Page 23 of Liar Byrd
The girl, a brunette with blue-gray eyes, is still laughing down her phone, blind to the fact that I just stole her bag.
The acolytes are busy showing my photo to the people sitting on the benches and near the large bus destination board. I keep my hood up, and whenever an acolyte looks my way, I quicklyturn around, confident that I’m hidden. They won’t notice my white-blond hair with my hood on, and they won’t be looking for a girl in a hoodie, sneakers, and jeans.
Did someone at the shelter tell them I’d be here, or was it guesswork?
Doesn’t matter.
My hand slips into the bag as I approach the ticket booths. I fumble for a moment before my fingers brush against something that jingles.
Heart pounding, I fish out a purse attached to a small set of keys, swallowing my guilt. I feel terrible, but I can’t go back to Jeremiah. It would kill me.
Sixty dollars isn’t a lot to start a new life, but it’s more than I had a second ago.
I walk right up to the ticket counter when a brown-haired man with glasses motions me forward. My heart kicks up a gear, and I tell myself to stop being so stupid. He’s behind a glass screen, and he’s sitting down.
He won’t hurt you. Stop being so pathetic.
“Hello, I want to go to...” I glance at the locations on a board above his head. Somewhere far away, but not too far. I need to hold on to some of this cash to survive, so I can’t spend it all on a ticket. “Massey, Arizona.”
I’ve never been to Arizona before.
He types the destination on his keyboard, and I watch his fingers.
His eyes are on the screen when he says, “That’ll be forty-eight dollars and ninety-eight cents. Round trip?”
Absolutely not.
“One way, thank you.” It’s more than I wanted to spend, but I pluck five ten-dollar notes from the stolen purse and push them under the glass counter toward him.
He passes me the change, and I watch as the machine prints out my ticket. It’s loud.
Smiling, the man gives it to me. “Do you know where you’re going?”
I shake my head. I’ve had no clue about that since I left the compound.
He points toward the right. “Over there. Bus leaves in about thirty minutes.”
“Thank you," I say, grabbing my ticket and running like he told me I had three seconds instead of thirty minutes.
Ten other people sit near the bench with duffels and suitcases nearby. After double-checking the destination on the screen next to the big silver bus, I hover near the front, hugging my stolen bag as I keep my ears peeled and eyes wide open.
The second the bus doors slide open and the driver motions me forward, I bolt toward the entrance like a fat bee into a jar of honey.
I almost trip over my own feet as I rush up the stairs, handing him my ticket. I settle into the left-hand corner of the bus, near the back, and I don’t relax until the other travelers are on board, the doors slide shut, and the driver pulls away.
The acolytes are still there. I watch them through my window as they prowl the station, looking for me.
And the girl, that poor girl, is spinning around in a panic, one hand over her mouth, desperately searching for the bag I’m holding in my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as my eyes prick with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
But I need it to survive.
Chapter 10
Byrdie
“Here.”
