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‘All right,’ I said. ‘Do you have a list of albums you want? Or do you buy whatever you find and like?’

‘Bit of both. I’m still trying to find Paul Simon’sGraceland.’

I glanced in the rearview mirror again, and this time Brooke caught me.

‘Mouse?’ she asked.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ I said quietly.

Yesterday I had been ready to leave Seattle, even if that meant being on my own, but now I was here with Brooke, I wasn’t going to jeopardize the company by telling her why the police were after me.

‘Do you think we’ve been reported missing?’ Brooke asked. ‘It’s not even been twenty-four hours since we left.’

‘Yeah, but we’re seventeen. Did something happen to you?’ I asked, deflecting hard.

‘No! You?’

I shook my head, not trusting myself to come up with the right words to convince her.

‘And how the hell did they find us so quickly?’

I’d been thinking about that, too. ‘Did you use a credit card to check in last night?’ I suggested, and Brooke groaned.

‘Shit. You’re right.’

‘Or our cell phones. Is yours still on?’

‘It’s on airplane mode,’ she said. ‘Do you think that’s enough?’

I’d turned mine off completely. ‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly.

‘I’m gonna turn it off now,’ she said, fumbling in her pocket.

‘I can do it,’ I said quickly, wanting her to keep her focus on the road.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured and handed it over. ‘I’m going to take a detour,’ Brooke said after a few moments. ‘Get off the main drag. Just in case they’re following us.’

‘Sure. Good idea.’

‘I need coffee,’ she added, her words stretched out by a yawn. ‘And I want to get dressed. I don’t have a bra on.’

I really didn’t want to think about what underwear Brooke Summer was or was not wearing. It was way too early for that kind of existential angst.

Thankfully, it took less than ten minutes for us to find a Starbucks, and Brooke pulled into a parking space rather than the drive-thru, which had a huge line anyway. There didn’t seem to be many people inside.

‘I’ll order and you can go get dressed, then we can swap?’ Brooke said, and I nodded. ‘What do you drink?’

‘A caramel latte?’ I asked it as a question, like this was something I could get wrong.

‘Hot or iced?’

‘Hot, please.’

She nodded and edged into the line, looking slightly more human in jeans and a sweater than I did in pajama pants. Then again, no one looked at me twice, and I got the impression I wasn’t the worst-dressed person the baristas had ever seen.

The restroom was impressively clean, and I double-checked the lock on the door before stripping out of my pajamas and putting on clean underwear and jeans. I was grateful I’d packed long pajama pants because they covered the ugly scar at the top of my thigh that I really didn’t want Brooke to see, and I didn’t like looking at either.

Checking my body in the mirror for bruises was second nature and I twisted uncomfortably to see how the one on my back was fading. It had turned yellow-green, which was good news. It would be gone in a few more days.