The Scar on His Wrist

The bus window was so dirty that the fields outside looked washed in ash. Each pothole knocked my shoulder against the glass, and the loose frame rattled above the engine. I watched unfamiliar towns pass and kept checking the creased map in Arthur's letter. Three days on the road had left me hungry and sore. I kept one hand on my worn backpack, the strap cutting into the same spot on my shoulder. Arthur Vance's letter sat in the front pocket. Dad had trusted him for years. Now Dad was gone, home was closed to me, and I had nowhere else to take that trust. A man dropped into the empty seat beside me even though several pairs of seats were free. Stale cigarettes clung to his dark hoodie. Beneath that was a faint metallic smell, old and sour enough to make me think of blood dried on a coin. I shifted toward the window. "Long trip?" His voice was low and rough. I nodded once and kept watching the dark fields. Maybe he would get bored and move. "Running from something," he asked, "or heading toward it?" I had spent three days refusing to answer that question, even to myself. Only a few passengers remained, all several rows away. One man slept with his cap over his face. A woman near the front wore headphones and watched her phone. The driver's radio drowned out the rest of the bus. The stranger moved closer. His thigh pressed against mine. I shoved myself against the window. "Move." "Don't be shy." He bent near my ear. "I know who you are, Chloe." My hand locked around the backpack strap. The name on my ticket was hidden inside the bag, and I had never seen this man before. The hood hid his hair, and a plain black mask covered his nose and mouth. Only his eyes showed. They stayed on me while I searched the aisle for someone who might look back. No one did. I opened my mouth to call for the driver. His hand closed around my thigh first, hard enough that the words caught in my throat. His fingers pressed through my shorts and left separate points of pain. "Let go of me." "I've been waiting for you." His other arm hooked around my waist and dragged me against the solid weight of his chest. The mask brushed my temple when I tried to turn away. I clawed at his wrist and tried to wedge my backpack between us. He barely moved. His hand slid higher until his fingertips found the hem of my shorts. I drove my elbow into his ribs. He grunted. His grip loosened, and I shoved him into the seatback and lurched into the aisle. His hand caught my sleeve near the elbow. I twisted until the fabric stretched through his fist. His right cuff rode up. A pale crescent-shaped scar cut across his wrist. Thin, clean, and old. The brakes shrieked before either of us moved again. The bus had reached a deserted roadside stop, little more than a sign and a strip of cracked asphalt. The doors folded open with a hiss. I ran. One ankle rolled when my shoes hit the asphalt, but I kept running. I crossed the dirt shoulder and pushed into the dark beyond the stop without looking back. By the time the engine noise faded, my lungs hurt and my legs folded beneath me. I crawled behind a bank of overgrown bushes and watched the bus pull away. Its red taillights vanished around the bend. The masked man went with it. I was still trying to steady my breathing when a black sedan stopped at the curb. The rear window lowered. "Miss Chloe Xavier?" The driver wore a chauffeur's uniform. "Mr. Vance sent me. He was worried when you missed your arrival time." My knees nearly gave out again. I checked the driver's face, his uniform, and the Vance crest on the door twice before leaving the bushes. Someone had noticed I was missing. Someone had come. I climbed into the back seat and held my backpack against my chest for the entire ride. The driver stopped asking questions when I would not answer. The sedan passed through massive iron gates and followed a winding driveway toward the Vance estate. Stone towers rose above broad, lit windows. After the black road and the bus, even the light in those rooms looked warm. The mansion's heavy oak doors opened before the car stopped. Arthur Vance waited at the top of the steps in a dark suit, his silver hair neat at the temples. I knew his face from my father's photographs. My grip on the backpack finally eased. He came down to meet me. "Chloe, my dear girl. You're shaking." His arm settled around my shoulders, careful and firm. He smelled of clean linen and wood smoke. "Come inside. You're safe now." I let him guide me into a library lined from floor to ceiling with books. A fire snapped in the hearth. Lamps lit leather chairs and a broad mahogany desk. The heat stung my cold hands. Nothing in that room resembled the bus. "I'll have Mrs. Gable draw you a hot bath," Arthur said. "Then we'll get some food into you." My throat had closed. I nodded and followed Mrs. Gable without checking the door behind me. Mrs. Gable filled a deep bath and left clean clothes outside the door. Afterward, she brought soup, bread, and tea. By the time I finished, my hands had stopped shaking. Late that night, I went back to the library to thank Arthur. He stood with his back to me at the bay window, looking over the moonlit gardens. "Arthur?" He glanced back. "I don't know how to thank you." I stopped a few steps inside. "On the bus, a man knew my name. He grabbed me. I thought he was going to take me with him." "You don't owe me thanks, child. Your father would have expected me to look after you." Arthur gave the kind smile I remembered from Dad's photographs. Then he undid the cuff of his white shirt and rolled the sleeve toward his elbow, an ordinary gesture after a long evening. The crescent scar lay across his right wrist. I stared until the lamp blurred around it. Same curve. Same pale edges. The pain in my thigh came back first, then the scrape of that cuff beneath my nails. Arthur watched my face. He did not look down at the scar. When he spoke again, the warm baritone was gone. The rasp from the seat beside me had returned. "I told you I'd be waiting." He crossed the library, closed the heavy wooden door, and turned the key. The lock clicked once.