Chapter Twelve

That night, Sam dreamed about being in Garrett’s car, with Garrett. Probably because that had been the last time she’d actually felt safe.

She was wakened from the dream in the middle of the night when the guy next door came home. His truck was loud and unfamiliar.

She got up and, from behind the window curtain, watched him park the truck, tuck the keys above the visor, and get out. Jeez. Did people really still do that? True, they weren’t in the big city, and it wasn’t like he had anything to worry about to begin with—no one would want to steal that heap of junk. Lights came on next door, and she tried to remember what if felt like being happy to be home. Thoughts of her many homes over the years filled her mind as she wandered back to bed and drifted into a restless sleep.

Wendy knocked on the door to wake her up the next morning. It was probably the fifth day she’d been here, but Sam was losing track. After getting ready, she went to the kitchen for breakfast. Wendy actually smiled at her when she sat down at the table. Somehow the deputy being fake-friendly was worse than when she was being a bitch.

Wendy offered another smile. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

Sam’s inner alarm bells went off. They were not friends, nor was Wendy a chitchatty kind of person. Something was off.

“Would you like to play some video games?” Deputy Benson asked when they finished up the dishes.

He’d never asked her to play before. What was going on?

But her suspicions proved unfounded. The worst thing that happened was that she got creamed at most of the games. Clearly, Benson and Wendy spent a lot of time babysitting and playing video games.

After a few hours at the television, they made sandwiches for lunch. Deputy Benson left for a while in the afternoon. At dinnertime, they asked her what she wanted to order.

They’d pretty much exhausted all of the takeout places in town. “How about Thai again?”

It felt like a last meal as they sat around the table eating. Benson grumbled a few times about his food, and Wendy was called away to take a phone call. Sam pretended to need another napkin so she could go into the kitchen to listen in.

She paused at the door.

“…tomorrow night, then. I’ll be glad to get this over with—” Wendy stopped talking abruptly when Sam walked in.

Things seemed normal enough for the rest of the evening, but her Spidey sense was definitely tingling, so she paid attention to every detail.

When Wendy unlocked her phone to text someone, Sam noted the four fours. Very secure.

She was exhausted from stress when Deputy Benson walked her back to her room for the night.

Something he’d never done before.

“Good night,” he said, not looking her in the eye.

Just before she turned away, he glanced at her with pity. Like he knew she wouldn’t be waking up in the morning.

That was what did it.

Her stomach twisted and she broke out in a cold sweat. Her instincts were sounding all her inner alarms.

When he was gone, she closed the door stood with her ear against it for a few minutes, listening.

Nothing.

What were they doing?

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep, she came up with an excuse to go back out to the living room. Wendy sat right up on the sofa when she came in. Benson wasn’t there.

“I was wondering if you might be able to go to the bookstore again. I finished the last—” Wendy’s phone interrupted her.

Before Wendy snatched it up from the side table, Sam was able to see the name on the tiny display.

Garrett.

Wendy glared at the phone and tossed it back down without answering. “Sure. I can do that tomorrow. You’d better get some sleep now.” She flashed that fake smile again, then glanced at the reality program on the television.

With Wendy’s focus distracted, Sam lifted the cellphone from the table and hurried back to her room.

She muted the phone so if it rang it wouldn’t give her away, and tucked it under her pillow. What would happen if Wendy looked for the phone? What would she say?

It was only an hour later when Sam heard someone at her door. Slowly, the knob turned, then stopped. Thank God I locked it.

Then, to her horror, she heard the quiet scrape of a key in the lock. Of course they have a spare. Her heartbeat went into hyperspace when the door slowly opened. Judging by the light footsteps, it was Wendy who cautiously crept into the room.

Sam stayed very still and did her best to keep her breathing normal. It was all she could do to let Wendy walk up to her while her eyes were closed. Every instinct told her to open her eyes so she would be ready for an attack. But she somehow resisted the impulse, and soon she heard the footsteps retreating and the door close.

A second later, Sam was out of bed with her ear to the door again. She listened intently, hearing heavy footfalls. Deputy Benson was back, then, and from the sound of it, he was pacing.

“I’m taking those Zara jeans,” Wendy said with a laugh as she sat down on the squeaky sofa.

“Seriously? That’s kind of creepy.”

“Why? They’re like, seventy-dollar jeans. No sense they go to waste.”

“I still think this whole thing is a big mistake.”

“She can put Howe in jail,” Wendy said, her voice impassive.

“I know that,” he said firmly. At least he didn’t seem to be happy about whatever they were planning that would leave her new jeans up for grabs.

Sam’s pulse was thundering so loud she almost couldn’t hear the conversation.

“Just make sure to hit me high enough that my hair hides the scar,” Wendy said.

Sam used the noise of the TV to relock the door. Clearly, a futile exercise, but she felt slightly better knowing she would have a few extra seconds to—

To what? Scream? Jump out the window?

Hell, did it even open?

“You’re a piece of work,” Benson said to Wendy. “I’m starving. I’m going to get some real food.”

“Bring me back a coffee, will you?”

When Deputy Benson left through the front door, Sam used the sound to cover the noise of opening her bedroom window—thankfully, yes, it did open. Cold air burst inside and she knew it wouldn’t take long for it to reach the rest of the house.

She quickly threw her few articles of clothing—including the jeans—into her bag and silently heaved herself out the window onto the gravel border around the house. Her elbow stung like crazy. She must have cut it on the window edging going out. She could feel the warm blood soak into her sweatshirt, and let out a small hiss of pain.

But this burn would be nothing compared to what she’d be feeling if she didn’t get away from the Death Detail. She pulled the window closed, wincing when it squeaked twice.

Instincts guiding her, she jumped over the rusty metal fence between the yard and the neighbor’s driveway, and crouched down by the old truck.

“Please don’t let it be a stick. Please don’t let it be a stick,” she muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it.”

She cursed her bad luck as she slid inside and shut the door only hard enough to make it latch.

Long ago, Lance had attempted to teach her how to drive a stick shift. His constant fretting about his car made the lesson challenging…as well as short. Hopefully, she’d remember enough to actually get it to move.

We’ll find out soon enough. She reached for the keys hidden under the visor.

“Push in the clutch to start,” she prompted herself. Thank God for her long legs, so she didn’t need to adjust the seat to push the pedal to the floor. And that her neighbor had backed the truck in so it was pointing toward the street. Every second counted, and once she turned the key, she would need to hurry. She ran over the plan in her mind, twice, before she started the ignition.

Shit. The truck sounded even louder than it had the nights it had awakened her. The thunderous rumble made her flinch.

Swiftly, she pushed the gearshift into first and let out the clutch as she pressed down on the gas. The truck lurched and bucked twice, but then it caught, and she was moving. Down the driveway and out onto the street she went, turning right because she was sure Benson had taken the SUV in the opposite direction.

She stomped on brake, pressed the clutch in again, and whipped the gearshift into second. Or tried to. It made an unholy grinding noise, and she struggled for several precious seconds to slide the stick into the proper slot.

Please, please, please.

Finally, it slid home, and she let out the clutch again in relief. With another huge lurch, she headed down the street.

Thank God.

But before she made it past the neighbor’s house, she saw a light turn on. Damn. He’d heard his truck being stolen, and would no doubt call the police. The police would show up and Wendy would be alerted. Sam guessed she might have ten minutes before everyone on the planet was looking for her. How far could she get away in that time?

And would it be far enough to save her life?