81. Chapter 81
Cate
Present
The cruiser hadn’t moved yet.
The engine was running, a low vibration beneath my feet, but Marshal was still in the yard, speaking urgently into his radio while another officer moved toward the side of the house.
Seth stood near the sidewalk now, no longer pretending to be calm. His hands were on his hips, his eyes scanning the property like he expected something to explode.
The house looked ordinary, which somehow felt worse.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
A voice crackled over the radio from the front seat. “Unit Two to Marshal. Back door just opened. Repeat - back door just opened.”
Marshal turned sharply toward the side of the house. “Visual?” he demanded.
A pause.
“Negative. He’s out of sight.”
My lungs forgot how to work.
The officer driving my cruiser glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We’re moving,” he said, and shifted the car into gear.
The cruiser rolled forward slowly.
Too slowly.
“Wait,” I breathed, pressing forward in my seat.
I didn’t know what I was waiting for - a glimpse of Trevor running, maybe. A flash of him surrendering. Something decisive.
Instead…
Headlights burst from the driveway.
Fast.
The cruiser jerked as the officer slammed on the brakes.
Trevor’s Audi shot out of the garage like it had been fired from a weapon, tires screaming against pavement. He spun the wheel hard, straightened out, and gunned it down the street.
Marshal’s voice exploded through the radio. “Pursuit! Pursuit! Suspect fleeing in a black Audi, heading east on Hawthorne!”
The cruiser lunged after him and my body snapped back against the seat.
I twisted, trying to see through the rear window.
Trevor didn’t look frantic, he looked focused.
Sirens ignited behind us, splitting the quiet neighborhood apart. Doors opened. Lights flicked on. Seth’s truck peeled away from the curb.
“He’s running,” I whispered.
The officer didn’t answer.
Trevor cut clean lines through the next intersection, sliding between two startled vehicles without hesitation.
“He’s heading toward the business corridor,” the officer said into the radio. “High speed. Failure to yield.”
We cleared the residential blocks and burst onto Alderidge - four lanes wide, office towers rising on either side.
Trevor accelerated.
Ninety.
Then more.
Glass buildings blurred past. Streetlights strobed across his car like a pulse.
Trevor blew through a yellow light that had turned red.
Cars scattered.
Horns blared.
The officer driving cursed under his breath and pushed harder.
The speed pressed me into my seat.
“He’s not running blind,” the officer muttered.
“No,” I whispered.
He wasn’t.
He was going somewhere.
And then I saw it in the distance.
Fencing.
Tall. Industrial. Topped with lights.
Beyond it, runway strobes cutting through the night.
Blackridge Executive Airfield.
The realization settled cold in my chest.
“He’s not fleeing,” I said softly.
“He’s leaving.”