Chapter Seven
T he Fourth of July is blazingly hot and dawns too early for my liking, but Nottingham sure is done up like a true Southern belle.
The downtown buildings are crested with crisp red, white, and blue bunting as we drive past. Antique cars line the sides of the streets, polished to a gleam, and the scent of popcorn, candy apples, and barbecue smoke wafts through the air.
Guy drives us in the Range Rover and insists that I sit in the back because it’s safer in the event of a crash, or so he says. I roll my eyes but go along anyway. I’ve picked out a white sundress for the occasion—the most Americana thing I can think of—and I try to smile and look pleasant. For all he knows, I’m just a nice girl eager to spend a beautiful Fourth of July in her quaint little Southern hometown.
In reality, I’m a woman on a goddamn mission.
After the night of the fundraiser, my focus narrowed to just one single, manageable goal: get my birth certificate. I’m going to do it today and I don’t intend to let him in on anything. I’ll just sit quietly and try to figure out when the optimal time to slip away and get to the town hall would be.
That’s all I need to get out of today. One little piece of paper. On the scale of things I’ve done over the past few weeks, it barely ranks.
So why am I so anxious?
The sheriff’s men have cordoned off one of the large fields in a park on the outskirts of town, near one of the baseball diamonds, as temporary parking. Guy slows the Range Rover, the tires crunching, and rolls down his window as we approach the deputy directing traffic. My spine stiffens, skin prickling. The deputy is young, with deep brown skin and a face that could be kind behind his mirrored sunglasses, but I know better than to trust him, and the hard set of his jaw indicates the feeling would probably be mutual.
“Mr. Gisbourne,” the deputy nods, thumbing the brim of his cap. “Straight ahead,” he says, pointing, “and just to the right, you can park under that oak tree. Should be enough shade.”
“Thank you kindly,” Guy says.
For a minute, I assume the deputy hasn’t even seen me through the tinted windows of the Range Rover. But as Guy rolls his window up, the mirrored shades flick to my window.
“Miss,” he says with another nod.
The tone is less than friendly. It’s more an indication that he’s seen me, and he wants me to know he’s seen me. I shiver in spite of myself. With Guy driving me, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about from the sheriff’s men now that I’m this poor little trafficked girl freed from the influence of her slimy uncle.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.
We park and head to the center of town, where the bright white cupola stands like a little Christmas ornament, and a marching band is playing a patriotic medley. I make a mental map of the area as we approach. Town Hall is on the other side of the main festival grounds, which are spread throughout Jefferson Davis Park, directly facing Main Street.
The sun hangs high above the Fourth of July festival in Nottingham, baking the smell of kettle corn and barbecue into the air. Laughter and chatter fill the space, families wandering from booth to booth while kids dart between the stands, clutching balloons. I stay a few paces behind Guy, letting him do what he does best—smile, shake hands, charm the town like he’s some benevolent lord overseeing his kingdom.
“Here, Maren.” Guy hands me a little trinket from one of the booths—a carved wooden bird, its wings outstretched in flight. It’s beautiful, I suppose, but kind of an ironic metaphor.
No. Don’t be snarky. So I just smile and thank him, slipping it into my pocket without much thought. He’s already moved on to the next stand, busying himself with small talk and gestures that don’t really mean anything. I glance around, trying to distract myself from how out of place I feel and how desperately I want to sprint for the horizon.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a man in his late forties, face flushed with embarrassment, counting out quarters—one by one—onto the counter of a food stall. His daughter stands beside him, eyes wide, too young to understand what’s happening but old enough to feel the discomfort in the air. He finishes counting, hands trembling slightly as he hands over just enough to cover a small funnel cake.
A few feet away, a woman tries to swipe her card at another stand. The machine beeps angrily, and her face falls. The vendor hands it back to her, apologetic but firm. “Declined,” he says softly, though I know the shame that follows her is anything but soft. She mumbles an excuse, something about needing to check her balance, and quickly shuffles away, her head low.
I bite my lip, feeling a knot twist tighter in my stomach.
I don’t want to be here.
Guy’s still browsing like nothing’s wrong, happily considering knick-knacks and snacks without even glancing at the prices. I stand there, feeling hollow.
Just ahead of me, a little girl pulls on her mother’s sleeve, pointing eagerly at the carousel. “Please, Mama? Can we go on the horses?” Her face is bright with hope.
Her mother kneels down and speaks softly, but I catch every word. “I’m sorry, honey. Not today.”
The girl’s face falls, her lip quivering. “You always say no,” she pouts.
The mother smiles sadly, brushing a hand through the girl’s hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Something sharp settles in my chest. I turn away, unable to look at them any longer. It’s one thing to know that people are struggling—something that’s become impossible to ignore the more time I spend here—but seeing it firsthand, laid out in front of me, makes my skin crawl. While the rich people at Guy’s fundraiser throw money around like confetti, the people of Nottingham are counting coins, swiping cards they know won’t go through, apologizing to their kids for not having enough. And these are the same people who go to sleep at night worrying about their homes being taken away—about what happens if they can’t make the next payment.
A fire starts to smolder in my chest. How is any of this okay? How can someone like Guy pretend to be this town’s savior, walking around in his pressed suit with his fancy words, when people are barely scraping by?
I look at him, standing tall and confident, smiling without a care in the world. It makes me sick.
But I don’t say anything. Not yet.
I just grit my teeth, swallow the growing rage, and force myself to smile as he approaches again.
“Ready?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Guy sweeps me away from the fair booths with an easy arm around my shoulders, his usual charm masking how he’s steering me where he wants. I barely register it as we make our way toward the archery range.
The field is set up neatly, lines drawn in the grass marking the shooting lanes. Targets are positioned at a good distance, concentric rings painted in vibrant colors, with the yellow bullseye standing out in the center. Stands line the side of the field, offering shade from the sun. I follow Guy up to a covered seating area reserved for “special guests”—which, as always, just means rich people. Politicians, local business moguls, people who sip mint juleps and couldn’t give two shits if a working class dad can’t afford to buy his daughter some carnival food. Hell, for all I know, these are the fuckers charging five bucks for funnel cake.
I settle into my seat, taking in the scene, and ignoring the few pointed stares I’m getting, the whispers from pastel-clad matrons. They obviously know I’m John Lackland’s “niece,” and know why he’s not here. Truly, it’s a red letter day for local gossip.
I just hold my head high and pretend to be focusing on the tournament. The archers are lined up across the field, readying their shots. For a moment, my heart stutters, and I instinctively scan the line of competitors for that familiar form, the broad shoulders, the auburn hair.
But nothing. No one like that.
And of course not. Rob’s not an idiot, and he’s not going to show up to a place absolutely crawling with cops just to...what, show off how good he is at target practice? For a shitty plastic trophy and the applause of people who’d rather see him in jail?
Or worse, stuffed and mounted?
Yeah, no. And I don’t want to see him either.
I cross my legs and fan myself with my program, a futile gesture in the souplike humidity. The crowd, though not massive, is only partially intent on the action, murmurs rising every time an arrow flies. I watch one archer in particular as he steps up for his shot. He doesn’t look like the others—no fancy uniform or gear, just a ball cap pulled low over his brow, aviators hiding his eyes, and a dirt-smudged work shirt that’s seen better days. His scraggly beard makes him look like he wandered in off a job site rather than prepared for a tournament.
But there’s something easy in the way he aims, something fluid. When he fires, his arrow flies and snugs itself square in the bullseye. The spectators hum in appreciation, but I’m already barely paying attention.
I have to find a way into Guy’s office at town hall. It’s not like I can just ask outright—not with that deputy from earlier giving me suspicious looks. Maybe I can play dumb, act like I’m impressed by his whole setup and ask for a tour? That might be the easiest way. Just an innocent request, nothing too obvious. He likes showing off, after all. But then he’d be watching me, and that wouldn’t work either. If I could wander off for a second...
I’m so deep in my thoughts I almost miss the sharp thwack of an arrow hitting its mark. The man in the ball cap hits another bullseye, and the announcer’s voice rises above the crowd, declaring him the winner of this round. A few of the other competitors walk off the field, slump-shouldered and muttering.
Guy nudges me, drawing my attention back to him. “Fun and games are over, Maren,” he says, standing up and adjusting his jacket while he chuckles at his own non-joke. “Luncheon?”
“Sure.” I don’t bother meeting his eyes, but I follow. The bustle of a meal—and the drinks that are sure to flow—might be the perfect chance to slip away.
The outdoor tent is elegant but stifling, stretched wide over the grass, its white fabric glowing softly in the afternoon light. Long tables are covered with crisp linens, plates perfectly arranged, and glasses filled with chilled drinks. The murmur of polite conversation floats through the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of silverware as Sherwood’s wealthiest spear up grilled asparagus and tarragon chicken salad.
I have no appetite, but Guy leads me toward the head table all the same, a polite hand resting on my lower back as he maneuvers through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. I cringe inwardly as I spot the sheriff and his men standing at the edges of the tent, talking in low tones, watching everything.
Yikes . Does the Fourth of July lunch literally need a security detail? It’s ridiculous. And yet my chest tightens all the same, because those khaki idiots are going to make it that much harder for me to slip away without anyone noticing.
“Maren.” Guy’s voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and commanding. “Would you do me the honor of awarding the bouquet to the winner?” He smiles, turning to some muckety-muck at the next table. “She’s much easier on the eyes than I am.”
I blink, barely registering what he’s said. “Sure,” I mumble, still half-distracted. The easiest way out, the only one not flanked by deputies, is right behind the head table and podium. So that’s a no-go.
“Wonderful.” Guy nods, then reaches into his pockets and empties them onto the table—his phone, some loose change, and a keyring. I glance down, my attention catching on the key fob dangling from the ring.
Because it’s not just any key fob. He’s got it snuggled into a little leather case embossed with the seal of the County of Sherwood. Of course.
It’s the key to get into Town Hall. Right there in front of me. The one thing that could get me into his office, to wherever my birth certificate is stashed away waiting for me.
My heart speeds up, and without even thinking about it, I slide my hand across the table, my fingers brushing against the keys. Guy is clearing his throat, about to begin, and everyone’s attention is on him.
In one swift movement, I palm the fob and slip it into the pocket of my dress.
I can barely believe it, barely hope that no one has seen me...and yet, it seems like no one has.
Guy finally begins. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out on this fine day, to celebrate the greatest of American holidays: the Fourth of July.”
A smattering of polite applause rises from the crowd, and I shift in my seat, tugging at the edge of my dress, trying not to look too restless. Sure, whatever. The gears in my mind are whirring, processing, trying to formulate a plan on the fly.
“The Fourth of July is more than just fireworks and barbecues,” he continues. “It’s a celebration of the freedoms that this country was founded upon. Our forefathers fought for liberty, for justice, for the right to live free from tyranny. And today, we honor their legacy.”
More applause. He pauses dramatically, eyes sweeping over the crowd as if we should all be honored to be listening to such a stirring and not-at-all cliched speech. Enough patriotism to gag you.
He launches into a predictable spiel about the meaning of the Fourth of July—freedom, independence, and protecting what matters. I tune most of it out, my fingers brushing against the fob in my pocket, the weight of it making my heart beat faster. This could be the key to everything. Literally.
“And just as our country’s founders sought to preserve the rights of the people, so too will I, as your future district attorney,” Guy continues, his voice swelling with self-importance. “I pledge to restore law and order to this county. To bring justice back...”
His words fade into the background as I calculate my next move. If I can just get away after the lunch, I can make my way to town hall and—
“Now,” Guy says, shifting gears, his voice softening, “it’s time to move on to today’s main event—the award for our archery tournament champion. But before we get to that, there’s someone I’d like to acknowledge. Someone who has stood by my side through thick and thin, who has been my greatest support, my inspiration. The beautiful Maren de Mornay, my fiancée .”
I freeze. The world seems to tilt off balance.
Did he just say... fiancée ?
My breath catches in my throat as I try to process it. Fiancée. I’d assumed the fiancée was someone else, some faceless woman out of town, a ghost in his mansion soon to return.
But no. It was me. It’s probably always been me. That’s his plan: not to rescue me.
To trap me.
But there’s no time to react—Guy is already gesturing for me to stand and present the bouquet. My legs feel like they’re moving through quicksand as someone plops the flowers into my hands and ushers me towards Guy, towards the spotlight.
And what am I going to do, drop them and sprint away?
No , say the deputies fringing the outside, adjusting their belts heavy with the weight of guns and nightsticks. No you will not.
Like an automaton, I approach the winner, the same humble archer I’d noticed earlier—ball cap, worn shirt, scraggly beard. He watches me with a steady, unpretentious gaze.
As I hand him the bouquet, our eyes meet, and for a split second, the world feels still. There’s something calming in his eyes, something different, refreshing, compared to all the stuffiness and old money around us.
Then it hits me—a wave of dizziness, sudden and disorienting. My vision blurs, and I sway on my feet, grabbing the edge of the podium for balance.
Guy is at my side immediately, muttering something under his breath. “Maren? Are you all right?” This close, his voice is more annoyed than concerned. Like I’m inconveniencing him.
But before he can say more, the archer steps forward, his voice firm yet kind. “Give the lady some space,” he drawls. “Hot day out here,” he adds, to me. “Take yer time.”
“I...thank you,” I manage, and somehow whisper something about needing air. Guy steps back, clearly irritated, but unwilling to make a scene, and smiles to the crowd as I retreat from the tent.
The world wheels around me, spinning on its axis with stars exploding in my vision as I slip out of the tent.
The fresh air hits me like a second wind.
I can’t do this anymore. I need to get out— now.
In six swift steps I get away from the shadow of the tent, grass ticking against my ankles as I wobble forward on my wedges. The parking lot isn’t far—across the stretch of field now studded with arrows, guarded only by the speared forms of spent targets—and I’m there before I can even catch my breath.
The sun beats down on me like it’s trying to melt me into the cracked dry mud underneath me. I need something easy, an old model and a simple make, something without any newfangled security features. No keyless entry or remote starter, none of that bullshit. That’s the thing about old cars—they kept it so simple. People act like you’re some sort of genius when you can diagnose something built before 1990, but I’d rather contend with this bird’s nest of wires and switches than some stupid onboard computer any day.
Simple’s what I need. Because I’m going to steal a car.
I sense it before I register it—wide body, square corners, chrome shining in the sun. A Dodge Dart, late ‘60s, some red-faced old guy’s collector’s item taken out for the big holiday, shining like a big candy apple here in the impromptu parking lot.
I scramble over to the door and give it a tug.
And wouldn’t you know it, but he left the sucker unlocked. I hate to victim-blame, but you might deserve to get your car stolen if you’re dumb enough to do that.
Sweat drips down my back, sticking my dress to my skin as I crouch inside the driver’s side footwell. The cicadas are loud—too loud—but I need them to be.
I shove my hair out of my eyes and wedge myself under the dashboard, prying open the panel with a single tug. I feel around for the wires, half-blind, listening for any sound that doesn’t belong—the snap of a twig, the crunch of gravel. The woods around me feel too quiet. The sounds of festival-goers are a distant buzz, a world away from the panicked girl trying to hotwire an engine with her heart in her throat.
I close my eyes, operating by instinct more than sight, and...
There . My fingers brush the bundle of wires, and I pull them down, hands shaking more than I want them to. Two wires. One for the fuel, one for the spark.
Old Man MacAllister didn’t exactly teach me how to hotwire a car—not in so many words—but he taught me what I need to know to do it. You’ve got an on switch that powers up all the key circuits, like the fuel pump and the spark ignition system, and another switch that gets the engine turning. Once the engine’s going—and as long as everything’s working right—it’ll keep going as long as it has fuel and power for the spark system. Just tie the main power circuit on, touch the start wires together, and...bam.
Hopefully.
I twist the wires together, trying not to think about what happens if I don’t get it running.
If I can’t get it running, I’m stranded.
And if I’m stranded, I’m caught.
And if I’m caught, I’m...
I swallow hard against the thick, hot air, and force myself to focus.
I feel for the starter wire, glancing over my shoulder at the field around me.
Nothing yet.
I scrape the edge with my thumbnail to make sure it’s properly exposed, then hook it into my pinky so I can twist the main wires tight. Transferring the main circuit to my left hand, I roll the start wire between my thumb and forefinger, holding it just shy of touching the bundle.
This has to work.
I grit my teeth and press the wire against the others. Sparks jump, the engine coughs, and I freeze.
“Come on,” I whisper, twisting the main wires tighter.
My pulse is pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. I press the wire again, harder this time. The engine coughs a second time, then roars to life with a deep, guttural sound that almost feels like a sigh of relief. Almost.
I scramble up to the driver’s seat, shoving more loose hair behind my ears, and grab for the steering wheel. I can’t remember if Darts have a steering lock or not, so I’m prepared to muscle my way out of here if I have to. I fling a glance over my shoulder to back up and—
“Miss?”
My heart plummets.
It’s the deputy from before. The one who waved us in. And he’s standing directly behind my bumper.
“I...” My voice croaks out of my throat in a near sob.
Goddammit , I think. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit.
What am I going to do? I could floor it and try to run him over, but then what? Best case, he’s alive with both legs broken, and worst...I’m wanted for vehicular manslaughter. I could jump out of the car and run, but I won’t get far in these stupid fucking shoes.
And in either case, I still don’t have my birth certificate.
I was so close to freedom. So, so close.
I put my forehead on the steering wheel and try not to wail.
“Miss.”
I jerk up to sitting. He’s closer to me now, at the driver’s side door. I panic, jolting away from him even as I’m still seated, but he holds up a broad hand.
“Please, don’t worry,” he goes on. This close, I can see his name tag: DPTY RASHAD. He pushes up the brim of his hat. “You’re lucky I’m the one that caught you.”
“Am I?” I can’t keep the hint of sarcasm out of my voice even when I’m panicking. Look, if I’m going down, I’m going down on my own terms.
“Yes,” he—Deputy Rashad, I guess—goes on. “Because I know what a woman who needs to get away from a man looks like.”
I blink, processing his words. Does he mean—
“And law or no, I’m not gonna stop you.”
He takes a step back from the car. Looks to his left, light gleaming off his sunglasses.
“Quicker exit’s thataway.” He nods, indicating. “Take you right to the alley off Main Street.”
“But...I...” I stammer. My hands find the steering wheel and grip it tight, the car humming beneath me like it’s ready to run, too.
“Don’t wanna waste too much time, now,” he goes on, still not looking at me. “Only so long a deputy like me can be taking to hit the head and abandon his post, if you follow my meaning. Only so many minutes I can’t have eyes on this lot.”
I get it. He’s not going to narc. He’s letting me go. I literally can’t believe my good fortune, but message received—don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, just go.
I throw off the e-brake, fling the thing into reverse, and gun it, sending dust and dry pollen clouding into the air behind me. I arc the wheel to point myself at the back exit, but before I go, I can’t resist one last glance at this deputy savior of mine.
“Thank you,” I say, half-shouting over the rev of the engine.
He still doesn’t look my way. Just adjusts his belt and takes a few slow, even steps back towards the main entrance.
“My pleasure.”