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He paid at the pump with the Luke Hudson Visa card he’d kept to remind him of Morgan. A lesser risk, he thought, than going inside—camera—or using the Winslow card.
He’d get to somewhere in Nebraska, he decided, find that cheap motel. Deal with his hair. In the morning he could buy what he needed to generate a new identity.
As he drove, he beat a hand on the wheel. All of his things! All of them, gone.
He had to slow his breathing, concentrate on his driving. If he got stopped…
He wouldn’t get stopped. Couldn’t get stopped, so he wouldn’t.
Get to Nebraska. He rocked back and forth to calm himself. Find some crap motel where they didn’t look twice. He’d have to ditch the stolen car—airport, long-term parking—to buy some time. Some bumfuck airport in bumfuck Nebraska.
Or maybe a junkyard. They probably had plenty of those piled up in the goddamn cornfields.
Switch the plates, ditch the car. Maybe buy a new one for cash from some yahoo. Or rent one, wait and rent one once he had the new ID.
He couldn’t decide. He couldn’tthink.
He had to find somewhere to hole up first, to hole up and figure out what he needed to do next.
Because for the first time in his life, Gavin Rozwell was on the run.
Chapter Twenty-two
Morgan sat in the quiet of the empty house. She still held her phone, and half expected to have to use it to call for help when the panic attack came.
But it didn’t come, so she stood, stuck the phone back in her pocket.
She’d work, she thought. She’d take her mind off things with work. Summer would end, and with fall, new drink specials.
She could do some research, and maybe start fleshing out the vague plans she had for Après with Halloween.
She could sit outside and work, let Totally Zen keep her calm and level.
When the doorbell rang, she jumped, felt her chest constrict.
She pushed the air out, telling herself not to give in, and braced on the back of a chair, keeping that air going in and out until she could walk to the door.
Out the window she saw Miles and a man she didn’t recognize.
She opened the door.
“Morgan, Clark Reacher. He’s going to install your home security cameras.”
“My what?”
“Miles laid out what you need, so you don’t need the sales pitch.” Reacher, a man of about forty with a pleasant face and a wiry build, smiled at her. “Best we’ve got.”
“I’ll explain it to her. Why don’t you get started?”
“But—”
Miles just took Morgan’s arm, steered her to the back of the house. “You’ll have security cameras, front, back, and on the side door. Somebody tries to get in, you get an alert. With the doorbell package, you won’t have to look out the window when somebody rings the bell. You just look on your phone, your tablet, whatever. Clark’ll fix it up.”
“I didn’t order this. Did Gram arrange for this?”
“No, I did.”
“But you just can’t—”
