“Moses?” There it was again. I turned, drawing my arm up to block out the light from the flashlight being leveled at me and find the voice on the other side.
“Georgia?” What the hell was she doing out at one a.m. on a school night? My mental monologue sounded like a parent and I stopped myself immediately. It was none of my business what she was doing, just like it wasn’t any of her business what I was doing. It was like I’d spoken out loud, because she immediately asked:
“What are you doing?” Georgia sounded like a parent too, and I didn’t answer her, as usual.
I struggled to my feet, wincing even as I realized there was something sticking out of my leg. Glass. There was a long shard of glass embedded in my knee where it had connected with the concrete.
“Why do you do that?” Her voice was sad. Not accusing. Not freaked out or wary. Just sad, like she didn’t understand me and wanted to. “Why do you paint all over everyone’s property?”
“It’s public property. Nobody cares.” It was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn’t explain it to her. Just like I couldn’t explain it to anyone. So I wouldn’t.
“Charlotte Butters cared. Ms. Murray sure as hell cared.”
“So you’re just out tonight, keeping the community safe from paint?” I asked. The overpass was surrounded by nothing but fields of long golden wheat . . . or whatever it was they grew in Utah. A little cluster of businesses huddled around the exit ramp nearby, but they were a tiny island in the sea of gold.
“Nah. I saw you leave. I watched you head toward Nephi.”
I stared at her blankly
“Your headlights hit my window when you left. I was still up.”
That didn’t make much sense. I’d been painting for at least an hour.
“I drove around until I found you; I saw your Jeep pulled off the side of the road,” she finished quietly. Her honesty amazed me. She had no artifice. And when she tried to disguise her feelings I saw right through her. She was like glass—pure and clear and plain as day. And like glass, her honesty cut me.
I yanked at the shard in my knee, cursing as I did, and the diversionary tactic worked, because Georgia’s eyes dropped to my wound. She moved her flashlight to get a better look and cursed right along with me when she saw the blood that was turning my pants black in the moonlight.
“It’s not that big a deal.” I shrugged. But it did hurt.
“Come on. I’ve got a first aid kit under the seat.” She beckoned me with the flashlight, making a looping circle of light as she turned, expecting me to follow. Which I did.
She wrenched open the door, pulled out an orange plastic case from under the passenger seat and patted the seat expectantly.
“Can you climb up?”
I grunted. “It’s just a scrape—you’re not going to have to amputate or anything.”
“Well, it’s bleeding like crazy.”
I eased my pant leg up and Georgia made herself busy playing doctor as I stared at the top of her pale blonde head and wondered for the millionth time why in the world she kept hanging around me. What was the appeal? The girl loved a challenge, that was easy to see. I’d watched her ride that black horse over fences and fields, flying like she belonged in the sky. I’d watched her coax and wheedle the stallion until he was so bewitched he now ran to her when she called him. But I wasn’t an animal and I didn’t want to be her next conquest, and I was pretty sure that’s what I was.
The thought made me angry and as soon as she was done I pulled down my pant leg and stepped out of the cab, heading for my Jeep without a word. She trotted behind me.
“Go home Georgia. You’re breaking another one of my laws. Thou shall not follow me.”
“Those are your laws, Moses. I didn’t agree to any of them.”
I heard her trip behind me, and I paused in spite of myself. There was broken glass and and beer cans were everywhere. This underpass was a hangout on the weekends. More high school kids got drunk here than any other place in town, if the empty cans and bottles were any indication. I didn’t want her to hurt herself. I walked back to her and took her hand, escorting her back to her truck.
“Go home, Georgia,” I repeated, but this time I tried to say it a little more kindly. I opened the driver’s side door to the rust bucket she had named Myrtle because it rhymed with turtle and that’s about how fast it drove.
“Why did you paint that girl? On the overpass. Why did you do that? What does it mean?” Her voice was sad, almost like she felt betrayed. Betrayed by what, I couldn’t guess.
“I saw her picture. So I painted her,” I replied easily. It was mostly the truth. I really didn’t see her picture, not the way I made it sound. Not on a flyer—though there was one on the post office bulletin board. I actually saw her in my head.
“You liked the way she looked?”
I shrugged dismissively. “She’s pretty. It’s sad. I like to draw.” Truth. She was pretty. It was sad. I did like to draw.
“Did you know her?”
“No. I know she’s dead.”
Georgia looked horrified. Even in the moonlit darkness I could see how much I had upset her. I think I wanted to upset her. I wanted her to be afraid.
“How?”
“Because kids on flyers usually are. She’s from around here, right?”
“Not really. She’s from Sanpete. But it’s a small town like this one. And it’s weird that she just disappeared. She’s the second girl to disappear like that in the last year. It’s just . . . weird. Scary, you know?”