Page 1 of Own Me, Outlaw
Chapter 1
Lark
It’sfine.
Totally fine.
There’s absolutely no reason to panic.
Except maybe for the part where I just had to crawl out of the passenger-side window of my car like a clumsy squirrel escaping a bird feeder. The driver's side is too deep in the ditch, the door won't budge, and now I’ve got a bruised shin and ruined shoes. Rain sheets down as I scramble up the embankment on hands and knees, slipping twice and muttering things that would make my grandmother cry.
By the time I haul myself onto solid ground, I'm soaked to the bone and breathing like I just escaped a bear. And honestly, ifa bear materialized out of the woods, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised at this point.
I take a deep breath and remind myself—again—that everything is fine.
Just because my car is nose-down in a ditch and the rain is coming sideways like I offended it personally doesn’t mean this is a disaster. A meteor hasn’t destroyed the planet. The world hasn’t ended. It’sfine.
I hitch my tote bag higher on my shoulder and squint into the trees. The gravel road ahead curves into darkness, swallowed by the kind of forest they write murder ballads about.
But I’ve come this far. Literally and metaphorically.
Two days ago, I told my boss I was taking a mental health weekend. She nodded like she understood, then handed me a folder of invoices labeled URGENT. That’s when I realized if I didn’t leave town immediately, I was going to have to fake my own death and run away with the circus.
So here I am.
Somewhere deep in the Appalachian Mountains with no phone signal and no map. Just a screenshot from a rental app that glitched halfway through checkout and a set of GPS coordinates that look suspiciously made-up.
I keep walking.
By the time I spot the cabin, I’m soaked from scalp to socks. Rain drips from my ponytail, and my canvas sneakers squish with every step. But there it is, tucked into the trees like something out of a fairytale.
A little crooked. A little weathered. And completely perfect.
I haul myself up the porch steps and try the lockbox beside the door.
1-9-3-7.
Beep. Red light.
I check the screenshot on my phone, verify that I’m typing in the right code, and try again. Still nothing.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, wiping water from the screen and punching in the code with stiff fingers. “Don’t do this to me. I am one unexpected thunderclap away from losing it.”
Another red light.
I try jiggling the box. Threatening it with violence. Begging softly.
It doesn't open.
I step back, scanning the porch for a hidden spare key. There’s not one under the mat. No cute ceramic frog with a secret compartment. I even check under a potted plant—dead, soggy, and definitely not hiding anything helpful.
That’s when I notice the window. The one tucked just beside the porch, slightly cracked like someone forgot to latch it.
It’s a bad idea. The worst idea.
But my legs are trembling from the hike, and my teeth are starting to chatter, and it’s not breaking and entering if I have a reservation… right?
A thought niggles at the back of my mind.What if this isn’t the right cabin?
