I drop to my knees to inspect the lower storage compartments built into the RV's underbelly. The owner is likely inside the truck stop, taking a shower or eating a hot meal, but vacationers are notoriously sloppy.
I grab the latch of the largest cargo bay door near the back tires and yank it upward.
It clicks and swings open.
“Get in,” I order, tossing the duffle bag and her backpack into the dark, cavernous storage space. It smells like mildew, old canvas chairs, and dust.
Rue doesn't hesitate. She scrambles into the cramped compartment on her hands and knees, turning around to grab Bullet as I shove the dog in after her.
I hear the crunch of boots hitting gravel. The cops are fanning out, checking the spaces between the trucks. The sweeps are moving toward us.
“Hurry,” Rue whispers, reaching her hands out from the darkness.
I fold my tall, battered frame into the tight space, my broad shoulders scraping against the metal latch. I reach out, grab the door, and pull it shut just as the sweeping beam of a police flashlight washes over the side of the RV.
The compartment plunges into pitch blackness.
We’re trapped in a metal fucking box, inches from the asphalt, listening to the heavy footsteps of the law searching for us just outside the thin fiberglass door.
28
RUE
The darknessinside the storage compartment is absolute, pressing against my eyes like a physical weight. And while I’ve never considered myself claustrophobic…
I sure as hell am now.
I huddle on my hands and knees on the ribbed metal floor, my back bowed to keep from hitting the low fiberglass ceiling. The space smells intensely of mildew, dust, and the stale nylon of folded canvas camping chairs.
It feels like there’s not enough oxygen. But I try not to think about that.
Beside me, Noah is folded into an impossibly small shape, his knees pulled to his chest. Even in the pitch black, I can hear the rigid catch in his breathing—the sound of him gritting his teeth as the cramped position pulls painfully at the fresh stitches in his arm.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of heavy boots on the gravel outside is so close it feels like they are stepping directly on my spine.
I press my hand over Bullet’s snout, terrified the dog will let out a whine. My heart hammers violently against my ribs, the sound deafening in the tiny metal box.
“Check between the axles,” a gruff voice commands, sounding like it’s barely three feet away.
A blinding silver of white light slices through the thin crack of the compartment door. It sweeps across the dark space, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and casting a harsh, pale line across Noah’s jaw. He doesn't even blink, his eyes locked on the door hinge, entirely motionless.
A police radio crackles loudly, the static sharp enough to make me flinch.“Perimeter secured. No sign of the suspects around the SUV.”
“Copy that,” the cop right outside our door mutters. The beam of the flashlight flickers away from the crack.
I let out a fraction of a breath, thinking he is about to walk away. But then, a new set of heavier, more relaxed footsteps crunches on the gravel approaching the RV.
“Whoa, hold it right there,” the cop barks, the sudden authority in his voice making me jump. “Keep your hands where I can see—” The cop stops abruptly. “Bill? Is that you?”
“Hey, Jimmy,” an older man's voice answers, sounding completely bewildered. “What in the heck is going on? I almost spilled my coffee walking out of the diner. You guys look like you're setting up for a parade.”
“Sorry about that. Didn't realize this was your rig,” the cop—Jimmy—says, his tone instantly shifting from authoritative to friendly. “We got a hot one. A stolen SUV was dumped right over there in the trucker lane. Suspects bailed. We’re setting up a perimeter and sweeping the lot. They’re still working to get the camera footage, but the victim said there was a man in a black hoodie. Maybe had a dog with him.”
My stomach plummets. I press my forehead against the cold floor, squeezing my eyes shut. They’re standing right outside our thin fiberglass door. If Bullet makes a single sound, we are dead.
“Well, I hardly ever hear of anything like that around here,” Bill says. “I didn’t see anyone run past the diner. You think they’re still in the lot?”
