look and kept writing the numbers down. “What if he’s a stalker or something?”

“Wow.” She pushed the pencil off the paper. “Thanks, Superman, but it was just a man looking for a gas station.”

He gave her an odd look. “But your eyes—”

Pretending boldness, she huffed. “What?”

He grimaced. “Good one, Sally. But, I’ve never seen you frightened of anything before. That man scared you.”

Her shoulders slumped. Breccan was right—she had been frightened. Was this the way it was always going to be? Was she going to be scared of every man that stopped to talk to her? She fought back the tears—unsuccessfully.

Breccan stepped closer. “Sally?” His eyes were full of worry. “What’s going on?”

She sobbed, but didn’t say a word.

“Do you want me to walk you to your home?”

She shook her head, feeling foolish for crying in front of him. Especially, when she couldn’t even tell him why. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when he tried to figure it out on his own.

“Something at home?”

She blubbered. “No.”

“Did that man say something to you?”

“He just . . . wanted to know . . . where the gas station was,” she said, between broken sobs.

“Hmm,” Breccan said, putting his hand to his chin, “sorry to ask this, but your dad—is he hurting you?”

The crying stopped. “What?” she stammered. “No!”

But he read it differently. “Sometimes we try to protect the ones we love.”

She poked him in the shoulder. “My dad—my real dad—is dead.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I never met him—”

His mouth fell open slightly. “Oh, so your stepdad hurt you?”

“No!” She poked him again. “Sam Hancock’s great.” As soon as she said his real name, her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened.

Breccan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Hancock?”

“Um, I mean, Hadlock . . . Sam Hadlock.” She pressed her lips tight and wiped tears from her face.

Breccan stepped back. “You said, Hancock.”

“A slip of the tongue, Breccan,” she snapped back.

“Whoa, Sally. What’s really happening?”

“Nothing.” She wanted to tell him so badly, after all, Merrick Snyder would be dead and gone in a few months. What harm would it be in telling him the truth? Still, the strange encounter with the man in the van upset her enough to hold out. She would tell Breccan all about it when it was over.

“I was just being silly, that’s all—too many scary movies, I guess.” That got the intended results. Breccan was a movie fanatic. They had already talked about the second Nightmare on Elm Street coming out in November. She forced a grin. “I guess I’m on edge with Krueger coming back and all.”

“Good ‘ol Freddie,” he said grimly. “I guess that’d make anyone leery of strangers.”

After their hike, she declined an offer to go to lunch, and left him at the corner. “See ya, later, Breccan.”

He stayed on the corner and watched her walk away. She knew, because every time she looked back, he was just where she had left him. She waved him off, but he darted toward her instead.

What? He doesn’t know what a goodbye wave looks like? She stood still and waited for him. When he got closer, she was bewildered. His eyes were filled with concern.

He led her away from the street. “This way.”

She hurried beside him. “Where are we going?”

He cut through an alley and then another, his grip tight around her wrist. She pulled her hand away. “Stop it, Breccan. What are you doing?”

“Keep going. We’re going to lose him.” He led her down a side street and then pulled her behind a dumpster. “There.” He pointed down the alley from behind the dumpster as a white van drove slowly by the street.

Twenty-One

The Woods by the Lake

Nancy sat on the steps of her cabin and studied the map. “Lac Caché de la Beauté—hidden lake of beauty,” she whispered, translating the name of the sanctuary. “So appropriate.” She stared out over the sparkling lake.

On the bottom of the paper it listed different activities available like canoeing and painting. “So odd,” she mumbled. “I’m not here to do those kinds of things. Except—” A writing class met every day at 10 am. She tapped the paper and glanced in the direction of the yellow cabin. “That’s more like it.” She turned the brochure over.

On the back, time slots for both individual and group counseling were listed every hour on the hour, along with the rooms they met in at in the lodge. Apparently, all you had to do was show up. She wondered how that worked with one-on-one counseling, which was all