Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Mia!” I yell her name, crossing the trailer to the air mattress. “Honeybee, come on, wake up. We have to go right now.”
Now, now, right the fuck now.
I can't even wait for her to rub her little eyes. I've yanked her up in a matter of seconds, clutched tight to my chest, ripping our jackets off the back of the sofa.
That engine is coming closer still. I stop for a split second at the kitchen window, and see a familiar black truck rumbling through the morning gloom.
What little hopes I had for a lost farmer using this abandoned turf to turn around dies. I'm desperate, but I'm not delusional.
There's no mistaking it.
I know who it is, even if I can't make out his features in the driver's dark silhouette.
Jackson. And in less than another minute, he'll be at my fucking doorstep.
“Mia, baby, listen to daddy. You awake?”
“Daddy?” Her little voice sets off a new panic. I hold her tight, grabbing our pre-packed bug out bag, crashing through the door.
“Just hold on tight! We've got a bumpy ride ahead. Listen and be good, you hear?”
“Okay. Okay, daddy, I –“
I can't listen anymore. My hands are too busy shoving her in the kiddie seat, strapping her in, careful as I can be not to hurt her or miss anything important.
We have to fucking go!
The engine is on top of us now. I'm in the driver's seat, jamming the ignition, refusing to look up when I hear a vehicle's door slam shut, and then a man's voice yelling.
“Hey, asshole!” He gets two words in. No more.
We're off. My tires rip through powdery snow, crunching the overgrown brush underneath it. My truck weaves a circle around the intruder, straight to the road, and I floor it.
He's just a small dot in the distance by the time I glance in my mirrors, the only thing keeping my heart from ripping out of my chest.
Jackson hits the side of his truck hard, struggling for the door. He slips, slowing him down. Must be the ice and the frenzied attempt to chase. Thank God for small favors.
We have a head start on the highway. But I know what the bastard expects.
Logic says I should take the first fork out of town, heading south, toward the closest state line, Illinois.
But if he can't catch me, he'll probably call the Sheriff. They'll be expecting me on the route. I'll run smack into them and the handcuffs I have waiting after whatever insane story he's concocted about me murdering Jenna.
The one that isn't true.
Messing with his brakes, though...
Shit! There's plenty that actually could land me behind bars without any miracles from defense attorneys.
The muffled laughter behind me is a surprise and a welcome distraction.
“Honeybee? Everything okay back there?” My eyes flit to the mirror and see my smiling little girl.
“Again, daddy! That was fun.” Her little hands slap together like the beat of angel's wings.
Christ. My heart drops a hundred feet in a second.
Angels? Right. I could use a few of those right now, big hulking guardians with their flaming swords and earth splitting trumpets.
If there's still a way to get the hell out of here a free man, I need every bit of help I can get.
I'm walking out of the bathroom with Mia in tow. The entire day is shot and it's already dark.
We're parked at a tiny little gas station on the other side of town. The owner, Fred, is a sports junky who's completely oblivious to anything except his Hawkeyes winning. He smiles and thanks me for the crumpled cash I use to buy us a couple candy bars, then turns back to the TV broadcasting the game.
Chocolate is the least my girl deserves after the fucked up day I've given her. Not even the morning chase, which she innocently enjoyed, but the mind-mending boredom after.
I'm paralyzed. Taking any route out of town feels like a fatal mistake. I surf the radio stations for a hint, a word about traffic conditions and police activity, but Port Eagle is the armpit on the river between Dubuque and Davenport. If there's a manhunt going on, or even just the town's three man police crew lined up on every road leading out of it, I'll never know until I run smack into them.
I wish I'd packed my scanner, damn it.
After another half hour at the station, I finally fire up my engine and drive us down the road. Fred's pump is no place to spend the night with the twenty-four hour lights blaring in our eyes.
There's an eyesore about a mile away, an old rail junction with a crumbling fence. The dead grey building next to the decommissioned tracks has been a dumping ground for years. Perfect hiding spot.
My truck looks like nothing from the road, tucked between a rusted tractor and a Honda missing its windshield. Just another dark ghost, gone and forgotten.