“Who?”
“Blaze.”
The road blurred in front of me.
Of course.
Of course the universe would do this.
“Blaze,” I repeated carefully. “What kind of name is that?”
“Former Ranger. Good man. You can trust him.”
I almost laughed again.
Trust him?
I had trusted Hersh McDougal with every broken, foolish piece of my teenage heart.
And now I had to walk into his town, his tavern, his life, and pretend I didn’t know exactly how his handwriting looked when he wrote the words I’m coming hometo marry you.
“Felicity,” Michael said sharply. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Go straight there. Don’t stop. Don’t call anyone else. I’m on my way.”
“When is the trial?” I asked, because anger was easier than fear. “Because I’m getting really tired of running.”
His pause told me enough.
My throat tightened. “No.”
“It’s been pushed back again.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Six months.
I pulled onto the main road, one hand pressed against the steering wheel, the other gripping the phone so tightly my fingers hurt.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered.
“I know.”
No, he didn’t.
He didn’t know what it felt like to disappear while still breathing.
To have no one looking for you.
No one missing you.
No one knowing whether you were alive or dead.
Except now, someone from my past had seen me.
