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For someone who had only passed her driving test six months ago, the Mustang was a beast to handle. After driving it for only a few hours I’d learned why Brooke loved it so much. The car didn’t just drive, it seemed to fly. But it wasn’t weightless, it had some heft to it – a sturdy feeling of security even with the top down and the wind whipping my hair. I’d never noticed anyone else on the road up until now, but driving it was different. People stared. Truck drivers sent long, admiring looks my way, though I wasn’t naive enough to imagine they were for me rather than the car. Older men in sensible sedans eyed it up, too.

It made me feel like something. Like somebody.

When I got into the city, I found the neighborhood where the Phoenix Motel was located, then forced myself to drive around a few times to get an idea of how things were laid out. I wanted to know my getaway routes, so I’d have more than one option if something went wrong.

It was a little after seven in the evening and the air was warm, making my hairline break out in tiny beads of sweat. It was too early for me to realistically make a move. There were lots of people milling around, and I knew from experience that at this time of day, motels were busy. It was the time when people decided,hey, let’s stop for the night and find somewhere to sleep, we can make the next jump tomorrow. People looked for clean, compact motels, ones with pastel-painted walls and good lighting, just like this one.

We’d been doing the same thing for a whole week.

I pulled into the parking lot and shouldered the backpack. It didn’t take long to do a quick scan of the area, and I tried not to panic when I couldn’t see the black van.

They weren’t here.

Shit.

I went back to the car, trying not to stress out. I couldn’t wait here – if Chris drove in and spotted the Mustang, he would turn around and drive straight back out again. The car was too distinctive. With no better ideas, I drove a few blocks over to a Walmart, parking it between two giant trucks. Then I sat in silence for a minute, jiggling my knee anxiously.

The plan had been a good one. It had beengreat, in fact. I wasn’t ready to give up on the Phoenix Motel. I trusted Megan, and her magic ancient system. Maybe Chris had made a late start this morning and was still on his way here. That was the most likely scenario.

I couldn’t sit in the parking lot forever, but I didn’t like the idea of taking the backpack and the gun into the store with me, because that seemed like a dick move. At the same time, I didn’t want to let the gun out of my sight. It had started to represent something else today – not security, or a power move, like it was to Brooke, but a weapon that I had to get comfortable with the idea of actually using.

Would I shoot Chris if it meant saving Brooke?

A week ago, no way.

Now? Yes.

No hesitation.

And that scared me a little. I’d changed from the girl who’d been desperate to get out of Seattle at all costs, but I hadn’t realized I was now someone who was capable of shooting a man.

In the end, I put the backpack in the trunk of the car and locked it. That felt like a good compromise.

The trip to the store wasn’t just to kill time – I needed more than one option when I came face to face with Chris. I wanted to be able to protect both of us, me and Brooke, and making sure she got out safely meant being prepared.

I picked up a bag of apples and a jar of peanut butter, another box of Pop-Tarts, since I’d eaten the last of ourstash, and a couple bags of chips. Then I went to the kitchen section and bypassed cake tins and cooling racks to pick up a knife.

Insurance. That’s all it was.

Back in the car, I wrestled the paring knife out of its packaging and used it to slice chunks of apple to dip into the peanut butter while I watched the clock. I needed the sun to set just a little more, for there to be more shadows for me to lurk in.

Finally, around eight thirty, I drove back over to the motel and parked the Mustang in the clearly markedEMPLOYEES ONLYparking lot. It was risky, because I didn’t want someone to call the cops or tow the car for being parked in the wrong place, but leaving the Mustang in one of the guest parking lots was riskier. I didn’t want Chris to see it and know I was there.

This motel had pale-yellow tiles on the walls to disguise the poured concrete, and pastel-pink doors to all the rooms. It was only when you got close that you noticed the cracks in the tiles, the split edging around the doors. All the rot underneath the cute exterior.

From a hundred yards away, I spotted the black van with Utah number plates.8912. I wouldn’t forget that number in a hurry.

Instead of fear, I felt a gut-punch of anger. And vindication. And appreciation for Megan. I turned on my heel, went back to the car, and grabbed the backpack.

With the knife and the gun, I felt far more prepared and protected than I had the very first time we’d seen Chris inSalt Lake City. On impulse, I sidled over to the black van to get a better look at it.

From the outside, it really was just a plain black van – nothing to suggest anything sordid was going on inside it. But I knew it belonged to Chris and I couldn’t contain my sudden burst of fury.

Carefully, and quietly, I pulled the knife out of my pocket and stabbed it into the front tire. I was half expecting it to pop, like a balloon, but the rubber put up some resistance and I had to give the knife a good tug to get it out again. I went around the van and did the same to the other front tire. From behind, no one would be able to tell the tires had been slashed, so there was no chance of Chris noticing.

But if I got Brooke out, they wouldn’t be able to follow us.

I tucked the knife safely into my pocket and pulled my shirt out to cover it, then walked around the motel, looking for the room number Megan had given me.