The Hiding Girl by Dorian Box

The Hiding Girl by Dorian Box

Author:Dorian Box
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: dark, gangs, memphis, psychological thrillers, revenge, survivors, psychological suspense, murder thriller, suspense, women sleuths, coming of age, disturbing, new adult, vigilante
Publisher: Friction Press
Published: 2020-03-18T23:26:52+00:00


* * *

Sweet! The map inset did not do justice to Acadiana Park. Way bigger than I expected with thick woods and even a campground. I enter from the side to avoid the office in front, almost getting hit by a mountain bike with fat tires when I step onto a trail.

The woods are moist and mossy with a pungent musky smell. A bird that looks like a sparrow trills an ooh-ooh-ee-oh song that doesn’t sound anything like a sparrow. I go off trail in search of my version of the perfect hotel room and find it, a leaf-covered patch of dry ground encircled by thicket. Shelter.

I slip the backpack off. It lands on a rock that tears a big hole in the cheap plastic. Of course. I sit down and get comfortable.

It takes five minutes before I’m fidgeting. How did I possibly do this for an entire month? It’s only dusk—I’m here for twelve hours.

In shrinking light I get out my new pencils and mini-pad to make a list of what I need to look up on the computer, pausing to smash a fat mosquito digging into my writing hand. It bursts with blood like a tiny water balloon and I have to chase away a picture of Scott Brooker’s exploding carotid artery.

Darkness finds me stalking in circles around the mouse-house, but it doesn’t calm my electrified brain. Need something. Cutting comes to mind. No.

I spot a branch in the shadows above me, which turns into a pullup bar which turns into a full workout, after which I plunk onto the mat of leaves, gassed, sponging sweat from my face with Scott Brooker’s shirts.

A half-moon is out, but I can only catch glimpses of it through the branches. I need a candle. I had one before, I’m pretty sure. Pixelated memories of the robot girl, sitting alone in the woods, warming her hands on a tiny flame.

Using the backpack as a pillow, I eventually fall asleep but it’s a restless night of slapping mosquitoes and adjusting my body around knotty tree roots.

I pack up early in the morning and make my way to the campground, lurking in the trees at the perimeter, sizing it up. A few tents but mostly RVs on asphalt pads, air conditioners churning.

I zero in on a faucet. Water.

I’m alternating between drinking long slurps and rinsing algae and dirt from my face, arms and legs when a noise from behind makes me start.

An older woman, short and rosy-faced with a hairdo of brown ringlets, is holding a bucket. “Sorry to sneak up on you,” she says.

“That’s okay.”

“I’m Darla,” she says in a Southern accent. Sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Definitely not Georgia.

“I’m Alice.”

Something intense going on behind her brown eyes. “Are you staying at the campground?” she says.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here with my aunt. She’s a big camper. Huge camper.”

“You know there are showers, right?”

I’m dripping like I just stepped out of a carwash. “Just freshening up a little.”

“How long are you and your aunt here for?” she says.



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