Chapter Three

Addie

I’ll fucking get even!

No matter how fast I drive, I can’t outrun Arlo’s words. His hateful, angry, spite-filled words. The world flies by and I keep in the fast lane, praying I don’t get pulled over as I beg my truck not to die on me. It’s the one thing I refused to let him take from me.

Because my dad gifted me this truck on my sweet sixteenth birthday. It’s not valuable, really—it’s an old, beat-up Chevy that’s rusted and held together with spit and duct tape. I swear it’s not painted red; it’s just covered in a layer of rust. But it’s mine.

I argued with Arlo over it. I told him that it has sentimental value and refused to let him get rid of it. He’d grudgingly agreed, and I’d threatened to leave him if he didn’t leave it alone.

I know now he was never afraid I’d leave. He was afraid of my freedom. He wanted to keep me under his thumb.

I’m so stupid!

Why did I stay so long?

Why was this my breaking point? It’s not even the worst he’s been to me. I chew the nails of my right hand as I drive. He’s going to find me. He’ll hunt me down. He won’t let me get away.

I have to hide.

I have to escape. Because he’s eventually going to kill me. I’ve seen enough TV dramas like Dateline to know that.

On the I-5, I keep to the fast lane and race north.

With the pedal down, I roll down a window and chilly desert air fills the cab. The radio fuzzes out, and I tap the plastic covering the dial to bring it back. It hums to life with an old classic rock song that’s all power and fight.

Like me, tonight.

Though I guess running is not fighting. Still, I stood up to Arlo. I slapped him! My hand still stings.

What would he have done if I stayed? He’s hit me before, just slaps and things like that. Nothing huge or bad, but I swear he’d had murder in his eyes this time.

I need to figure out a plan. If I want to stop Arlo from tracking me down, I need to change the way I look. I could dye my hair and cut it. Change the way I dress. Hell, a change in makeup could make a huge difference.

The wind whips at my hair as a big truck slips into the fast lane behind me. The lights are bright, and I tap my brakes to warn them they’re high-beaming and blinding me.

The lights switch down instantly, and I relax. The roads are dead, so I guess this guy is either a cop or using me as a pace car.

With a silent prayer that he’s using me as a pace car, I keep driving.

***

As the sun rises over the horizon, I feel my eyelids lowering. The truck behind me has stayed firm, and I wonder how long he’s going to stay on the same route I am.

I know the freeway is for the long haul, but sheesh, we’ve driven across Nevada and up into Oregon. It’s an eight-hour drive, and he’s been right behind me.

When I popped into a rest stop, he kept going. And at the next stop, I recognized his truck pulling out, and he got behind me in the left lane once more. It’s like we’re stuck at the hip.

I’d be scared it’s Arlo if there was any threatening gesture. But the fact that they didn’t even stop at the same rest stop I did leaves me aware this is just a weird thing my brain must be doing. Some sense of safety and comradery with a stranger who’s just traveling the same—very common—route I am.

Maybe I’m just weird. This is likely what got me in trouble with Arlo. I found something stupid like this and latched on. And fell into a pit of vipers hell-bent on blood.

Tears sting in my eyes, but I tell myself it’s because I’m tired. Turning the music up to keep my heart thumping and my brain awake, I keep my hands at ten and two on the wheel, trying to tell myself I’m still okay to drive.

The truck behind me lays on the horn and I jerk, pulling the wheel as I realize I’m drifting over the white line and toward the ditch. Glancing in my rearview, I want to wave to the person behind me for keeping me on it. With my heart thundering in my chest, I blink several times and promise myself I’ll stop for coffee soon.

To keep my brain awake, I think about my plans. I’d considered just driving until I felt I was far enough away Arlo couldn’t follow. I grew up in southern Oregon, but I’ve wanted to see the coast of Washington. Or the Puget Sound.

Oh! I want to see the Orcas swimming in the Puget Sound. That would be amazing.

But what am I going to do for a job? Modeling is out of the question. Arlo will be looking for me. Having my face out there would be stupid. So I’ll get a job as a waitress. Something that’s hard work, that’s serious, that I’ll earn my wages for.

I’m not averse to hard work.

The truck behind me flashes their brights once, and I keep at attention, hands at ten and two on the wheel, and slow down a bit, wondering why they’d flash me. A second later, a cop flies past me and smoothly slips between me and the car in front of me. I touch my brakes, breathing a sigh of relief as the cop’s lights flash and he pulls over the guy in front of me.

I drive past saying a silent thanks to the guardian angel in the truck behind me, my heart pounding once more.

So, I’ve got a plan. Now I need to stay focused on the road before something bad happens.