Walking Away

Darcy

The campground was draped in unsettling stillness as twilight fell. Hours earlier, it had pulsed with laughter and wild dance-offs to Lady Gaga, but now an eerie calm hovered over the small pond, the sun sinking low behind the rugged mountains.

An owl’s mournful call broke the silence, its echo drifting across the water—lonely, hollow, a warning. Even the ripples on the pond seemed uneasy, shivering in the fading light. The cicadas had fallen quiet, too, their absence pressing down on Darcy like a weight.

She curled into the Adirondack chair, a chill creeping through the dusk that made her stomach flutter. Almost without thinking, her fingers brushed the Glock .380 tucked in her Lululemon belt bag.

Traveling alone had sounded adventurous when she’d mapped out her route, but her best friend’s voice rang in her head: Never ignore your instincts, Darcy. Trust your gut. If something feels wrong, it probably is.

She was just about to rise when a deep voice jolted her.

“Beautiful here, huh?”

Darcy flinched, her foot caught on uneven ground as her pulse spiked. She hadn’t heard a single step on the gravel. Whoever he was, he’d gotten too close without her noticing.

Clearing her throat quickly, she managed, “Yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry I startled you.” His tone was casual, but the way his eyes studied her felt off. “Didn’t mean to interrupt—you looked deep in thought.”

“Yes, I was,” she said, forcing steadiness.

“Joe Hastings.” He extended a massive, callused hand.

“Darcy.” Her hand felt small inside his.

“Just Darcy?” His eyes narrowed, probing.

She forced a smile. “Yes. Just Darcy.”

At least six-two, broad-shouldered, Joe wore a flannel and jeans that didn’t quite match the campground’s cheerful vibe. A faint haze of cigarette smoke clung to him, though he wasn’t holding one.

“Are you staying here?” Darcy asked, glancing past him. His truck sat across the pond—an older model with rust eating at the fenders, plastered with travel stickers, its dome light glowing faintly as if the door hadn’t latched.

He nodded toward his camper. “How about you?”

“Yes,” she said, heartbeat quickening. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Shame.” His gaze swept over her, lingering as if committing her to memory.

Darcy straightened, pasting on a polite smile. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Joe, but I’m feeling chilly and need to turn in.”

“Too bad.” His eyes held hers a beat too long. “Safe travels, Just Darcy.”

Joe lingered like a man with nowhere better to be.

“Where to next?” The question sounded casual, but his eyes told her it wasn’t.

Darcy forced a laugh, her hand tightening on the strap of her belt bag. “Oh, just bouncing around. Haven’t decided yet.” The lie slid easily. In truth, her route was mapped down to the last stop, but there was no way she was going to hand him that information. Her friend’s advice echoed again: Trust your gut. Don’t overshare. Keep it vague. She tilted her chin toward the trees. “Looks like rain. Better button things up before it hits.”

Joe squinted, weighing whether to press further, then gave a slow nod that didn’t feel like agreement.

Darcy hurried to her gleaming Airstream Bambi at Camp Spot 3—a drive-through site chosen precisely for a quick escape. She cast one last look toward the pond before slipping inside. Joe was gone, but she could still feel him. Watching.

She yanked the blackout shades down, the night vanishing from view. Her hands trembled more than she wanted to admit.

The click of the locks wrapped the Airstream around her like a cocoon. Neat, bright, hers alone. And yet, the thin aluminum walls felt fragile—one hard shove and they would break. This was her first week on the road, her first time relying solely on herself.

Already she’d seen every type of camper—families around fires, women traveling alone, groups of friends laughing into the night. But Joe Hastings cast a different kind of shadow. He made her skin crawl.

She busied herself with order: clothes folded, makeup tucked away, toiletries stowed. Tomorrow’s outfit laid out—joggers, matching sweatshirt, crisp white tee, On Cloud sneakers. She set the Glock on the ledge beside the bed, a small comfort against the unease gnawing at her.

When she stepped back out to fold her table and crank in the awning, she paused at the threshold, scanning left, then right. The night pressed close—too still, too quiet. She forced herself outside anyway.

A sharp snap split the silence.

She spun, heart leaping—

Joe stepped from behind her camper, out of the shadows.

“Joe!” Her voice cracked. “You scared me to death.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. Wanted to see if you wanted a steak.”

“No, thanks.” Irritation edged her tone.

“Okay then. Have a good evening.” He lingered too long under the awning light, eyes fixed on hers, before finally turning. “If you need me tonight,” he said, “just yell real loud.”

Darcy forced a tight smile, though inside her head she screamed: Yeah, Joe, I need you to leave me alone. You big shit-bird.

Back inside, she checked the locks twice and leaned against the door.

Later, as she tried to sleep, a shadow crept across the window shade. She froze, covers pulled to her chin. The shape lingered—then slipped away.

For a moment, she thought it was gone—then came the scrape of a foot outside, slow and deliberate, like grinding out a cigarette.

Her breath hitched.

He was out there.

Watching. Waiting.

She knew it.

Walking Away