Page 7 of Captive of Outlaws

CROUCHED OUTSIDE THEgarage in the slight chill of the spring air, my muscles start to cramp.

94...95...96...

After work, I pedaled back to the place I’m forced to call home—the garage apartment next to John’s mansion—and choked down some microwave mac-and-cheese—the only hot food I can afford, because of course my legal guardian isn’t actually footing my bills—before quickly changing into jeans and an ancient flannel shirt (green tag at the Nottingham Goodwill—50% off and sleeves long enough to hide my burn scars) and speeding back here. Now I’m hiding gracelessly behind a shrub, my bike tucked away around the corner, counting the seconds since John left and locked up the place. Experience has taught me that if he doesn’t swing back after a minute and a half, he’s gone for good.

97...98...99...100.

No sign of him. Just the hum of evening crickets, theburble of the distant creek, and the light swoosh-swoosh of the oak trees overhead. MacAllister’s Garage sits dark, unattended, and waiting for me.

In three seconds I’m at the front door, stuffing my key in the lock. Maybe it’s not breaking and entering if I have a key, I reason. And if anyone did happen to catch me in the act, well, I do work here. I could come up with a thousand good reasons I’d need to swing back to work.

Of course, if the sheriff’s guys somehow catch me, good reasons won’t matter.

The door squeals open and I slip into the unlit garage. It’s eerie at night, the cars and machinery looming like some sort of sleeping mechanical beasts, and the sheet over the Mustang glowing ghostly white in the sliver of moonlight that streaks in through the lone window. In spite of my rush, I sidle up to the old girl and pull back the covering. It’s so rare that I actually get a moment to just be with this car, and as stupid as it sounds, it’s like my only friend. The flame-orange paint job is as familiar as a smiling face, the chrome detailing gleaming, spotless, like it’s happy to see me.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Hanging in there?”

It doesn’t answer, of course, because it’s a goddamn car. I swoop some stray hairs out of my eyes and shake my head—you’re losing it, Maren. Maybe I really do have something wrong with me.

But no. I may be an orphan, but I’m not incapable. I fixed this car up from almost nothing starting when I was just fifteen, Googling and sifting through ancient, age-spotted repair manuals, cursing like a sailor under old man MacAllister’s tutelage. And I’m fucking proud of that.

An impulse comes over me, and I shuck back the sheetentirely, leaving the car free and exposed in the shop. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and I can really admire it—every smooth angle and sharp curve of the body, the slightly spicy smell of the leather interior, the promise of an engine strong as Secretariat revving under the hood. It may have a few dings and a taillight that seems permanently broken, but it’s mine.

My hand is still around my keys, I realize. And one of them is the key to this car.

What the hell, I figure. I’m alone, and I’m not going to get caught.

In a flash I’m in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with one hand and sliding the key into place with the other. A single twist and the engine turns right over, growling to life like the magnificent beast she is.

“Atta girl,” I say, stroking the dashboard. It takes all my self control not to just slam the accelerator and blast right through that garage door, out onto the street and speeding for God knows where.

But I can’t. Not yet. Not without a license, and definitely not without answers.

With a pang of regret, I kill the engine and slip back out of the car. But I don’t cover it up—not just yet. If I’m going to pull off this little covert mission, I might as well have a friend with me.

John’s office is locked—barely. The door’s so ancient that one hard tug on the doorknob practically yanks the whole thing off, and it swings open with the lock still frozen in place. Inside, it’s a mess—hardly the pristine and sophisticated workspace of a competent businessman. The only thing actually tidy is the bar cart in the corner, where decantersof various brown liquors wink in the dim glow of my dumb phone’s screen. Instead, I head right for the desk, hardly even knowing what I’m looking for. But I don’t have to search long. Beneath the carcasses of various takeout containers (ew) and atop the weeks-old junk mail, I find it. A stack of papers, crisply printed and dated just a few days ago.

PETITION FOR APPOINTMENT OF CONSERVATOR.

The words send blood rushing to my temples. I swallow, trying to catch my bearings, but it’s like the whole damn world is spinning around me as I try to read the document before me. In my near panic, I only catch a few words here and there—incompetent,unfit,necessary precautions—but I quickly piece things together.

John’s going to petition the courts. He’s claiming I’m mentally unfit to be on my own, that it’s in my best interest to be legally bound to him in a conservatorship.

My stomach plummets as I realize what this means. Because that’d give him—

I shuffle through the pages, and sure enough:...complete and total power to manage finances, make healthcare decisions, and execute other responsibilities as deemed necessary.

That motherfucker.

He’s going to trap me here. Forever.

Just when I was about to escape.

Reality rushes over me like an ice-cold tidal wave. That’s why they were talking about my birthday—they’ll have to get this shit locked down before I’m twenty-one and have access to the college fund. Yeah, it’s only April, and August is a few months away, but with the sheriff’s help...

With the sheriff’s help, any judge would jump on this just for the chance to do him a favor. This could be filed in minutes.

Hell, for all I know, it already has been.

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