“You’re the best,” I say.
“And don’t you forget it,” she teases. “What do you think your mother will say when she sees you after all this time?”
“I’m more worried about what she’ll do.”
Adrienne starts to ask a question when a news bulletin on the radio interrupts the music.
CHAPTER 14
Sibley
“Breaking news: a manhunt is underway this morning for two inmates who escaped from the local prison around eleven a.m. ‘Deputies have established that the inmates had assistance in escaping from at least one individual on the outside,’ said Thomas Delaney, the director of the medium-security correctional institute. State troopers said that both inmates are believed to be hiding out in the vicinity of the prison. Deputies are canvassing the area. Updates will be provided as they become available.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “When did they build that?”
“What’s wrong?” Adrienne’s voice echoes, cutting in and out. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. There’s just such crappy reception out here,” I say. “But I made it.”
“Phew. That takes a load off my stress. Glad to hear it. Let me know how it goes with your mom.” Adrienne’s voice lowers. “Just know I want to be here for you.”
I’m about to thank her when I hear the unmistakable blare of sirens in the distance.
My lids jolt open, and sneaking a glance in the rearview, I expect the cop car to speed up and maneuver around me, headed for someone or somewhere else on the endless highway, but there’s no sign of life out on this open stretch of the road.
Peering at my speedometer, I realize I’m driving faster than the limit. Like, way faster.
Holy shit. I ram my fist on the wheel. You’ve got to be kidding me.
This Toyota isn’t new enough to have Bluetooth, and a distracted-driving ticket is the last thing I need, along with a citation for speeding. The police car slows from behind, which means I’m the culprit.
So much for not drawing unnecessary attention to myself.
It would be my luck that less than two miles from the farmhouse I grew up in, I might be put in handcuffs before my mother knows I’ve arrived, unannounced, of course.
I wonder how far back the cruiser spotted me. Was it lurking in one of the overgrown fields, or has it been following my progress, and I never noticed, even though the scenery is flat and predictable?
With the earsplitting cacophony signaling me to stop, a bottomless pit of apprehension gnaws in my stomach. The day-old coffee I threw back like a shot of tequila sends a warning signal to my intestines. Sour tummy is what my father used to call it when I was a child.
Not only are my nerves shot, but my eyes dart anxiously to the rearview mirror. I didn’t expect to glimpse the bumper of a squad car, especially on this open and desolate road.
I grew up out here in rural America, and even though there’s an endless supply of soybean and hog-confinement lots, the opposite is true of uniforms and crime. The occasional break-in or bar fight is at the top of the news hour and shared via the gossip chain of the phone or your closest neighbor. It’s unimportant to those outside the parameters of small-town life who have kidnapping and murders to contend with, not that we’re completely immune to those.
If the policeman has run my temporary plates, I’m in trouble. Driving on a suspended license in a vehicle with a title I haven’t switched over is frowned upon.
I’ll be in big trouble.
With white knuckles, I take my foot off the accelerator and put it on the brake, slowing so I can pull off onto the gravel side. I turn on my hazard lights out of habit, not a necessity since there are more people in the city I live in now than in this entire state. Cattle outnumber residents here.
Sucking in a deep breath, I wait for what’s next, running through illogical options in my mind. If I speed off, it’ll result in a chase, negative publicity, and an imminent arrest.
So as I stare at my fair skin and freckles in the mirror, the lingering cruiser crawls to a stop behind me. When the dust settles, I make out the slightly balding head of a man staring down at something in his hand.
His phone, I assume.
Hopefully, his wife or his captain texted him, and he’s in a rush to leave. Maybe he’ll peel off toward the scene of something more exciting than a wannabe drifter. Aren’t the prison escapees a more pressing concern at the moment?
A fingernail goes to my mouth in nervous anticipation.
He’s about six feet tall and stocky, and his bulging biceps are glued in place by an even tighter uniform. His purposeful stride and swinging arms remind me of someone I used to know, but his eyes are protected in the sweltering June heat by his sunglasses.
Quickly, I move my hands back to the steering wheel so they’re clearly in the officer’s line of sight.
My window’s down by the time he appears to my left, yet I’m reluctant to lower my own shades to unveil my apparent signs of distress. I prefer to struggle with my fragility internally. I want to seem amenable when, in reality, a considerable weight hangs over my head. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and fortunately, my swollen, tearstained ones are shielded.
The cop pauses for a moment, examining my worn tires, the dented hood that looks like someone took a hammer to it, and the peeling window tint.
His stare lingers on my now-reddened cheeks.
“Good morning, ma’am.” He rests a hand on his hip, presumably wanting to appear casual, as if we’re two people who’ve stopped to chat for a friendly conversation, not a traffic violation.
“Morning, sir,” I sputter.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Should I try for contrition or humor?
Sarcasm and a
