Emily tried to breathe.
She grabbed the laptop bag and slid its long handle over her shoulder and head so it wouldn’t fall off again. No way could she lose it—the video and encryption message were inside. She huddled behind the car, listening. Her knee throbbed.
The car she’d heard came closer, then stopped. Turned. Stopped again.
A door opened and shut. She heard footsteps. Was it just someone coming to work late? Or was it him?
Silence. Emily’s muscles were like stone, pulse whooshing in her ears.
Still no sound. She leaned down to look underneath the car. All she could see was the pavement around the cars in the next few rows. She straightened and listened some more. What was he
doing
?
Fingers against the car’s back bumper for support, she rose up halfway and leaned to her right to see around the vehicle. Nothing. She pulled up a little higher, craning her neck.
There.
In profile. In an instant she took in the lanky body, the buzzed hair cut. He was standing by her Kia, looking around.
Emily dropped to the ground, panting. Now what? He had to know she was still nearby and would wait for her to come back.
The footsteps started up again. Coming closer.
Was he checking rows to see if she was hiding?
Sweat dripped down Emily’s forehead, even in the chilly February air. She hung there, trembling, her knee aching.
She looked around the car again.
No sight of him. And no footsteps.
Her heart beat like crazy. What if he’d seen her? He could jump out any minute. Then he’d drag her to his car—
The footfalls sounded again. He was coming toward her.
Emily leaned down to look under the back of the car—and spotted his feet at the front. She froze.
He walked to the right, then disappeared. He must be checking between all cars in that row. If he came down one more row, he’d see her.
She huddled against the bumper for a minute. Then crab-walked around to the left side of the car. All the way up toward the front. She peeked around the edge.
No sign of him.
She stilled. Was he walking down to the next row?
Emily rose up more, peering over the hood. The man was at the end of the row, headed down to the next one—where she’d been hiding. She counted to three, then moved around to the front of the car.
The footsteps neared until she knew he was behind the car, right where she’d been hiding. Then they faded again.
There were two more rows he’d check. Then he’d come back.
She leaned her head just above the pavement and watched for his legs.
A forever minute ticked by. Two. Emily’s wrists burned, and her neck cramped. Where
was
he?
Maybe he’d circled back. Would come at her from behind.
When she couldn’t stay that way any longer, she heard him again. Coming toward her on her right. Close.
If he came up right by this car, it was over. But she couldn’t risk rising up to look again.
She crept around to the right side of the car. Flattened herself to the pavement again and saw his legs two cars over. Headed back up.
Emily didn’t dare make a sound. She slipped around to the back, where she’d started.
The footsteps soon stopped again. A curse word floated to her ears.
Then another noise. A kind of punch, and a hiss of air. Seconds later the sounds came again.
He was slashing her tires. Emily dropped her chin to her chest.
Two more times she heard the sounds. Then nothing—until the click of the building’s rear metal door opening.
He’d gone back to look for her in the building? This was her chance.
She rose up to peer over the car, making sure he was gone. Then straightened all the way up and tried to run. But her hurt knee made her limp. Sucking in big breaths, left hand clamped against her laptop bag, she headed for the rear of the parking lot. When she reached the barrier she flung one leg over it. In that split second she glanced back at the building—and saw the man through the large stairwell window on the second floor.
He was looking straight at her.
Emily cried out and brought her other leg over the barrier. She took off limp-running toward the nearest office building. Where she would go, she had no clue. With her bad leg, no way she’d be able to outrun the guy.
Behind her she heard the building’s door crash open and slam shut. Hard steps pounded toward her.
Emily ran faster, heels smacking the pavement and tears squeezing out of her eyes. The footsteps drew closer—no time to look back.
God, just get me to some people.
An eternity passed before she reached the building. She slammed into its back door, wrenched to open it.
Locked.
Emily swerved away to run around the building. In her side vision she saw the man leap over the barrier. As she neared the corner of the building she heard the back door open behind her. Emily pivoted, saw a man exit. “Call the police!” she flung out her right arm toward the fake agent. “He’s chasing me!”
“Wh—”
She kept running.
“Hey!” She heard the man call to her pursuer. “What are you doing?”
The fake agent’s footsteps sounded nearer. He veered at a diagonal to run straight for her. “FBI!” The words pumped from his mouth. Emily saw him flash his badge toward the other man.
He was going to catch her. And no one would stop him.
She rounded the corner, running as hard as her bad knee would allow. As she passed the front corner, she knew the “agent” was close. She burst onto the parking lot and wove through rows of cars. At the street about 100 feet away was a bus stop, a large black man, and a mother and small boy waiting. Emily careened toward them, screaming.
The man’s head jerked around.
“Help!” She had little breath. “He’s trying to kidnap me!”
The man took one look at the “agent” in pursuit and started jogging toward her. She met him halfway and almost fell into him. “Please. Get me . . . out of here.”
“Stop!” The “agent” was a mere thirty feet away. “I’m FBI!”
“He’s not!” Emily hung on to her protector’s arm. “His badge is fake!”
The man looked down and saw her torn pants, the bloody knee. “Come on.” He headed her toward the street. Then called toward the woman waiting at the bus stop, “You got a cell phone?” She and her child were watching them, mouths open. “Call 911!”
Her hand disappeared into her purse.
The “agent” caught up and grabbed Emily’s arm. She gasped.
“Stop.” The “agent” wasn’t even winded. His face was like granite, showing no fear in the presence of the other man, who was much taller. “This woman’s wanted for murder.” He stuck out his badge and FBI name tag with his picture on it. “Agent Rutger.”
Emily cringed. The badge and picture tag looked so real.
Were
they? What if the FBI
was
part of this?
She tried to break free. “I’m not, he’s lying! He tried to kill my mother!”
The man’s gaze jumped from Emily to Rutger.
“I’m telling you, back off.” Rutger pointed at the man. He gripped Emily’s arm harder. “Or I’ll have to bring you in too.”
Emily yanked away. “He
can’t
bring you in. He’s a fake!”
Rutger caught her arm again and clamped down.
The bus was coming. One block up the street.
The black man’s expression hardened. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“The police are coming!” called the woman at the bus stop. She held up her cell phone.
Something flashed across Rutger’s face.
“What, you don’t like that?” The man sneered at Rutger. “I thought the police and FBI were pals.”
Rutger pulled at her, hard. Emily stumbled sideways.
“Let her go.” The man shoved Rutger. “Now.”
Brakes squealed. The bus was pulling up to its stop.
“I said
now
.” The man smacked his hand over Rutger’s and pried the “agent’s” fingers off Emily’s arm. “Go get on the bus.” He jerked his head from Emily toward the street.
She hesitated. What would happen to this man when she left?
“Go!”
She spun around and ran. “Wait, wait!” She waved her arm at the bus.
Scuffling sounded behind her. Emily didn’t turn around. She reached the bus and threw herself up the steps.
Heart jamming, her legs like water, Emily threw two dollar bills at the driver and skidded into a seat up front. Across the aisle the mother and son looked at her, wide-eyed. The driver stared at her through the rearview mirror.
The bus door closed.
Emily bent forward, trying to breathe. Her knee pulsed with pain. As they drove away she glanced toward the parking lot. The man who’d saved her was staring after Rutger, who was running back toward her office building.
Air backed up in Emily’s throat. The agent—real or fake?—was headed for his car. And she knew what he would do.
Rutger would come after the bus.
R
AWLY.
I stared at the TV screen, mouth open. Could a stuffed dog be our “Raleigh”?
“Hannah!” My mother’s voice trailed from the kitchen. “Isn’t your breakfast wonderful?”
I pressed my hands to my cheeks. The TV switched from the news to commercials. The sudden loudness made my ears hurt. I punched the
mute
button.
“Hannah!”
“Yes, Mom.” I felt my mouth move. “It’s great.” My eyes lowered to my plate. I hadn’t eaten a bite.
What was I supposed to do now?
I started to rise from the couch—and dizziness hit. I sat back down.
Somehow I had to figure this out. Was that dog what we were looking for?
I’d never know. Because no way could I ever get close to it. Clutched in the hand of a little girl who believed I’d killed her father? Her mother wanting me dead?
My gaze landed again on the plate of food. I hadn’t eaten in a long time. Or slept. I couldn’t go on much longer without fuel.
I picked up the plate and shoved eggs into my mouth. Chewed automatically. Commercials continued to run on the screen. When they ended, the news show turned to another story. I turned off the TV.
Where was Emily? How long until she got to the FBI? When she called, she could help me think this through . . .
Like a robot, I kept eating until all my food was gone. I got up slowly, carrying my plate, and returned to the kitchen.
“There she is.” Mom had cleaned her plate as well. “Wasn’t it wonderful? Best breakfast I ever had.”
I managed a nod. Aunt Margie patted Mom’s arm, but her eyes were on me.
“I’ve been telling Margie all about my new friend Morton,” Mom said. “But it’s so sad—he died. So now we have to go to Raleigh. If we can just get away from the Bad People. Do you have Bad People here, Margie?”
“Well, I certainly hope not.” My aunt threw me a sad smile.
Mom tilted her head. “‘The fear of the L
ord
is this: wisdom. And to turn from evil is understanding.’”
My aunt surveyed Mom. “Is that from the Bible?”
“Yes.” Mom frowned. “But I can’t remember where . . .”
She took a slow drink of tea, as if trying to recall.
Her face cleared. “Margie, did I tell you about my other new friend? She didn’t die. Her name is . . .” Mom’s eyes grew cloudy. “What was her name, Hannah? She has six sisters. Can you believe that?
Six
.”
“Nance.” I walked to the sink to set down my plate.
“Oh, yes, Nance! Can you believe she had
six
sisters?”
“That is amazing.” Aunt Margie carried the rest of the dishes to the sink, then looked at me and lowered her voice. “See anything on the news?”
“It’s bad.” I felt my throat close. “Real bad. They think I killed three people. And they’re calling for me to turn myself in. Even the families of the men who were killed think I’m guilty.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how long before they show up here. Somebody’s bound to find out I’m your closest family member and come around asking questions.”
I began rinsing the dishes, my movements automatic. “I know.”
We should leave right now. But where would we go? In a car everyone was looking for. Besides, I hadn’t the energy.
“Here, let me do that.” My aunt nudged me aside and took over. I stood by helplessly, my mind unable to hold a logical thought.
“You need to rest, and I don’t want no for an answer,” Aunt Margie said. “Carol says you’ve been up all night.”
“How can I? What if they knock on your door?”
“I don’t have to let anyone in.”
“They’re
police
.”
“Good for them.”
“I’m tired.” Mom pushed back from the table. The animation on her face just a moment ago had faded, replaced by blank helplessness.
“Little wonder.” My aunt dried her hands on a dishtowel. “Come on, let me take you to the guestroom, where you can lie down.”
“Thank you so much, Aunt Margie,” I said. “For taking care of us.”
“Yes, well. You should sleep too.” With gentle hands she helped my mother up and led her across the kitchen.
RAWLY. I stared at the whiteness of the sink. “Aunt Margie. Do you have a computer?”
“Yes. At the little desk in my bedroom. Be my guest; it’s already on. But I still think you should rest.”
I followed her and Mom down the hall. Aunt Margie veered Mom into the room where I’d talked to Emily. “It’s on down at the end,” she said to me.
My aunt’s room was pink and gray. Roses and steel. The bed called to me. A block of exhaustion sat in my chest.
I passed the bed and sat down at the computer. For a moment my brain wouldn’t process what to do next. Amazing that twenty-four hours ago Mom and I had been eating breakfast at the Ritz Carlton. Watching the ocean. Leading normal lives.
Just hours later I would be lying to a sheriff’s deputy. And that night I would try to kill a man. I may have succeeded.
That wave of grief and guilt crashed over me again. Chilled me to the bone. My head sank to my chest. I gripped the desk and closed my eyes. “Dear God, I just don’t understand what’s happening to me. Please . . . help.”
For some time I stayed in that pose, frozen by the cold weight of my emotions. Yet—shouldn’t I be feeling even more? My exhaustion cloaked even my regret. Someday, if I survived all this, I would have to deal—
really
deal—with what I had done. What I’d become. Had I so little trust in God that I would lie to a deputy rather than rely on Him to get me through the consequences of telling the truth? So what if my mother had melted into a screaming fit?