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His being part of Maggie’s pack didn’t make me trust Caleb any more than I had before. I’d made a clean break with them and couldn’t let on that I knew his family. They couldn’t know where I was or where I was heading. It was safer for them and for me. Also, I was pretty sure Maggie would kick my ass for leaving the way I did. She was a stickler about policy and procedure.
“And why are you traveling south?” he asked. “Getting too cold for you?”
“I’m meeting up with a friend,” I lied smoothly.
Caleb tensed. “What sort of friend?”
“An old roommate, Cindy,” I said.
The tension drained out of Caleb’s frame, and he scooped up another bite. “Well, that’s nice. But you never know what could happen.”
I arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, plans change sometimes,” he said vaguely.
What did he mean by that? Was he going to change my plans for me? Under the table, my hand instinctively wrapped around my shoulder bag. I considered the ladies’ room again. I couldn’t remember seeing bathroom windows on the front of the building. Did that mean they opened at the sides?
He laughed. “So do you believe that I’m not, in fact, a serial killer?”
I kept my face neutral. No, he was something much more dangerous. And I had a sneaking suspicion he was probably quite good at his job.
I smiled blandly. “I’m almost convinced.” I stood and hooked my shoulder bag over my arm.
He scowled. “Where are you going?”
“The ladies’ room? I’ve had three glasses of juice.”
He gave me an apologetic little shrug, although he eyed my purse with suspicion. I turned on my heel and walked as casually as I could through the dingy restroom door. Swearing mental apologies to any other girls in the dining room, I shoved the rubber wedge stopper under the door until it couldn’t be budged.
The bathroom was a pink-tiled one-seater with a crank window just over the toilet. I stood on the seat, trying to gauge whether my shoulders would fit through. Glancing outside at the unkempt little side yard between the diner and the garage next door, I turned the window crank. Given the ungodly squealing noise it made, I guessed that it hadn’t been used in a while. Cringing, I glanced over my shoulder, waiting for the sound of Caleb the bounty hunter approaching the door.
I turned the crank again, and it gave a bit, lifting the window slowly. After a few turns, it was open just wide enough that I could squeeze my head through. After giving it one last rotation for good luck, I zipped my shoulder bag and tossed it through. I carefully stepped on top of the toilet tank, praying it would support my weight while I slithered through the opening.
I told myself it was a game, a claustrophobic version of limbo. How small could I go? Contracting my body into the most aerodynamic shape possible, I slipped my hand into the cool morning air. My head and shoulders slid out easily, but my stomach and hips caught sideways on the ledge, stealing my breath.
“Stupid French toast!” I muttered, wiggling myself free.
I looked down and realized I was a good five feet off the dirt, head down, with no clue how to land safely.
“This was a stupid plan,” I told myself, gritting my teeth against the pressure on my middle, debating if taking my chances with Caleb would have been a better option than giving myself a traumatic brain injury involving a toilet.
Suddenly, my hips worked loose, and I free-fell. I shoved my hands over my head as I flailed my legs. My ankle caught against the sill on the way down, slowing my descent, so I was able to flop down on my back instead of face-planting.
“Stupid, stupid plan.” I huffed, struggling against gravity and my lackluster upper-body strength. “Stupid gravity.”
“Is there a reason you’re hanging out of the bathroom window by your feet?” Caleb asked wryly.
“Dang it!” I cried as my feet lost their tenuous hold against the windowsill.
I dropped, rolling my shoulder against the asphalt and landing with an uhf. In a few seconds, Caleb was lifting me by my underarms, my feet barely brushing the ground.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” I grumbled, twisting out of his grip.
Reluctantly, he dropped me to the asphalt, and I yanked my rumpled clothes back into place. “What were you doing?”
“If you have to ask, you’re probably not a very good bounty hunter,” I retorted, with far more dignity than I deserved, given the whole hanging-upside-down-from-a-bathroom-window thing.
“Why the hell would you run from me?” he asked, sounding genuinely insulted. “I thought I’d made myself clear that I am not and don’t plan to be a serial killer.”
