Page 33 of You Can Run

Trent stood in the kitchen, his Glock still sitting on the counter where she'd left it.

He dried his hands, then picked up the gun and slid it back into his holster. His fingers were shaking, but less than they had been. The fear was still there, but something else was settling in over top of it: the familiar warmth of feeling like he mattered again.

She'd given him a role. That meant he was in, and being in meant he could steer this.

He just had to stay ahead of it long enough to take back what was his.

FOURTEEN

The one-stop-sign townsof South Texas slid past the 'Cuda's windows.

Dante had kept them off the main highways since Agua Dulce, cutting through back roads that bent and wandered instead of running straight. The journey was far slower but slower meant fewer cameras and fewer eyes.

Jessica rested her temple against the window, letting the vibration of the engine hum through her bones. The adrenaline had drained out of her in stages, leaving behind a deep ache that had settled into her muscles and refused to leave. She could still feel the imprint of Dante's hand at her shoulder, the heat of him against her skin, like her body hadn't caught up to the fact that he'd let go hours ago.

She lifted her gaze to the dashboard clock. They had been driving for hours.

“You're weaving,” she said quietly.

It took him a second to respond. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, a small correction that didn't quite disguise the drift she'd noticed.

“I'm fine,” he said. “We're making time.”

“You're not fine. You're running on fumes.”

He didn't look at her. “I'll sleep when we get there.”

“That's still hours,” she said, turning toward him, studying the shadows under his eyes, the tension that hadn't left his shoulders since Santiago's driveway. “And that's if we don't hit traffic near the coast.”

He didn't answer, which told her enough.

“Pull over in the next town,” she said.

“No.”

Jessica exhaled slowly. “Dante.”

“We keep moving. That's how this works.”

“That's how people fall asleep behind the wheel and don't wake up.” The edge crept in despite herself. “There's something coming up—Oakhaven, Oakridge, something. Barely a dot on the map. No one's going to be looking for us in a place like that.”

He checked the rearview mirror, then the side, then the road ahead. “We don't know who owns those motels.”

“We don't know who owns anything. Not the gas stations, not the cars driving past us. At some point you just have to pick your risk.” She paused. “And right now, the risk is you. If we're going to make it to Galveston and deal with this Miller guy, I need to be able to stand up straight when we get there.”

The engine rumbled as he eased off the accelerator for a yellow light, the first sign of anything resembling a town in miles. The 'Cuda rolled through the intersection as Oakhaven revealed itself in pieces. A grain silo. A row of low buildings with darkened windows. A diner with a flickering sign.

Dante slowed, his fingers tapping once against the steering wheel. Then he turned off the main road.

The motel appeared at the far end of the street, its sign glowing a sickly green against the deepening sky.

THE PALMS.

There were no palms. Just two scorched yuccas in plastic pots and a row of doors that all looked the same. He pulled into the lot and cut the engine.

The quiet rang in Jessica's ears. Neither of them moved.

Dante's hands stayed on the wheel, his head lowering until his forehead rested against it, as though stopping had finally allowed something in him to give.