Chapter 2
Chapter Two
CHARLI
Istare at the numbers rapidly accruing on the pump as I try to calculate how much gas it’s going to take to get to Florida.
Destin makes the most sense. It won’t take much gas to get there, and it’s still warm enough to sleep comfortably in the car for a few weeks while I pick up another gig or two.
When mid-December hits, I’ll make my way down the coast to somewhere around Fort Myers for the worst of the winter months. So, seven hours to get there, probably need to fill up once along the way?—
My knees buckle, and I press a hand against the car to hold myself up as a vision slams into me.
A white SUV speeding down the road. Four men inside.
Three are strangers. One is terrifyingly familiar.
Fear engulfs me the minute I see his face.
Hank…sitting in the passenger seat, fists clenched against his thighs.
Lips turned up, muscles locked; leaning forward as if he’s trying to will the car to go faster.
Hazel eyes burning with madness, I can almost feel his excitement.
He’s close. The closest he’s been in a long time.
Seven years have gone by since I saw him, and the sight of his face terrifies me more today than it did at sixteen when he sat glaring at me from the defendant’s table while the judge read his sentence. Too bad he only served half of his sentence.
The noise from the traffic disappears, and all I can hear is the whoosh of my heart, thudding in my ears.
I slowly turn to look at the pump. The numbers that were moving so quickly a minute ago flip by at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Come on. Just a little more. I nervously tap the side of the car until it reaches ten gallons.
Finally! I swipe a hand across my forehead and jerk the nozzle from the car.
Half a tank. That will at least get me a few hours down the road.
Hands shaking, I hang it up and twist the gas cap back on before sliding into the driver’s seat.
Within seconds, I’m easing out of the station.
Which way? My mind races to figure out whether to follow my plan and go to Florida or head in the opposite direction and try to throw them off. Normally, I’d stick to my plan, but seeing him…
The I-65 South ramp looms ahead. As I ease into the lane to get on, I spot a white SUV flying down the other lane.
My vision swims, flashing me an image, and I fight to hold on to the wheel.
Hank. In the passenger seat. A triumphant smile on his face.
Pressing down on the pedal, I fly up the ramp, eager to put as much distance between us as possible.
How in the hell did he find me so fast? And pinpoint my exact location?
While Hank has enough money to pay for the best private investigators and hackers, they’ve never been able to narrow down my location so quickly or accurately.
I rub my temple as the vision fades and my stomach cramps with nausea.
Exhaling slowly, I grip the steering wheel with clammy hands and consider my options.
My gut is screaming at me to go somewhere new. For the last two years, I’ve stayed east of the Mississippi, making my way from one southern city to the next, clinging to the familiar. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.
Up ahead, signs announce a split in the road—continue on I-65 South or take the right exit onto I-440. Which one? I nervously tap my fingers. A mile flies by as I go back and forth. At the last minute, I follow my gut and take the ramp.
Ten minutes later, I exit I-440 onto I-40 West, going toward Memphis. That gives me three hours to figure out where to go from there. Past the Mississippi River, but where? Obviously somewhere warm because winter is coming. Louisiana? Texas?
Outside of Memphis, I stop to fill up. Flipping down the visor, I check to make sure I don’t look as crazy as I feel.
Light green eyes stare back at me from a pasty white, square-shaped face, while wild blond hairs stick out of two messy braids.
I grab a hat to hide the mess and my face, hoping none of the cameras at the station get a good glimpse of me.
When I step out, the smell of gas hits my nose, and my stomach rolls with nausea. I grab the protein bar from the crate in the back and throw it on the passenger seat. Then, I get gas and use the restroom before returning to my car.
Destination…Dallas. My hands shake as I map it on my phone and hit go. Roughly six and a half hours. A city big enough to hide in while I figure out next steps.
The last time I was this scared was two years ago when I came home and found my college roommate, Cara, stabbed to death. Thirty-seven times. Based on the severity and brutality of it, the police felt the crime was personal.
When they shared their suspicions, I realized the dream I had the night before was actually a warning.
At first, I thought Hank might have paid someone to kill me, and they murdered the wrong person, but when I checked with the prison, I discovered Hank had been paroled early for good behavior.
More likely because his rich family paid off the powers that be, but either way, it didn’t matter. He was free.
I tried to tell the police he did it, but with zero evidence and Hank’s cousin giving him a convenient alibi, they refused to believe me. I snort. They looked harder at me and her boyfriend as suspects than they did him.
At the time, I thought I could escape after I graduated and find a way to live a normal life.
I was so na?ve. Any time I tried to get a job and an apartment, I’d dream of that night and know he was close.
Eventually, I gave up. Changed my name, got a fake I.D.
, traded my newer compact car in for this older model Toyota RAV4, and went on the road permanently.
For a while it worked, but Hank’s family has serious money. Generational wealth. Enough to buy whatever he wants, and he wants me dead. If it weren’t for my visions, he’d have found me a long time ago.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I think about this morning. Something has changed. The time between my vision and him finding my exact location…was tight. Too tight. I blow out a breath, wishing I knew how he found me so quickly.
My stomach cramps at the thought of moving around more than I do. It’s hard enough trying to get my bearings every six weeks. Cutting it shorter will mean unfamiliar locations, more gas, and less time to work. None of which I can afford.
It doesn’t take long to get through Memphis and across the Mississippi River.
Welcome to Arkansas. I sigh as I pass the small sign.
It’s official. This is the farthest west I’ve ever been.
I glance at the map. It’s two hours to Little Rock.
Stretching a bit, I get comfortable, prying one cramped hand off the steering wheel to flex it a few times before I do the same to the other.
My thoughts go round and round as I drive. If only I’d been able to get on the road as soon as I woke up. Instead, I had to finish the job so I’d have enough money to fill the tank. I sigh. There has to be a way to make more money. Build a little nest egg. A safety net.
There’s plenty of work. But all I have is a fake driver’s license, which is enough to get me freelance work on gig sites but not enough for a regular job.
My brow furrows. Maybe I can find a way to hire someone to forge an I.D.
that will hold up to scrutiny. In the meantime, I’ll have to find a part-time gig to supplement the graphic design work.
Maybe as an admin or a PA. Not that I have experience in either, but I can learn.
Hours later, I tiredly pull into a Wal-Mart in Dallas.
After asking about overnight parking and getting a confirmation, I use the bathroom and stock up on a few groceries, enough to last the rest of the week.
Then, I splurge on a hot cup of soup and a sandwich from Subway before heading back to the car.
With the wedge pillow propped up behind me, I slip into the sleeping bag, tap into my phone’s hotspot, and grab my laptop.
Maybe I can find a permanent part-time gig.
Or a couple of new design gigs. Even if I have to push myself to work every possible hour for the next few weeks, I need an emergency fund.
I snort. It’s not as if I have anything else to do.
I find a few jobs and submit the bids. Lower than my usual fee, but I’m going for quantity here. Beggars can’t be choosers. Switching from graphic design to administrative gigs, I peruse the few listed, but nothing fits. I go back and look at the other categories.
I’m reading through a long list of customer service jobs when a ping sounds.
Yes! Maybe one of my bids was accepted. I click on messages and glance at the name.
Nope. It’s from someone new—IrishGuardian3.
I open it and frown at the jumbled mess of scrambled letters.
Dammit. Did I open a virus? A dizzy feeling slides over me, and for a second, the world tilts.
Shaking my head, I reach up and rub my temples.
Maybe I’m getting a migraine. I’ve never had one, but I’ve heard they can mess with your vision.
I blink a few times, then refocus. What in the…
The message is perfectly clear. Weird. Maybe I’m more exhausted than I thought.
PA position available for the right person.
Must be able to relocate to Greystone Vale for a six-month trial period.
Winter is coming, and once the snow starts, the pass will be blocked until spring.
Offering $100,000 with option to negotiate after trial.
I’ll need an answer soon. Directions provided upon acceptance.
Teague Lochlan,
CEO, Granite Securities
555-542-9347
One hundred thousand dollars. For six months.
Seriously? A million thoughts race through my brain as I stare at the message.
This has to be a scam. Who pays that kind of money for a PA?
Celebrities? The mafia? Billionaires? I chuckle.
Obviously, I read too many romance books.
Still, though. I chew my lip as I stare at the amount like it’s going to disappear any second.
That’s literally life-changing money. I finger the threadbare sleeping bag and eye the small crate of food next to me.
Am I really going to continue taking small jobs to stay afloat?
A hundred thousand would buy me a van and nice campgrounds to stay in.
Running water and clean showers that don’t smell like the gym.
Or…a better yet, a foolproof I.D. that would allow me to leave the country.
It takes everything in me to stop my fingers from typing a reply and accepting the position.
My eyes skim the details again, and my excitement pops like a balloon as my gaze stops on four words.
Six-month trial period. Everything in me yearns to stay somewhere for six months and call a place home again.
But I can’t because it’s safer to keep moving, not just for me but for everyone.
Look at my mom and Cara. While I can’t prove it, I know Hank killed them both.
There’s no use wishing for the impossible, I remind myself. Reluctantly, I click on the message and delete it.
Focusing on the other two promising jobs, I skim the offers.
Decent pay. I accept both. The two combined will add a nice chunk to my little stash, and I can get them done within a week.
Ooh… One job is creating character art for a book.
My fingers twitch with anticipation. I love drawing, and while I list it as one of my skills, nobody has ever given me the chance.
I scan the details and see it’s for five characters…one woman and four men. There are inspirational photos of each, along with details like height and key features. This is going to be fun. I take screenshots of everything so I can work from my tablet later.
Clicking on the other job, I see it’s a website for an insurance agent, but there’s not a lot of information. I reply and ask them to fill out my brief.
Another message pops up. IrishGuardian3. I open it and see the same message from Teague. That’s odd. It’s a sign. My heart beats wildly in my chest as I briefly imagine saying yes.
I open a new tab and search for Greystone Vale.
The pin drops on Greystone Dr. I type in Greystone Vale city.
A local quarry comes up, and I frown. Did I type it wrong?
I check his message again. It’s right, but Google can’t find Greystone Vale.
Although, technically, he doesn’t really say it’s a city.
I blow out a breath. It. Doesn’t. Matter.
I repeat those words several times, trying to convince myself before I delete the message for the second time.