Chapter 8
Tongues of fire lick the night sky as I toss in more papers.
The fire pit in the backyard was a little splurge I wanted so I could sit outside at night.
A little homey spot to have a cup of hot cocoa and read a book.
Now it’s an incinerator. I’m lucky that storm passed through so fast. It made my kindling too damp to burn, but lighter fluid is doing the job faster anyway. It’ll burn itself out in a few minutes.
As I stand there watching my life become ashes, something about Lizzie isn’t sitting right.
But I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t tell if I’m paranoid or if it’s real.
I just feel like she’s pushing so hard to flush me out.
I don’t know who to trust right now. And since the phone is an easy way to find me, it’s got to go.
I rip the battery from the casing and smash the rest of it on a rock.
It won’t smudge the data it already sent, but it won’t send any more info now.
No, I can’t rely on her for help. Not until I’m settled somewhere safe and can think it through.
Rushing around inside, I toss my clothing into a duffle bag and drop it on the couch.
I stare at the sink, wondering how thorough I should be.
If I drop a match and blaze the house, there’ll be no proof I was here.
But the fire will call attention. Especially since it’s possible I’ll set the entire countryside ablaze.
Trading in an old Elantra isn’t going to give me the cash I need.
It’s got almost a hundred thousand miles on it, and I doubt I’ll walk out with more than three grand in cash.
That’s like twenty grand short. I bought a watch once that cost more than that.
Now it seems like an impossible amount of money.
I could leave the tiny, but there’s a housing shortage. Finding a place to stay that will look the other way on my super questionable income is one thing, but when they can’t verify anything—I’m fucked.
No, I need to keep the tiny.
I need a truck, and I need to get out of here.
Now.
I sit down hard on the couch and pull at my hair. It’s nearly three in the morning. I wish I could sleep on it and decide in the morning, but if my face is all over social media—it’s a matter of time until someone recognizes me. Like Stone or his dad.
Or Chase.
Chase. He cares about me. I know he does.
I hate the idea that’s forming. The old Ferro ways ignite in my mind, and I see a path out of here.
But it involves using Chase. Thoughts fly through my head in rapid succession.
I try to see them through, come up with a plan, but each sequence that doesn’t involve Chase is struck down.
The plan fails. It’s not possible. It hits a wall. Or I get caught.
The thing is, there is one way I know I won’t get caught. Because the guy likes me. And I know he has a truck. I wouldn’t need to borrow money. Or come up with some crazy story about needing cash. I could just go over, spend the night, and slip out with the keys…and steal from him.
Don’t think about it. Just do it. You’re going to Hell anyway. What’s one more guy?
But it’s Chase…
But if I don’t do it, I may not live to see sunrise.