Page 78 of Run Away With Me

Everything.

But I was in control.

I double-checked, triple-checked the safety, then put the gun in my backpack so it would be close to me at all times.

The alarm clock on the nightstand told me it was past noon, and I couldn’t postpone things much longer. I needed to get moving. I kept wanting to delay the inevitable and try to find Amanda who had taken over from Megan on the day shift and ask her something, anything. Instead, I took one final trip back to check out and grab a bag of chips from the vending machine.

I got into the driver’s side of the car for the first time, put the top down and adjusted the seat. My legs were a lot shorter than Brooke’s. I already knew which album I wanted to play to get myself in the right frame of mind, so it only took me a moment to get the tape deck set up. I flipped my sunglasses down, turned the engine on and took a deep breath.

‘You can do this,’ I muttered to myself.

I drove for two hours then stopped for gas and to stretch my legs at a tiny service station. Their restrooms were spotlesslyclean, which, after a week on the road, I didn’t take for granted. I picked up a bottle of water to make sure I stayed hydrated on the next leg of the journey, and a Coke for the sugar and caffeine.

A cop car pulled into the gas station as I was paying, and I closed my eyes and fought the urge to scream. They couldn’t be here for me. They just couldn’t. Not now. Even though my instinct was to run away, I knew that would draw attention to myself, and I needed to stay inconspicuous. I forced myself to smile at the guy behind the counter as he handed me my change.

‘Have a nice day,’ he muttered.

One of the cops held the door for me as I walked out, and I felt dizzy, like I was about to faint. This was my opportunity to tell them everything. To get help. To not be on my own anymore.

‘Nice car,’ the officer said, nodding to the Mustang, which was the only other car out on the lot.

‘Thanks,’ I said. My voice rasped, but otherwise I sounded normal enough.

Was that a hint? Did he know who I was, and who the car really belonged to? Or did he really just think it was a nice car?

‘Yours?’ he asked, pausing to let his colleague catch up, and I forced myself to give him an easy smile.

‘I wish,’ I said.

‘Best not dent it,’ the second cop said, his voice a full Southern drawl.

I shoved my hands in my pockets to hide how badly theywere shaking. This felt like a set-up. It was too easy, too friendly, to be a casual encounter, and it took serious effort to act normal. I felt like they were both scrutinizing me, these tall men who towered over me, paying too much attention because of the car or because I was a teenage girl or because they’d seen a bulletin to look out for a Jessie Swift, the runaway murderer from Seattle.

Surely they wouldn’t be looking out for a vintage Mustang, though? No one from back home knew I was with Brooke.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, paranoid now about my accent, on top of everything else.

‘Where are you headed?’

I took a longer look at the cop. He was studying me, too.

‘Indianapolis,’ I said. Then I realized I’d been giving short answers, which sounded evasive because Iwasbeing evasive, and they needed something more from me before they’d let me walk away. I took my sunglasses off my head and pushed my fingers through my hair, ruffling it. ‘My dad owns a garage. Someone bought the car online and wanted it delivered.’

‘What an asshole,’ the officer said with a laugh. He looked me over again, then seemed to dismiss me. ‘Drive safe.’

The second cop tipped his hat. ‘Have a good day, miss.’

‘Thank you.’ I swallowed hard. ‘You too.’

I hesitated for a second, then kept on walking. I wasn’t going to hang around to find out if they were watching me leave. My cover story had worked – maybe I’d gottenbetter at lying in the past couple of days – and I didn’t want to leave them with any questions about my identity.

I got back in the car and almost wept with relief.

The Mustang, thankfully, behaved as I tore through Missouri. Heavy rock albums proved to be the perfect tempo to define and refine a plan, so I knew exactly what I needed to do when I reached St. Louis.

Brooke being taken was my fault, and getting her back was on me. If it weren’t for me, she would be in Orlando already, or wherever she would have ended up if she hadn’t stopped to help me back in Seattle. I should have paid more attention to the van, to Chris … I should have insisted on Brooke checking the Mustang more thoroughly for another tracker back in Utah.

All of that didn’t matter anymore. I had to put it out of my head and fix things – that was my next and only responsibility.

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