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“Do you want to move?”
“Calm down, Faiza,” he’d suggested in that slightly patronizing, I’m-the-man-rational-and-calm voice, as if she were the screeching out-of-control woman. Ironic somehow, when she was the one who provided everything, every damned thing for them. “I’m talking about the place on the mountain,” he explained in his condescending tone. “It’s got to be worth a small fortune. Maybe a large fortune.”
“It’s a damned white elephant. And Margrove borrowed against it. I don’t think we’re underwater on it, not yet, but no one wants it. No one!” She’d let it all out then. “Don’t you get it, Roger? Everything we’ve worked for all these years. All this”—she made a wide, sweeping gesture with her arms to indicate the house and grounds and their entire lifestyle—“it’ll be gone like that!” She’d snapped her fingers. “And worse yet? Now that little shit Jonas is out, and he’s going to want his cut.”
“So to speak.”
“That’s not funny, Roger. Get serious. We are going to lose everything. And please, please don’t patronize me, okay? Don’t tell me that ‘I’ll handle it,’ because I can’t. Not this time. And with that psycho Jonas out of jail, things are going to get bad, Roger. Very, very bad.”
He frowned then and she’d expected him to turn to his bong. Instead, he’d stood, left his guitar on the couch and in a surprise move muttered, “Well, if you won’t handle it, I will.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she’d asked, suddenly worried.
His smile had twisted and his eyes had glinted in a way that disturbed her, in a manner she hadn’t seen in a long, long while. “Don’t ask and I won’t tell. The less you know, the better off we both are.”
Her insides had grown cold. “What, Roger? What are you planning?”
“Shhh.” He’d placed a rough finger to her lips.
“Roger . . .”
“I’ll be back.” He’d turned to leave and offered her a sly, knowing smile. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.”
“Don’t!” she’d cried, suddenly worried.
He’d shrugged into his leather jacket and looked at her over his shoulder. “Don’t what?”
She’d been about to say, “Don’t hurt anyone,” but her words had come out as, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
And so now, hours later, she waited, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and worrying and praying that he’d found a way to keep things the way they’d been for twenty years, the way they were supposed to be. And she hoped to high heaven that he hadn’t been forced to resort to violence.
But with Roger, she never really knew.
* * *
Chad hadn’t gotten far.
Fifty miles east of Whimstick, the goddamned battery on the old truck had finally given out. He’d made the mistake of stopping for gas and a Hot Pocket at a convenience store and when he’d climbed back into the truck, the old Dodge hadn’t been able to start, the familiar grinding slowing to a defeatedclick, click, clickwhenever he twisted on the ignition.
He’d wasted hours calling for service, waiting for help, then being delayed again as the battery he needed wasn’t in stock and they’d had to send someone to Bend for one that would actually work. He’d ended up wasting most of the day, drinking beer at the one bar in town and eventually shelling out way too much for a new goddamned battery. By the time he’d hit the road again it had been late afternoon.
So now he was here, parked on a forgotten spur of an old logging road that was rarely traveled, not twenty-five miles from where he’d started, drinking from a pint of rotgut whiskey he’d picked up while waiting for the truck to be fixed.
It was a setback, one he hadn’t counted on, but he’d deal with it.
He took another swig, then wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. One part of his plan had worked. When he’d left early this morning, he’d headed east. He’d intended to leave some evidence in his wake, a clue to fool the cops into thinking he was heading to Idaho or Montana and buy himself more time. In reality, he’d planned to double back. That had been accomplished. Enough people in the small town—little more than a dot on the map—had seen him, and he’d made it known that he was traveling toward Billings, where he had a cousin. He might have overplayed his hand a bit because if he were really driving to the middle of Montana, wouldn’t he have kept it to himself? Maybe. But the cops would take the bait; he was pretty sure. And he’d called his cousin yesterday, told him he’d be passing through, and he’d always explained to Brittlynn that if they had to leave quickly, they’d make their way to Billings and the airport there.
He thought—well, he hoped—that he’d covered all his bases.
The deal was that he had always intended to turn around and cut north through Washington and drive into Canada. Which he would do tomorrow, leaving again long before dawn and finding a car parked on the street in some tiny town and steal its license plate. He’d probably have to ditch the car and cross into Canada by bus or something, but he’d figure that out tomorrow.
He still had time.
As much as it bothered him, Chad considered the sorry fact that Britt might turn him in.
Man, she’d be pissed when he didn’t show up tonight.
But Brittlynn was a smart girl, always interested in saving her own skin, so he figured he was safe, at least for a day or two. She’d expect him to return, tail between his legs, apologize and they would have wild, heart-stopping sex for a while before everything turned to shit again.
