No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

from her college’s ROTC program, one of those sweaty girls
in urban digital camouflage lugging heavy rucksacks up and
down campus. Someone who knew ju-jitsu. Hell, anyone else.
But it was just her.
Just Darby Thorne, the weird girl who hid from parties
inside a dorm room wallpapered with black crayon rubbings
stolen from strangers’ graves, like some kind of spiritual
vampire.
As the snowstorm intensified outside, she swiped her
iPhone and quickly typed another text. Just a draft message.
Just a backup, in the event of the unthinkable, but it brought
tears to her eyes all the same.
Mom, if you find this message on my phone, something
happened to me. I’m trapped overnight at a rest stop as I
write this, and one of the people here might be dangerous.
I hope I’m just being paranoid. But if I’m not … just know
that I’m sorry for everything. All the things I said and did
to you. I’m sorry about our phone call on Thanksgiving.
You don’t deserve any of that. Mom, I love you so much.
And I’m so sorry.
Love, your daughter.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Lars went to the restroom.
He passed by Darby’s chair, and she noticed something
strange. He’d peeled his black ski gloves off, exposing the
pale skin on the back of his left hand. It was peppered with
tiny, raised bumps. Like mosquito bites. Or maybe scar tissue,
though she couldn’t imagine what grisly tool could do that to a
human hand, short of a cheese grater—
Then Lars shuffled past and vanished into the men’s
restroom. The door swished shut, taking forever before finally
clicking.
Now.