41. Cassidy
FORTY-ONE
CASSIDY
Bindi is still asleep, curled on her side, one arm stretched into the space where I was just lying moments ago. I carefully pull the blanket up over her bare shoulder and she murmurs something in her sleep, but quickly, her face softens.
Quietly, I get dressed, pulling on the pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt from the duffel. We need to do laundry, but we are so fucking close to getting to the safe house. Just a few more days.
I pick up the notepad from last night’s manic scribbles, running my eyes over the plan, refreshing it in my mind:
- In and out in under 2 minutes. 90 seconds, if possible.
- One teller, possibly a manager in a back office. Neutralize both with intimidation.
- Bindi waits just outside, or by the door as lookout and backup.
- Disguises: bandanas, sunglasses, caps .
- Getaway car: the blue sedan from the motel lot (saw the keys left at the front desk last night).
- Park a car in an alley behind the bank for a quick exit.
- No one gets hurt. Absolutely no one, unless it’s life or death.
I underline that last part in my mind. I promised her; I meant it. No one’s going to get hurt if I can help it. We just need to scare them enough to get the money, not enough to do something stupid.
My leather jacket creaks as I slip it on. Inside, tucked in the inner pocket, is Bindi’s little .22 pistol. It’s not much, but it’s a gun, and that’s all that matters. I checked it last night while Bindi slept—it’s loaded with five bullets.
I look back at Bindi. Am I dragging her down? I wonder. I shake my head. No, I’m going to lift her up. Once we have the money, things will change. They have to.
In the gray light, I spot the blue sedan parked two spots over.
It’s a mid-90s model, nothing fancy, with a bit of rust on the bumper.
Last night, when we checked in, the guy left his keys on the counter while asking the clerk something—and then stumbled off without them.
Later, when I slipped by the office window, I saw them still sitting there.
This town, I swear, is just too trusting.
I tread lightly across the lot, ears pricked for any sign of the sedan’s owner, or anyone else.
The only sounds are that of a dog barking in the distance, and the hum of vending machines by the office.
The front desk is closed this early, but the side window is propped open, probably to let in the cool morning breeze.
I step up to it and peer in. The keys are right where they were, on the inside ledge of the window. This is almost too easy .
I reach in slowly, hooking the key ring with two fingers, and lift it off the ledge. Clenching the keys in my fist, I make my way to the sedan. I glance back at our room. Bindi will freak out if she wakes and I’m gone, but I’ll only be a minute.
The sedan unlocks with a quiet click. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door softly. There’s an empty beer can in the cup holder. Whoever this guy is, he won’t be happy his car’s missing when he wakes up, but with any luck, we’ll be long gone by then.
The engine turns over with a low rumble.
I cringe at the noise in the still morning, but it’s not too loud.
Just a regular car starting, nothing to draw an alarm.
Quickly, I put it in neutral and let it roll back out of the space a bit before shifting to drive, just to minimize noise.
Then I ease it forward, out of the lot, coasting until I’m on the street.
Phase one, done. We have wheels.
I park the sedan along the curb a block away and jog back to the motel on foot. My heart is pounding, but also soaring with a strange thrill. That was a crime, technically. But there were no hiccups. If the rest of the day goes this smoothly . . .
Back at the motel room door, I slide the key in as quietly as I can and step inside. Bindi is sitting up on the bed now, the blanket clutched to her chest. Her eyes are wide and panicked until she sees it’s me.
“Cassidy, god, I thought . . . Where did you go?”
I shut the door quickly and put a finger to my lips. She’s visibly upset, and I immediately feel bad—I should’ve left a note at least. “Shh, it’s okay. I was just taking care of something.”
She swings her legs over the side of the bed. “Taking care of what? I woke up, and you were gone. I thought maybe you . . . well, last time you left me you killed a man . . .” She swallows, running a hand through her messy hair.
“Hey, hey. I’m here. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I went to get the getaway car. ”
“Already? It’s barely morning.”
I half-smile. “Best time to steal a car, really. People are sleeping; fewer prying eyes.” I jingle the keys for her to see. “Got us a nice blue sedan from the lot. The owner’s still snoring away, I’m sure.”
She exhales and leans her forehead against my chest in relief. “Damn it, Cassidy. You should’ve woken me.”
“You needed sleep,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. She’s warm from the bed, soft and trembling slightly. I rub her back. “It was an easy grab. In and out.”
Bindi pulls back to look at me, searching my face. “This is really happening,” she says.
I cup her face in my hands. “Yes, it is. But we’ve got this. One step at a time. Car’s done. Next, disguises and one more look at the bank when it opens, then . . . showtime.”
She nods faintly, and I feel her steel herself. “We should hurry, then. If we want to hit that thrift store for clothes or hats, it probably opens early, maybe eight or nine.”
“It’s almost eight now,” I say, glancing at the neon-lit clock by the bed. “We have some time. We should get ourselves ready first, then head out.”
Bindi takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay. I’m gonna shower; I need to clear my head.”
I nod and watch as she gathers some clothes from her pack—nothing fancy, just clean underwear and a black tee.
I run a hand over my face, stubble scratching my palm.
I’m jittery with anticipation. It’s really happening.
I almost can’t believe I got her on board.
Part of me is elated. We’re doing something, taking control of our fate.
Another part is scared shitless for both of us, but I shove that aside.
I need to stay confident of her. If I start doubting now, she’ll sense it.
While Bindi showers, I double-check the contents of my jacket’s pockets—the gun, our fake IDs (in case we need them later), a folded canvas bag for the money (tucked that in last night), and a pair of cheap sunglasses.
I then search through Bindi’s pack and find her bandana—a faded red one.
She can tie it around her face, while I have a dark blue one in my own pack that I stuff in my pocket.
I hear the shower turn off, and a minute later, Bindi emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Her red hair is wet and slicked back, droplets trickling down her neck. The sight tugs at me. I cross over and gently take the towel, helping rub her hair dry.
She closes her eyes, letting me, her shoulders finally relaxing a notch. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
“Anytime,” I reply softly. For a moment, we could almost be any normal couple going through a morning routine, sharing a quiet tender moment. Not two would-be robbers gearing up for a crime.
She opens her eyes and offers me a fragile smile. “Your turn to not look like roadkill.” She gestures vaguely at my face. I realize I must look a mess—wild hair, grime from yesterday, and the beginnings of a beard.
I chuckle. “Yeah, could use a quick rinse.”
We trade places and I take a fast, lukewarm shower.
The water pressure is abysmal, but it’s enough to wash off the sweat and dust of travel and wake me fully.
I avoid looking at myself too hard in the mirror afterward; I’m not sure I want to see the expression in my own eyes right now.
Instead, I shave quickly with a disposable razor, leaving just a bit of stubble for disguise—maybe it’ll throw off identification a tiny bit.
When I step out, towel around my waist, I find Bindi dressed in jeans, boots, and her black tee. She’s lacing up her boots with methodical focus.
“Bindi.” I say her name gently. She stops and looks up.
“We’re going to be okay,” I say, trying to sound as steady as I feel at this moment. Oddly, as the hour nears, my nerves are settling. It’s like all the doubt is burning off, leaving just determination. Perhaps it’s the finality of it. We’re past the point of no return, so no use second-guessing.
She studies me, then stands and comes over. I’m still in just a towel, and she presses her forehead to my bare chest, closing her eyes. “Hold me a sec,” she whispers.
I wrap my arms around her, my fingers tracing soothing circles on her back. I can feel her heart pounding against me . . . or maybe it’s mine. We stay like that for a long moment, two hearts thudding out an anxious rhythm in unison.
Finally, she pulls away, clearing her throat. Her eyes are damp but resolved. “Let’s get this over with.”
I quickly dress—fresh jeans, a gray long-sleeved shirt, boots, and my leather jacket over it. Bindi has her jacket on now too.
We gather everything we need into a single backpack for now: the bandanas, headwear, sunglasses, the empty canvas bag for cash, a couple pairs of latex gloves that Bindi found in our first-aid kit (so we don’t leave prints), and the gun (which I keep on me).
We leave anything nonessential behind in the motel room to keep the load light.
I pocket the motel room key, but truthfully, I don’t expect we’ll come back here after. If all goes well, we’ll be miles away by night. If it goes poorly . . . Well, it won’t matter.
As we step out of the room, Bindi pauses and glances back inside, biting her lip. I gently take her hand and squeeze. “Come on,” I say, softly.
She nods and closes the door. We don’t look back again.