Page 92 of This Stays Between Us
When we’ve been driving for a solid thirty minutes, I notice a sign far off in the distance. As we inch closer, an ancient filling station comes into view, complete with two pumps, rusty nozzles dangling from the consoles. And behind them, a one-story square building, yellow paint chipping from its wooden sides and gabled roof. A white hand-painted sign labeled withAriah Springs Servoand a red arrow sticks out of the ground a few hundred yards before the turnoff.
“Hey.” I turn to Josh. “Do you mind if we stop here?”
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say no, but at the last second he spins the wheel, swerving the car into the station.
“Might not be a bad idea to fill up. God only knows how far away the next gas station is.”
My adrenaline spikes as the possibility of finding out what’s on Phoebe’s phone draws nearer. I know I should tell Josh my plan, but once again something stops me. It’ll be easier if I can get in and get the phone charged for a few minutes without him knowing. That’s all the time I’ll need to see if there’s any evidence on it to definitively prove that Declan killed Phoebe. And then I’ll explain everythingto Josh.
Josh opens his door and begins to walk around to the pump.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I say. “I’ll grab us some snacks too.”
“Great, mind grabbing me a water?” His attention is already mostly absorbed by figuring out how to work the decades-old pump.
I nod and head inside.
A bell chimes as I shove the door open, and I’m immediately met with the now familiar smell of must, as if this place hasn’t seen customers in years. It’s a thought that doesn’t seem so shocking as I take in the one other person in the shop: a gnarled old man with a tall forehead and beady eyes.
“G’day,” he says to me, running a hand through his thinning, greasy hair, in a tone that suggests he wishes me anything but.
“Hi,” I say, speaking quickly and pulling Phoebe’s phone from my pocket. “This is a strange request, but do you happen to have a charger for this phone?”
He looks at me skeptically for a minute, pausing long enough for my frustration to rise, for a scream to bubble in my chest. But just as I’m about to let loose, he raises a spindly finger topped off with a long feminine fingernail that’s stained just a touch of yellow, and extends it to the corner of the shop.
Following his gaze, I take in a dusty rack of electronics, a mix of headphones, old phones, and—thankfully—chargers, all of which are individually wrapped in Ziploc bags. It’s clear they’re second-hand, most likely stolen from previous customers and resold. I thank him, wrapping my fingers tightly around Phoebe’s phone,and head to the rack, flipping through the products until I find a familiar-looking charger.
I hurry back to the checkout, handing the plastic-shrouded charger to the cashier. Up close, he’s younger than I first expected. Likely only in his forties, but his mottled skin and the dark, painful bags hanging beneath his eyes indicate he’s felt every year of his age.
“Surprised to see anyone in here,” he says. “Figured everyone was leaving town.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, half paying attention, still lost in my thoughts.
“Evacuation order, course. Them wildfires. What, you been living under a rock or something?” A smile erupts on his lips, revealing a haphazard set of teeth, some crooked, some yellowing, some missing entirely. The sight sends a ripple of discomfort through me.
“I, uh, yeah something like that.” I think of the others back in town. Do they know about the evacuation order? I consider calling them, but when I glance through the station window, I see Josh already removing the gas nozzle from the car.
“Thirty-five dollars,” grunts the gnarled cashier, the disturbing smile still lingering on his face.
I know what this is. There’s no way this charger should costfiveAustralian dollars, let alone seven times that amount. But I don’t have the patience or the time to contest it.
“Do you have a place where I can plug it in?” I ask as I dig through my wallet for cash, thankful that I decided to exchange currency back at the Sydney airport when I first arrived.
The cashier once again points that spindly finger towards a rusty outlet squeezed between a cooler of soft drinks and a rack of chipsin the opposite corner of the shop.
“But it’ll be ten extra dollars to use it,” he says, his eyes glowing now. “Electricity bills run high out here.”
I don’t bother protesting and throw a crumpled stack of bills on the counter, not waiting for him to count them before I grab the charger and head to the back of the store.
I work as quickly as I can, unfurling the charging cord, plugging it first into the phone and then into the wall.
And then I wait.
Nothing happens at first. The screen remains frozen in its dead black state. And then, after several interminable seconds, an image pops up. I feel my heart sputter until I recognize the symbol. An empty battery.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I look out the window again at Josh, who’s finished fueling and is now resting against the SUV, his sunglasses on, head alternating from the road to the shop window.
