Chapter 1

Sofia

“Do you have another method of payment, dear? This card keeps coming back to us as unauthorized.”

I tear my gaze from the rain-splattered window, and a pit opens up in my stomach. Shit. They froze all my cards. I guess I knew that was coming, but I thought I might have another few days.

“Sure,” I lie, plastering a big, fake smile on my lips. I haul my brown leather purse up onto the table and peel back the zipper, rifling inside.

Shit, shit, shit. What am I going to do?

I don’t have another method of payment. The checking account is long dead, drained of cash so I could make it all the way to Wyoming. I’m not sure what this town is even called, but I’m far enough away from Ohio that I can breathe a little easier.

All my successes and failures are in the rearview mirror.

“You know, I’ve got some cash in my car,” I lie into my waitress’s sweet unassuming face. She’s got wiry auburn hair, some dead teeth in the front of her mouth, kind eyes, and puckered skin. And I’m about to stiff her. I can’t help it.

All I have to my name now is a quarter tank of gas.

“All right,” she tells me, not even blinking, not even hesitating. “I’ll be back in a second for it.” She saunters away to check on another table, unconcerned.

I loop my purse over my shoulder and slip out of the booth, shoving through the swinging glass door and out into the frigid, gray mountain morning.

No hint of sunlight penetrates the sky overhead, and even though it isn’t exactly raining, tiny particles of precipitation float in the air around me. My white Henley and skinny jeans are no match for this.

I glance over my shoulder one time when I reach my car. The sign mounted over the diner reads Fallaway Fryer, so I guess I’m somewhere called Fallaway.

And now that I have no money, this is where I’ll be for a while.

I’m sure the nice old waitress isn’t watching me, so I don’t bother hiding the fact that I’m leaving, not digging for change in the backseat. I settle behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. It doesn’t matter if someone comes out, yelling at me. I’m used to running by now. I’ve been running for days.

My old Honda Civic hobbles out of the parking lot and passes a rusted, baby blue Mustang.

Baby blue Mustang. Shit, that’s Finn.

He calls himself Agent Callahan. I met him when I was originally under investigation. I don’t know why I thought bailing on my court date would shake him. I don’t know why I thought this old car would be enough.

Maybe it isn’t him.

I coast down this haggard country road.

Headlights pop up in my rearview, and I apply more pressure to the gas.

The headlights draw closer.

The car behind me is speeding to catch up. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I shouldn’t have used my credit cards on the trip, but I didn’t have any other choice.

My speedometer inches up. I’m barreling down the highway—and so is the car behind me. It’s close enough to see the rusted, baby blue hood now. I can’t believe he followed me all the way to... wherever I am.

We blow past a faded green sign. FALLAWAY PEAK TOWN LIMIT.

There are no buildings anymore. Wet green trees rise up around us. I don’t know where the fuck I am, my heart pounds out of control, and I have to make a decision now or lose my chance to affect the outcome.

My sneaker jams down onto the brake and a wild screech fills the air.

The Mustang jerks to the side to avoid ploughing directly into my bumper. My Honda twists sideways and sends up a sluice of rainwater, hydroplaning. Shiiiit!

Everything turns bumpy and green.

It’s happening too quickly. I’m off the road. I’m sideways.

The deep grass I’m driving through slows me down, and my foot is totally off either pedal. There’s an impact on the passenger side door, and it brings me to a sudden, swaying halt.

I ran into a tree. Sideways.

I wrench open the driver’s side door, scramble out of my car, purse still over my shoulder, and bolt into the woods. This feels like a great decision. There’s lots of coverage. He won’t be able to get a visual. Tons of opportunities to hide. He might not even risk following me.

And once I’m confident that he’s gone, I’ll figure out how the hell to get back to the main road.

I hurdle over fallen trees and slip on pine needles as I run into the bushy, misty wilderness.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and all around me, droplets of rain begin to fall.

I come to a stop in an open glade and pant. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I tell the universe, glaring up into the sky. “No breaks, huh? Nothing? I’m not a bad person, you know.” I don’t yell any of this, even though my chest is tight with panic and I want to yell. But I can’t. Agent Callahan could be anywhere. The man is obsessed.

I’m not a bad person, but I don’t have a choice, either.

No one cares. I’ve got to keep moving or I will end up in jail. My feet throb, but I can’t stop. I’m cold and wet, but I can’t stop. My hot tears mix with the rainwater on my cheeks, but I can’t stop. I’ve got to keep moving. I cannot go to jail.

I run for several minutes and finally feel confident that Agent Callahan isn’t directly behind me, breathing down my neck, waiting to wrench my arms behind my back and read me my rights.

I slow to a walk and look for a high point where I might be able to locate a nearby road and start hitchhiking. A cliff almost clears the treetops, and I make for that.

By the time I reach its crest, my blisters are bleeding. It’s also possible, if Agent Callahan is nearby, that he might be able to see me right now. But I don’t care. Wandering a mountain range - especially in the rainy season, especially in November, is almost certain death. I slipped the noose, and now I’ve got to get out of here.

So tired of running.

A road cuts downwind of this cliff. Cars move on it. Yes! Rooftops also speckle this panoramic view. Double yes! There must be a residential area not far from here.

A warm, comforting homeowner might see a young woman like me and feel the urge to help. That’s what I’m banking on.

Almost an hour later, after climbing steadily down steep slopes and getting fairly drenched, I reach the first house in that small neighborhood: a large wood cabin, lit from within with buttery yellow light. It looks so good in there. I drag in a deep breath and savor the woodsy aroma of a kindled fireplace.

There’s a car in the driveway, a mint green Volkswagen. Cute. Whoever lives here must be nice. They have PETA bumper stickers, and another reading not all who wander are lost!

I climb the porch steps of this wood cabin, my feet aching, wondering who might live here, and how they’ll react to me. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood.

I inhale and tell myself everything will be all right. Then I ball my hand into a fist, raising it over the door.

Hello. I practice my introductory speech. My car broke down on the other side of those woods, and I was wondering if you might give me a ride into town. I’m looking for work if—

The door bangs open, and an infuriated hippie girl storms onto the porch.

She wears a fleece sweater, a long, swaying patchwork skirt, and sandals. Her brown dreadlocks are twisted up in a bun, and her gaze flashes as it lights on me. She pushes past me, hurrying down the cabin porch. “He’s going to try to drug test you,” she sneers over her shoulder at me. “He’s going to hand you a stupid plastic cup. Please! I have rights! He wants you cooking, cleaning, living there, everything. Someone should tell him that’s a wife, not a nanny. Good luck with that asshole, sister!”

As the PETA Volkswagen peels out of the driveway, an irritable growl calls to me from deeper within the house, “Either come back in or close the damn door!”