The Far Empty Read Online Free Page A

state capitals and the trouble she had reading maps, even following MapQuest printouts. He bought her a GPS once, expensive and idiot proof, but—not surprisingly—she didn’t know where it was anymore.
    Like other bits and pieces of her life, it had been left behind somewhere.
    Although she really couldn’t comprehend abandoning a child, your own flesh and blood, the rest of
running
made so much sense that it hurt.
    Like a sharp pain, cutting your finger on paper. Just like now, whenever she thought about Marc. She knew that desperate need to disappear; to leave broken, unfixable things behind; to run into the wild dark and get lost in it until the storm passed, if it ever did.
    That
she understood far too well. She’d make the best of it here while she could. Even if she couldn’t lose herself in Murfee, she’d lose herself in the work; try to, anyway. It was all she could do, and with all she’d left behind, it was all she had. She turned away from the window and back to the classroom, continuing to put the dead woman’s things away.

3
    DUANE

    H urting someone was easy, too easy.
    But showing restraint? Not raising your hand? Now, that was goddamn hard . . . a cross made of razors and nails, too heavy and sharp to bear. She didn’t understand that. Not yet. But she would, even though in this moment—right fucking now—he couldn’t remember her name. It was somewhere out of reach, circling. Soon he was going to have to let his hands do all the talking, anyway.
    •   •   •
    It had started first with messages, little texts. His first words were sweet before turning ugly. Next were the pictures: the wind in the trees behind his daddy’s house, the sun glowing red like hell over the Chisos; his gun in shadows on the kitchen counter. Even a dead jackrabbit rotting by the road, all tore up, dead eye marbled and staring right into the phone camera. He couldn’t explain why he sent thesethings to her, what they were supposed to mean. Couldn’t even remember sending most of ’em.
    He’d watched the little Mex girl grow up, but really first
saw
her sipping a Dr Pepper outside Mancha’s. Maybe it wasn’t even a Dr Pepper, and it was possible she hadn’t winked at him either, but there she was: dark hair, dark skin . . . dark mouth kissing a straw. He hadn’t even realized how much she caught his eye until he started having all those dark dreams about her. He’d been having them for a long, long time since.
    Now, finally, he was in her room—a first—one hand holding steady his duty trousers and the other his goddamn prick—embarrassed—limp and not working, although he’d wanted her to see it for so long. He might have already sent her a picture, but didn’t remember whether he’d done that, either. He wouldn’t touch her, not yet, not now, because once he started he knew he wouldn’t stop, so better not to start at all; all that restraint he possessed that she didn’t yet understand. Worse, there was no way she was going to touch him, not willingly, so he was left with his pants down around his legs, and none of it working out the way he’d wanted or dreamed about. He was too distracted, too busy cutting his eyes away from her to his portable on her nightstand, standing tall next to a pile of books and her cellphone. Taller than his prick, for damn sure.
    That damn phone distracted him. Oh, how he wanted to have a little look-see beneath its bright pink case, to find out if she’d been saving his texts and his pictures and who else she was talking to—peek at her dirty secrets and make sure there was nothin’ in there about him. She wasn’t to talk about him to anyone. He didn’t exist. He was smoke and dust and the wind in the picture he’d sent her—he was empty spaces. He’d told her what would happen if she eversnitched about the things he shared with her, and was pretty goddamn sure she’d gotten the message, ’cause he’d also put something sharp up near her eye or