Chapter 6
Chapter Six
There were no fitness tests to pass or instructors to appease these days, but I still kept up the routine I’d fallen into over the five months I spent training at the FBI Academy.
Chasing suspects and running from the law both required a level of cardio that didn’t come naturally to me, but I was determined to be ready when the time came.
Tying my shoelaces a little tighter and turning on the music in my headphones, I pulled my hair up out of my face and locked the door to my apartment behind me. Then, I took off.
My heart raced as I ran, flying down the sidewalk with the steady beat of my soles against the concrete.
I hated how running made me feel. My lungs burned, my muscles ached, and my limbs felt like they didn’t quite know how to move correctly.
I still didn’t know how other women managed to look so graceful while they ran and I had a feeling I probably never would.
Still, I pressed on. The endorphins would kick in eventually, and, more importantly, I would be that much more prepared when the time came.
Whether that meant chasing down Monica’s killer or running from the FBI remained to be seen.
I focused on the world around me as a way to push past the physical discomfort of running, taking in every detail I could.
Cars that had license plates from different states or tinted windows.
The red and white flash of an ambulance crossing the road several blocks down.
Other people on the sidewalk, going about their business. I catalogued it all as I went.
A quarter of the way through my run I found myself at a major intersection—one of the few that had yet to be replaced by roundabouts—and kept my heart rate up by jogging in place.
Across the highway I could see a man sitting on the side of the road holding a cardboard sign.
I couldn’t read it from where I was, but I knew what it must say.
He had a dog with him. I narrowed my eyes at the fluffy white ball of fur. I’d done this route every morning for the past three weeks and while the man wasn’t always there when I ran by, he had been there enough times for me to know that the white dog was new to the rotation.
Because somehow this man had a different dog every time I saw him.
Sometimes it was a German shepherd, sometimes it was a greyhound.
I’d even seen him carrying a little chihuahua up to a car that was offering him cash last week.
Where he got all these dogs from, I couldn’t say, but the massive orb of white fluff beside him certainly didn’t deserve to sit out in the heat all day while he panhandled.
The light changed and I kept moving, reminding myself it wasn’t my business no matter how weird it was. I wasn’t in a position to question the man and, as far as I could tell, he wasn’t doing anything illegal. Unless he had somehow stolen those dogs.
Still not my business, I reminded myself, then put the man and his roster of dogs out of my mind as I pushed myself to run harder, determined to leave my suspicions and my old life behind.
I kept moving South and continued to watch the cars on the highway. A series of trucks caught my eye as they passed with an assortment of multicolored machinery, hauling them northbound.
While it wasn’t nearly as big as the one in New Jersey, the procession of carnival rides reminded me of the days when I’d gone to the State Fair as a kid.
I had loved it back then, but now the idea of being surrounded by that many strange smells and sounds had me crawling out of my skin just to think about it.
As the trucks disappeared from sight, I put on another burst of speed, trying to beat my previous record, but it wasn’t the same without the competition.
Racing against the clock hadn’t worked to get my time down back while I was training at the Academy, and imagining Noah taunting me like he had on the track didn’t quite land the same as having him right there hot on my heels.
Still, I wasn’t about to give up.
One foot in front of the other, I turned left and headed towards Pilot Butte.
The cinder cone volcano that sat within city boundaries was a lovely lookout point, with a road winding up around the side before letting out at the top in a flat paved area for parking with a raised viewing platform in the center.
On a clear day you could see a dozen different mountains in the distance.
There was also a hiking path that ran alongside the road.
It was mostly dirt and thin trees that did little to offer shade.
I had driven to the top once before and didn’t ever plan to hike it, but the cinder cone was an excellent mile marker.
I always gained a little extra wind in my sails when I saw it because it meant my run was halfway over.
I was no longer running away from something, but towards the finish line and my reward at the end.
Saturday night’s tips meant a special Sunday morning coffee.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I headed out again.
So far, I hadn’t found a coffee shop that I loved more than any other, but that just meant I had the opportunity to try out new ones and mentally rank them by how likely I was to come back and how happy the employees seemed to be.
Coffee tasted different when it was made by people who liked their job, in my opinion. The shop I’d chosen to check out was a bit of a drive, but it had decent reviews and the cafe was well lit and welcoming.
“And then I said, ‘hey, sometimes you just have to throttle a marmot!’,” one of the baristas was telling another as I walked up to the counter. I snorted and the young woman at the register grinned at me, her tight brown curls bobbing as she shook her head in exasperation at her coworker’s antics.
“Welcome to Backporch, what can I get started for you?” she asked in a voice cheery enough to tell me she’d had plenty of coffee already today.
I remembered those days fondly, making myself a drink while we opened the store, quizzing my coworkers on chemistry questions and getting legal questions thrown back at me in return.
“Could I get a warm croissant, please?” I asked after a quick glance at the hand-written menu. “And a large double-shot caramel cafe breve.”
“Hot or iced?” the young woman asked, tapping on the register screen as she entered in my order.
“Iced,” I replied, already feeling the heat of the day through the early morning sunshine streaming in the window.
It felt unseasonably warm, even for late June, but then again, I was used to East coast weather.
Still, for a state that was known for its high precipitation, I hadn’t seen a drop of rain yet. I felt a little cheated in that regard.
“Can I get a name for the order?” the barista asked, holding a sharpie poised at the edge of the disposable cup.
“Av— uh,” I started to say, stumbling over my own words as I almost gave my actual name rather than the one I’d assumed over the past three weeks. The young woman ran with it though, writing Ava on the side of the cup even as I spat out the name I was supposed to be saying. “Hale!”
Her face scrunched up as she paused to look at me, and I felt an echo of embarrassment as I remembered again what it was like to work behind the counter.
This young woman didn’t know or care about my situation.
All she cared about was getting a name on the cup so she could pass it off to her coworker.
“Sorry, I’ve always gone by my middle name, but I’ve been trying to embrace my given name,” I explained quickly, sending her an apologetic look. “You can just leave it as Ava.”
“No, I’ll write Hale,” the barista replied, doing just that before passing the cup off and ringing me up. “I like it.”
“Me too. It’s unique,” a voice from right behind me caused me to jump and I whirled around to find Kenna standing there, an unimpressed smirk on her face. “Wow, you are jumpy.”
“I don’t like people sneaking up on me,” I replied, narrowing my eyes at her and wondering what the chances were that she would just so happen to be at the same coffee shop that I was, at the exact same time.
I handed over a twenty-dollar bill to the cashier and then dropped two dollars into the tip jar once she returned my change.
I moved to the side, waiting for the barista to make my drink.
As I did, I watched Trick’s sister carefully, wondering just how long she had been behind me without me realizing it.
Had she heard the full conversation, the way I’d confidently began to say my own name before switching to the one on my fake ID?
She stepped up to the counter, not looking over at me. Not interested or concerned with my presence in the slightest. She rattled off her drink order, which to my surprise was a simple cortado, and paid using a heavy-looking purple card.
She stepped away from the counter to wait for her drink as well, and then we were two near-strangers standing in a coffee shop with the weight of the previous night’s brief interactions between us.
“How’s your hand?” Kenna asked, and I clenched said hand, feeling the dull ache of the now-healing cut.
“Hurts a little, but I’ll be fine,” I told her, and then silence fell between us once more.
I itched to fill it, to redirect her attention away from thinking about me for too long.
She already had more pieces of the puzzle than I wanted any one person to have, between my connection to Trick and my slip up just now. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”
“I don’t,” Kenna replied with a shrug. “I’m meeting a—uh—a friend.”