I freeze, my hands clamping down harder on Bullet.
“Rue.” Noah’s voice is light and loud, and the sheer relief that washes over me is so intense my knees actually go weak. “You there?”
“I’m here,” I scramble to the edge of the bales, peering down into the gloom.
“Come on,” he orders, his face a pale shadow in the early morning light filtering through the skylight. “Bill took the dog and left in his truck with his camper. The property is empty. Grab the bags.”
I don't hesitate or even ask questions at this point. I shove my arms through the straps of my backpack, gather Bullet into my arms, and carefully navigate the makeshift stairs of hay bales. Noah takes the dog from me the second I reach the dirt floor, his good arm wrapping securely around Bullet’s middle.
“We’re going to the house,” Noah mutters, tossing his duffel bag over his shoulder, as he sets Bullet down.
He leads the way across the sprawling, exposed dirt of the farmyard. The morning sky is beginning to turn a bruised, hazy purple, signaling that the sun is right on our heels. We reach the back porch of the weathered two-story farmhouse, and Noah tries the knob.
It turns easily. Either Bill left it unlocked, or Noah already took care of it.
We slip inside, Noah quietly shutting the wooden door behind us. The house smells musty, layered with the scent of stale coffee, old leather boots, and dust. The kitchen counters are cluttered with mail, empty mugs, and a sparse assortment of dishes.
“Gross,” I think out loud.
“Yeah…” Noah lingers there in the kitchen with me, his face mirroring mine. “I think this guy lives alone. And has for… a very long time.”
“Well… It is what it is.”
“Yeah, I’m going to see what kind of supplies he has. Maybe find some keys to a spare vehicle—if he has one,” Noah says,setting Bullet down on the linoleum floor. “Keep away from the windows for now.”
I nod, wandering out of the kitchen and down a short hallway. The house is sickeningly quiet, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my damp sneakers. I step into the living room. It's aggressively brown—brown recliner, brown plaid sofa, wood-paneled walls.
A large flat-screen TV sits on a bulky entertainment center.
I stare at the black screen, my fingers suddenly twitching. I need to know. I need to know if the world still thinks Noah is at the bottom of the lake, or if the stolen SUV blew our cover.
I spot the remote resting on the arm of the recliner. I snatch it up, point it at the screen, and press the power button, quickly scrambling to hit the volume down button so it doesn't blare through the house.
The screen flickers to life, already tuned to a local news station.
“...authorities are still piecing together the timeline of events from the Glenrio Travel Center early this morning,”a polished female news anchor announces, her face grave.
My stomach drops.
The screen cuts away from the anchor, showing shaky footage. Yellow police tape is strung around the gas pumps.
“The victim, Christopher Banderra, reported his vehicle stolen after a brief stop,”the anchor continues.“But it was the victim’s description and footage of the carjacker that has completely upended a massive, ongoing investigation hundreds of miles away.”
“Noah…” I choke out, my voice barely a whisper.
The screen flashes, replacing the travel plaza footage with two side-by-side images. On the left is a grainy, zoomed-in still from what appears to be a dashcam or security camera. It showsa tall man in a dark hoodie, his face partially obscured, carrying a small dog toward a parked vehicle.
On the right is Noah’s mugshot.
My hand goes to my chest, my entire body feeling light all of a sudden.
“Investigators now have reason to believe that escaped fugitive and convicted murderer Thomas Noah Peterson may have survived his plunge into a lake two states away,”the anchor’s voice rings through the musty living room, sealing our fate.“Authorities are warning the public that Peterson might be alive, mobile, and considered extremely dangerous.”
“Oh shit,” Noah’s voice comes in from behind me. “This is not good.”
I turn toward him, his face paling. “Where the hell are we in proximity to all this?”
Noah shakes his head, his frown deepening. “I don’t know, but we should probably figure it out. Pronto.”
