Chapter Two
CROUCHED OUTSIDE THEgarage in the slight chill of the spring air, my muscles start to cramp.
94...95...96...
After work, I pedaled back to the place I’m forced to call home—the garage apartment next to John’s mansion—and choked down some microwave mac-and-cheese—the only hot food I can afford, because of course my legal guardian isn’t actually footing my bills—before quickly changing into jeans and an ancient flannel shirt (green tag at the Nottingham Goodwill—50% off and sleeves long enough to hide my burn scars) and speeding back here. Now I’m hiding gracelessly behind a shrub, my bike tucked away around the corner, counting the seconds since John left and locked up the place. Experience has taught me that if he doesn’t swing back after a minute and a half, he’s gone for good.
97...98...99...100.
No sign of him. Just the hum of evening crickets, the burble of the distant creek, and the light swoosh-swoosh of the oak trees overhead. MacAllister’s Garage sits dark, unattended, and waiting for me.
In three seconds I’m at the front door, stuffing my key in the lock. Maybe it’s not breaking and entering if I have a key, I reason. And if anyone did happen to catch me in the act, well, I do work here. I could come up with a thousand good reasons I’d need to swing back to work.
Of course, if the sheriff’s guys somehow catch me, good reasons won’t matter.
The door squeals open and I slip into the unlit garage. It’s eerie at night, the cars and machinery looming like some sort of sleeping mechanical beasts, and the sheet over the Mustang glowing ghostly white in the sliver of moonlight that streaks in through the lone window. In spite of my rush, I sidle up to the old girl and pull back the covering. It’s so rare that I actually get a moment to just be with this car, and as stupid as it sounds, it’s like my only friend. The flame-orange paint job is as familiar as a smiling face, the chrome detailing gleaming, spotless, like it’s happy to see me.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hanging in there?”
It doesn’t answer, of course, because it’s a goddamn car. I swoop some stray hairs out of my eyes and shake my head—you’re losing it, Maren. Maybe I really do have something wrong with me.
But no. I may be an orphan, but I’m not incapable. I fixed this car up from almost nothing starting when I was just fifteen, Googling and sifting through ancient, age-spotted repair manuals, cursing like a sailor under old man MacAllister’s tutelage. And I’m fucking proud of that.
An impulse comes over me, and I shuck back the sheet entirely, leaving the car free and exposed in the shop. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and I can really admire it—every smooth angle and sharp curve of the body, the slightly spicy smell of the leather interior, the promise of an engine strong as Secretariat revving under the hood. It may have a few dings and a taillight that seems permanently broken, but it’s mine.
My hand is still around my keys, I realize. And one of them is the key to this car.
What the hell, I figure. I’m alone, and I’m not going to get caught.
In a flash I’m in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with one hand and sliding the key into place with the other. A single twist and the engine turns right over, growling to life like the magnificent beast she is.
“Atta girl,” I say, stroking the dashboard. It takes all my self control not to just slam the accelerator and blast right through that garage door, out onto the street and speeding for God knows where.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not without a license, and definitely not without answers.
With a pang of regret, I kill the engine and slip back out of the car. But I don’t cover it up—not just yet. If I’m going to pull off this little covert mission, I might as well have a friend with me.
John’s office is locked—barely. The door’s so ancient that one hard tug on the doorknob practically yanks the whole thing off, and it swings open with the lock still frozen in place. Inside, it’s a mess—hardly the pristine and sophisticated workspace of a competent businessman. The only thing actually tidy is the bar cart in the corner, where decanters of various brown liquors wink in the dim glow of my dumb phone’s screen. Instead, I head right for the desk, hardly even knowing what I’m looking for. But I don’t have to search long. Beneath the carcasses of various takeout containers (ew) and atop the weeks-old junk mail, I find it. A stack of papers, crisply printed and dated just a few days ago.
PETITION FOR APPOINTMENT OF CONSERVATOR.
The words send blood rushing to my temples. I swallow, trying to catch my bearings, but it’s like the whole damn world is spinning around me as I try to read the document before me. In my near panic, I only catch a few words here and there—incompetent, unfit, necessary precautions—but I quickly piece things together.
John’s going to petition the courts. He’s claiming I’m mentally unfit to be on my own, that it’s in my best interest to be legally bound to him in a conservatorship.
My stomach plummets as I realize what this means. Because that’d give him—
I shuffle through the pages, and sure enough: ...complete and total power to manage finances, make healthcare decisions, and execute other responsibilities as deemed necessary.
That motherfucker.
He’s going to trap me here. Forever.
Just when I was about to escape.
Reality rushes over me like an ice-cold tidal wave. That’s why they were talking about my birthday—they’ll have to get this shit locked down before I’m twenty-one and have access to the college fund. Yeah, it’s only April, and August is a few months away, but with the sheriff’s help...
With the sheriff’s help, any judge would jump on this just for the chance to do him a favor. This could be filed in minutes.
Hell, for all I know, it already has been.
The letters on the page jitter in front of my eyes, and I realize my hands are shaking. I have to do something, have to stop this—but how? I have nothing to my name, literally fucking nothing beyond the clothes on my back, a hand-me-down set of coveralls with someone else’s name stitched on them, and a 1973 Ford Mustang I’m not legally allowed to drive.
But then it hits me: they can’t keep me here if I’m not here. They can’t keep me here if I run.
Clunk. Something sounds out in the garage, and I freeze like a startled rabbit, my heart pounding a thousand beats per minute.
I wait, counting again, and no more sound comes. Probably just some garage stuff shifting around. It’s not the kind of place that would be dead silent at night, I tell myself.
The sound brings me back to my senses a little. Am I actually thinking of running? I hate to admit it, but I’m not exactly a street-smart kind of girl. I’ve never actually been on my own, caged up by John for most of my life and all of my young adulthood. But no, I’m resourceful, I know how to solve puzzles, and I’m good with my hands. If I can get out of here, I can get a job, save up, get a lawyer who doesn’t live in Sherwood County. It’s a stupid dream, but it beats the nightmare that’s becoming my reality.
I look around the office briefly and frantically, thinking about stuffing my pockets with anything useful before discarding the idea. Actually stealing property from John would only make things worse if I did get caught, and time is precious. I glance at my dumb phone, which is old and battered, on a gas station prepaid card. Thankfully untraceable, because one, it’s literally a flip phone, and two, even if it weren’t, John is too old and boomery to understand how to install any kind of tracking app. 9:30 p.m., not exactly a cover of darkness, but it’ll have to do. I think if there’s anything else here I can grab—a set of tools, what would I do with those? My coveralls? I choke back a laugh at the last second. Instead, I grab the top sheet of the conservatorship paperwork and fold it into quarters, stuffing it into the back pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why it matters—more symbolic than anything. It’s not like missing this page would change the validity of the paperwork, but at least I have it.
Crack. Another sound from out in the garage. A bolt of panic glues me in place a second time; this time, there are voices, muffled, but they’re there, from the front reception area, it sounds like. I’m frozen, stuck, but goddammit, Maren, you have to run.
I don’t know who’s there, maybe John coming back for something he forgot, but they’re not gonna find me here.
I fly out into the garage bay in two seconds, slowing my approach only so that I don’t check a metal toolbox onto the ground and reveal myself. I force myself to a slow tiptoe toward the Mustang as I perk up my ears.
Definitely voices. Male. Indistinct. And plural. With my heart in my throat, I remember the CCTV, and glance at the ancient fizzing TV monitor perched on the corner of the workbench. The camera quality is terrible, but I can make out the shapes of the reception area—desk, chairs, water cooler—and see two figures skulking around.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How would anyone know I was here? I haven’t seen John since I left the garage earlier. And the sheriff—
I’m keeping an eye on you.
I can’t tell through the shitty CCTV reception whether they’re wearing their Sherwood County Sheriff’s Office khakis or not, but it doesn’t matter. My gut tells me who they’re working for, because who else has hired goons around here? Why they’re here—how they know I’m here—I have no idea. But it doesn’t fucking matter.
“Goddamn thing’s stuck,” mutters one of them. He’s almost offscreen, out of security camera sight in the corner where the door leading to the shop is. A few feet away, I hear the doorknob of that same real-life door rattle.
I don’t need a second warning. I sprint, jump, fly into action, bashing the button to open the garage door as I slam my butt into the driver’s seat of the Mustang. I turn the key so hard it digs into the flesh of my fingers, the engine roaring to life like it’s angry on my behalf. My eyes dart to the gas needle—barely flicks above E, but that’ll have to do—and I grip the steering wheel as the folding slats of the door crank, crank, crank up to set me free, tantalizingly slowly.
“What was that?”
Fuck. Guess there was no way to avoid making noise given how goddamn old the motor on that door opener is. The doorknob behind me rattles again. My left hand clenches the wheel tighter, my foot hovering above the clutch as my right hand finds the gearshift.
C’mon, c’mon.
But the garage door takes its sweet time, like it always does. Crank, crank—
“Someone’s here.” Rattle rattle.
“Just break the damn thing down.” Rattle.
Crank, crank—
The instant the garage is open enough to slide through, I floor it. The Mustang lurches to life and I surge out, almost clipping the top of my head on the retracting door like I’m Indiana Jones with his hat, and spill onto the street. Tire screeches rip through the calm night air as I fishtail gracelessly out, yanking at the shifter and slamming both feet into pedals, my manual-driving instincts coming back in fits and starts. I straighten out and give it gas, tugging into second gear, and notice only too late that I’m peeling past a hulking unmarked SUV with tinted windows.
They’ll still have to run out, I think. Notice I’m gone, scramble for their car—
But no. The SUV’s headlights flare on.
Guess they have a driver.
I gun it. The garage is on the outskirts of town, thank you Jesus, so I’ve got a good stretch of empty road to build up speed, and the Mustang obliges, pistons thumping and fuel incinerating in the sweet melody of a car stretching its legs for the first time in a long, long while.
If I weren’t having a fucking panic attack, I’d almost enjoy it.
Behind me, in the mirror, the SUV starts up. I squint at it, one eye on the road and one in the rearview, and see it’s nothing special—a Range Rover, long wheelbase model, no visible customization beyond the lame “UVA Alum” license plate on the front. I exhale a little. Those suckers are big—longer than your average limo—and driving one is going to be like trying to steer a battleship through a kiddie pool. The Mustang can outmaneuver it easily, which is to my advantage.
I slam on the gas and jerk forward into third gear. Shit, it’s been a long time since I’ve driven at all, let alone driven manual, and never had a longer stretch more than a few feet to move a car around within the garage. But I literally can’t afford to get stopped or caught. I don’t have a fucking license. And I can almost picture the sickening look of glee on the sheriff’s face when he gets to book me for breaking the law. Sneaking into the garage after hours is one thing, operating a motor vehicle without a license...something tells me I wouldn’t get away with just a slap on the wrist.
Rolling hills fly past dark stretches of farmland, with the occasional golden windows of a house. I’m headed toward the woods, which I guess is as good a direction as any. The Mustang will be able to handle those winding country roads better than the tank behind me. I glance in the rearview. It’s still coming and gaining on me. Not by much, but enough that I panic and give it more gas, as much as I dare, and kick up into fourth. My ponytail holder, which is actually just a piece of twine, gives up the ghost and snaps free, letting my hair fly in the cool night breeze.
Above me, stars pepper the sky in a way that would be beautiful if I had time to notice and wasn’t chugging adrenaline through every possible vein, didn’t have every nerve ending on fire.
No, I need to focus.
I look ahead to where the road comes to a T intersection, the Mustang’s headlights illuminating the yellow two-arrow sign. I chew my lip, knowing I have to make a decision.
Left takes me in towards town, the county seat, which is just bad news. I get closer to the Fox Hunt Club, to John, to the sheriff, to anyone who knows me and would stop me—aka anyone who knows I shouldn’t be driving—and it’s not like a bright orange Mustang isn’t gonna attract attention. To the right is, well, nothing: woodland and hills. Fun roads to drive, maybe, if I’m not in a dead panic.
But again, my best chance of losing this guy.
I hesitate too long. The SUV is even closer in the rearview. So I do it, swinging the wheel to the right, and giving the engine absolutely everything I have. A whining honk sounds behind me, the high beams of the SUV flickering on and off. No blue and reds yet, but I guess they’re trying to avoid attention. Not like there’s anyone out in this neck of the woods to notice. And not like anyone would bother giving the sheriff trouble even if they do.
A gap in the tree line approaches at a breakneck speed as I zoom into the forest. The road immediately narrows, the guardrail lowering, dented and rusted from years of floods, winds, and drunk men coming back from the club and steering a little too close to the edge. Fortunately, I’m sober as a judge—well, not any judge in Sherwood County, but still—and have the advantage of that adrenaline guiding my every move. Panic abates a little as my instincts return, my muscles falling into the familiar rhythm of shifting, accelerating, turning the wheel. Fixing cars is all well and good, a satisfying intellectual puzzle that lets me use my hands, get down and dirty. But driving...driving is something else. It’s freedom. It’s expression. It’s movement and motion and power.
I fucking love it. And I’d forgotten just how much.
Wham. Something slams into the rear of the Mustang, bucking me forward into the steering wheel—because of course my dumb ass isn’t wearing a seatbelt. Bruise blooming across my ribs, I claw myself back to sitting just in time to realize two things:
The fucking Rover caught up to me and rear-ended me.
And I’m about to drive off a cliff.
Shit!
Instinct takes over. I hit the brake and swing the wheel wildly, tree trunks whirling past me and brush scattering under my squealing tires and fanning out in a plume into the dark space I very nearly plummeted into. I yank into gear and stomp the gas like a madwoman, grinding through the gears but not stalling out—thank you Jesus—and the Mustang, beautiful girl that she is, streaks out of there like a real thoroughbred.
Heart throbbing in my throat with anxiety, I glance in the mirror. The Range Rover wasn’t so lucky—not so unlucky that it drove off the cliff instead of me, but looks like it had to brake pretty hard to avoid it. That stupid extra-long wheelbase is struggling to turn, and I’d pump a fist in victory if my whole abdomen weren’t sore as fuck from the impact of the wheel.
Go. Go. Go. The single syllable is repeating in my brain, the urgency of that one order all that’s consuming my thoughts. I don’t think I can outrun these guys—not with the half-pint of gas that’s left—so I’m going to have to be creative. If I can just put enough distance between us, then find a clearing, a bank by the side of the road somewhere in these woods, I can pull off, kill the engine, and try to hide.
Not a great time to have a flame-orange car. But it beats running out of gas in the middle of the road.
I accelerate, the pain sharpening in time with my focus. My headlights flood a split in the road, a turnoff I hadn’t noticed the first time I’d driven this way, and this time I take the left fork, the road not traveled. It’s even rougher and bumpier than the main road, sending my teeth clacking as soon as I turn, but I’m almost grateful for it. Dust rises up like ghostly figures in my headlights, the trees around me denser, and I realize almost too late—
“Shit!”
The headlights are a dead giveaway. I suck in a breath and kill them, not slowing down and just hoping I can drive by feel. The rumble under my tires is reassuring, consistent, and I can’t hear anyone behind me, can’t see any lights. But deeper into the forest is better. I’m still barely a mile off the highway, and maybe a quarter mile from the main dirt road through the trees.
Still, I let myself ease off the gas, just a little. Downshift a gear, then two. I hear the symphony of sounds that makes up the quiet of a night in the woods: crickets, owls, a rough, ragged sound that I realize is my own breathing.
I’m just about to downshift into first when I see it.
A flash of sleek fur, dashing into the road. Auburn colored, an animal—a fox. But no, it’s huge, too big to be any fox I’ve ever seen. Practically as big as a wolf, and with the thick, muscled form to match. It’d easily reach my waist if I were standing next to it.
And its eyes...
Twin orbs, gleaming, glowing almost moon-bright.
I’m so startled by the sight of them that it’s a full two heartbeats before I jam my foot onto the brake.
“Shit,” I whisper, then cry “Move!”
The Mustang sputters, protests, and skids to a stop. Beneath me, I feel the telltale rattle of a stall, and sure enough, the engine whines once and dies.
Meanwhile, the wolf...fox...thing doesn’t move. Doesn’t bound away, doesn’t even flinch.
In fact, I swear to God, it gives me a look.
Then, and only then, it slips away, quick as it came.
“What...the...fuck...” I pant out. My fingers are cramped and white on the wheel, my hip aching from how hard I’ve been pumping the pedals. Panicked, I swivel around—but nothing. Nothing but dark woods and endless trees behind me.
I lost them. I think I actually lost them.
I let out a long, shuddering exhale. Of course, I also kind of lost myself. I have no idea where the fuck I am. A quick flick of my phone screen shows I’ve got no service, and when I turn the Mustang’s engine back over, the gas needle barely even flutters past that E.
I’m in the middle of the woods, in the pitch-dark night, and I’m out of gas.
But I’m alone. And—I think—I’m safe.
To my left, the ground slopes gently away from the road, a slight incline padded with leaves between two trees that’s just wide enough to slip the car into. With a few gentle pumps of the gas, I coax the Mustang forward and over, just enough to get the front wheels over the lip of the road, and let gravity take it from there.
With a gentle swoosh of underbrush, I coast to the level of the forest floor, and once the car comes to a stop, I kill the engine a second time.
For a moment, I sit, still as prey in the sights of a predator. My chest hurts from the impact of the SUV and my throat feels raw from panicky breathing, but I’m alive.
Alive for now, anyway.
Half-formed notions about getting gas, finding money, tracking down something to eat swirl in my mind, but my body is screaming with the need to rest. The adrenaline—from the discovery in the shop, from the fucking car chase the sheriff’s goons somehow baited me into, from the monstrous fox-thing I almost pancaked—has ebbed away, and all that’s left is a bone-deep fatigue.
Shivering, I pull the keys from the ignition and slither over the leather into the backseat. It’s cold, but not hypothermia cold. I can make it one night, lie low until the literal crack of dawn and then take off on foot once I can see. My heart cracks at the thought of leaving the Mustang behind, but it’s useless without gas and sticks out like a sore thumb in the woods.
Still, though. That’s a problem for tomorrow. I curl into a ball and start to soothe myself to sleep even as tears prickle at the corner of my eyes.
Crying gets you nowhere, Maren. Just dehydrates you.
I screw my eyes shut even harder and force myself to take deep breaths. I don’t believe in God or magic or even luck, if I’m honest, but in that moment, I offer up a little prayer.
Just a few hours.
A few hours undiscovered, a few hours of rest.
Then I’ll take it from there.
But please, please, please, don’t let them find me here.