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ONE HUNDRED

I’M READY NOW, READY for this to end.

Ready to retrieve my kids and get as far away from Hemingway Grove as possible.

My heart pounding but my mind clear and focused, I jump in my rented Dodge SUV. I return to the park where I rested after first fleeing the bank, the gazebo where I left the duffel bags. This time, I park in a lot close by and run over to the gazebo. I’m back in the car in less than a minute with the bags.

Then I drive west toward the interstate, checking David’s phone for directions. Keeping a lookout for Blair or evidence of law enforcement — a helicopter overhead, a police checkpoint barricading access to the highway. But finding nothing. As if I didn’t already know — Blair isn’t law enforcement, not today. He has no team behind him. He never did. It’s just Silas and him.

I take the ramp onto the interstate, heading north to Hemingway Grove. I mind the speed limit. No reason to draw attention to myself, though the only contraband in this car is the gun I took off Silas.

Did Silas get away? Or is he busy explaining himself to Champaign cops right now? One fingerprint off that guy, and he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.

I remember the store from when I was driving down here earlier today. A superstore, a recognizable one, with a tall sign peeking high in the air for visibility from the highway. I see you. I’m coming.

I pull off the highway and into the parking lot of the superstore. I park between two other SUVs, just one extra layer of concealment. As far as I know, Blair doesn’t know what car I’m driving, and I haven’t turned on my phone, which I know he’s tracking, so I can’t imagine how he could locate me here. But you never know.

A greeter, an old man, smiles and waves to me when I walk in. “Hope you’re having a great day, now!”

Not the word I would use to describe my day.

I find a store clerk, a young woman in a visor and a company vest. “I just need to buy a few things,” I tell her. “But two of them, I need to buy in bulk.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m at the cash register with a young clerk who looks high school age, who’d need to call someone else to ring up a sale of liquor (which I seriously considered buying for courage).

“Run this,” says the woman who first helped me, showing him a ticket with a barcode on it. “Ma’am, pull around to the back with a receipt, and we’ll unload the boxes.”

The kid at the cash register aims his scanner at the barcode and checks the register for the price. “Holy shit,” he says, doing a double take. “Is that right?”

I look at the screen. More than fourteen hundred dollars. “That sounds right,” I say.

“Uh, okay. And then you have …” He looks into my cart. “How many …”

“How many life jackets? Twenty-four,” I say. “I think they were all the same price, but we should probably be sure.”

I dump them out of the cart. He scans them one by one, then I throw them back in the cart.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Is that everything?”

“Don’t forget these,” I say. I hand him four pairs of kids’ toy handcuffs.

“Ohhh-kay, sure, why not?”

He rings me up. I pay my bill.

“And you’re going around back for your pickup,” he says. “You’ll need this receipt for” — he shakes his head — “a hundred and fifty reams of paper.”

“I won’t forget. Thanks.”

He looks at me with a question.

“Don’t ask,” I say.