Chapter 48
RUE
I wake up to a pale, gray light filtering through the rusted slats of the boxcar. The heavy canvas tarp over our heads is stiff and freezing.
Underneath it, I am entirely cocooned against Noah. My back is pressed flush to his chest, his arms locked around me in a grip so tight it borders on painful. His heart is beating against my spine, and it’s an immediate sense of comfort for a split second—then reality breaks through.
We’re in a fucking boxcar. In the middle of New Mexico.
I blink my gritty, burning eyes open, staring at the splintered floorboards inches from my face.
The adrenaline of yesterday is completely gone, leaving behind a hollow, agonizing physical ache. Every muscle in my body screams in protest as I try to shift. My neck is stiff. My thighs are bruised from the relentless vibration of the motorcycle.
And we have to keep going.
“No, don’t move yet,” Noah’s voice is a low, sleep-rough gravel against my ear. His lips brush my freezing earlobe. “It’s too cold. I need you.”
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper, and my heart skipping a beat. “We have to get moving. It’s light out. They could be looking for us.
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t let me go immediately, either. He presses his face into my messy hair for a long, heavy second, inhaling deeply, as if he’s trying to memorize the scent of me before the day ruins it.
Then, his arms loosen.
The moment he lifts the stiff canvas tarp, the biting New Mexico cold rushes in, raising goosebumps over every inch of my skin.
We dress in absolute silence. It’s a completely different kind of quiet than the one we shared last night. Last night was desperate and protective. This morning feels exposed. The harsh daylight creeping into the open doors of the train car strips away the illusion that we’re safe.
I watch Noah pull his shirt over his head.
He tries to hide it, turning his back to me, but I see the wince of his shoulders.
His left arm is stiff, the bandages beneath his shirt undoubtedly soaked through with fresh blood from wrestling the seven-hundred-pound Knucklehead into this rusted tomb last night.
He’s had a setback from this.
He grabs his duffel bag, pulls out some granola bars, and then heads for the sissy bar.
My breath catches in my throat. I watch his large, calloused hands yank the straps tight, completely unaware of what’s sitting at the very bottom of that bag.
The Colt .45. Before we fled the farmhouse, while he was frantically checking the perimeter and kicking the motorcycle’s engine over, I had wiped the cylinder clean on my jeans and reloaded it. I wrapped the heavy steel in one of his spare T-shirts and buried it deep beneath our clothes.
I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him either.
Just panic, probably. I don’t know.
But as I watch him secure the bag, a cold, creeping instinct settles into my bones. He promised he would figure everything out when we reached Maricopa. He promised me and us.
But I killed a man yesterday. I crossed another line I can never uncross, and I’m not sure that we won’t have to cross it again. And while I can’t be sure about him, I know I’ll do anything to protect us.
“Ready?” Noah asks, his jaw tight as he hands me my helmet.
“Yeah.”
Getting the bike out of the boxcar is a nightmare. Noah has to ease it down the slight drop, the heavy front tire hitting the frosted dirt with a thud. He curses, his hand flying to his wounded shoulder, but he refuses to let me help.
By the time we hit the two-lane highway, the sun is fully over the horizon, casting long, sharp shadows across the flat, dead scrubland.
The ride is once again grueling. There is no romance in it today—if there ever was.
My arms ache from holding onto him, and the wind is a relentless, howling force that batters my helmet and seeps through the zipper of my jacket.
I press my face against his back, not for comfort, but purely for survival against the cold.
Hours bleed into one another. The landscape shifts from flat plains to rugged, jagged mesas in the distance. The fuel gauge on the teardrop tank slowly dips toward the red line.
How long until we can stop again?
Eventually, civilization begins to dot the desolate highway. Billboards for cheap motels and hot springs. A rusted water tower in the distance.
And then we pass a faded green highway sign.
Truth or Consequences - 2 Miles.
Noah signals, pulling the sputtering Harley off the highway and coasting into a dilapidated, sun-bleached gas station on the edge of town. It looks very similar to the other—the same one we defiled the bathroom at.
He kills the engine and kicks the stand down, staying seated on the bike. He pulls a crumpled wad of cash from his pocket and hands it back to me over his shoulder. He keeps his head ducked, the brim of his helmet obscuring his face from the store’s windows.
“Go inside,” he orders, his voice clipped and all business. “Pay for the gas. Buy as much high-calorie food and water as you can carry. Other than that, same drill as before.”
“Got it.” I take the cash, my frozen fingers brushing against his warm ones.
I slide off the bike, my legs feeling like lead as my Converse hit the cracked concrete.
I pull my hood up over my messy hair, shove the cash into my pocket, and turn toward the glass doors of the convenience store, completely unaware that the world I left behind is waiting for me on the other side of the glass.
The fluorescent lights inside the convenience store are blinding.
I keep my head down, as if I’m searching the shelves for something. The store smells like stale coffee, burnt taquitos, and wretched cleaner. My hands are shaking so badly that I nearly drop the three bottles of water and the packages of beef jerky I’m clutching against my chest.
Noah is outside, huddled near the gas pumps, waiting on me.
“The rest can be put on pump two.” I step up to the counter, pulling the crumpled bills from my pocket. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager chewing gum, doesn’t even look up at me as he rings up the items.
And that’s when I pick it up.
“...authorities are still asking for the public’s help in locating a vehicle of interest…” The voice comes from a small, boxy TV mounted in the upper corner of the store.
I freeze. The bill slips from my trembling fingers onto the counter.
I slowly lift my eyes. On the screen, they are showing a picture of the destroyed, bloodied Pathfinder we left behind, stranded on the side of the interstate. They blur out the deceased mountain lion crunching in the front.
The anchor’s voice drones on, sharp and professional.
Then, the image shifts. It’s a grainy, blurry still-frame from a security camera.
It’s me, getting into the stolen SUV we took in New Mexico.
You can’t see my face clearly, just the shape of my body and my hair, but the text beneath the image makes all the blood drain from my head.
PERSON OF INTEREST: RUTH IVERSON.
“Marshals have tentatively identified the woman in the footage, though it remains unclear if she is acting under duress. If you have any information, please call the number shown on the screen.”
My stomach knots up. I’m really in this now. I wonder what my mom is thinking right now. I swallow hard, and then almost laugh. I doubt she’s even surprised.
“Meanwhile, a shocking development out of Hereford, Texas, today. Beloved local boy scout leader and community figure, William 'Bill'...”
My lungs stop working. They show a picture of Bill, smiling with a troop of blurry-faced boys.
“...was found brutally murdered in his rural farmhouse. Authorities have not yet named a suspect in the killing and are urging anyone with information to come forward.”
The cashier’s voice draws me back. “You want your receipt, lady?”
“No,” I mumble. I snatch the plastic bag off the counter and practically sprint out the glass doors into the freezing morning air.
My mind is spinning, trying to make sense of the breadcrumbs. They know about the Pathfinder. They know about the SUV. They know my name. It’s just a matter of time before they tie Bill to us, too. Noah’s DNA is going to be everywhere.
And so is mine.
The net isn’t just closing… It’s practically choking us.
God, I hope Noah’s plan is actually good enough to get us out of here.
I mean, does he actually have a Coyote waiting in Maricopa, or is he just dragging us into the desert to die? What if Netty gets pressured into outing us? Will he keep his mouth shut? What the fuck are we going to do?
I reach the heavy, vibrating Knucklehead. Noah is standing by the pump, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the empty two-lane highway like a cornered animal. He looks exhausted, dangerous, and entirely like a stranger.
“I don’t want to stay here long. So put it in the bag,” he orders, his voice tight, nodding toward his weathered canvas duffel strapped to the sissy bar. “We’ll figure out some other place to stop.”
I nod and don’t say a word. I unzip the top of the duffel bag to shove the water bottles inside. As I push the beef jerky down into the dark canvas, my knuckles brush against something at the very bottom.
I know what it is. And I should tell Noah I have it. I should tell Noah about what I saw on TV. I should demand a better plan. But I mean, Noah’s been locked up for freaking ten years. What does he even know anymore?
Just get on the bike. We have to put fucking distance between them and us.
My breath hitches, but I force my face to stay completely blank. I zip the bag shut, pulling my hand away from the weapon, and look up at Noah, as I take a seat behind him, the bike roaring back to life.
He promised me last night in the dark that he would protect me. But something in my gut is screaming at me… I know I’m missing something from him.
Love.
I’m missing love.