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Now, catching the guy in the baseball cap peering at her again, she swallowed back her fear. Told herself she was imagining things, that she was the only woman under forty on the bus and so it was natural.
Still . . .
Her heart hammered and her palms were sweating.
What if they got off when she did?
What if they followed her?
So far she hadn’t let anyone know where she was.
Not even Troy.
Nor her aunts, the closest people to her.
How could she?
She glanced out the window and in the reflection caug
ht the guy a row back looking her way again. Studying her.
Sweet Jesus.
Panic threatened to take hold of her as the big bus lumbered into the station, a sprawling stucco building with a red tile roof and an arched doorway, a mission-like facade to blend in with the Spanish architecture of the city. As soon as the doors to the bus opened, she bolted outside, hurrying into the chill of the New Mexico afternoon. Dusk was fast approaching, the shadows of the surrounding buildings crawling across the street. Inside, she bought her next ticket and in her peripheral vision caught sight of some of the other passengers, some hauling bags into the cavernous building. She was first in line at the counter. “One way to Missoula, Montana,” she said, remembering the name of the town nearest to Grizzly Falls.
“First train out is early in the morning,” the woman behind the counter, an African American with high cheekbones, rimless glasses, and a gold cross around her neck, advised her. “And I do mean early. Two thirty-seven.” She handed Ivy a slim schedule.
“What about Helena?” she asked as an announcement of a bus departure echoed through the building.
“Same difference.” The woman’s graying eyebrows drew together. “You okay, honey?” she asked, and Ivy had trouble finding her voice.
No. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay again! My mother and stepfather were killed in cold blood in their bedrooms. I am definitely not okay. “I’m fine,” she squeaked out. “I’ll take the ticket to Missoula.”
The woman looked as if she didn’t believe her as again Ivy fumbled with her cash and waited, feeling a nervous tic in her eye as the terminal employee made change. Ivy stuffed the ticket into her jacket pocket and hurried out of the terminal. Using her phone, she found a diner a couple of blocks over and, inside the small mom and pop establishment, she ordered a burger and fries, Diet Coke, and while waiting to be served, headed to the restroom. She used the toilet, splashed water on her face, then repaired her makeup and hair, but the reflection in the mirror stared back at her with wary, worried eyes. She looked like hell. Like she’d just witnessed a murder scene and no amount of mascara, blush, and lip gloss would change that.
Worst of all, she was recognizable.
Despite the fact that she looked like a ghost in comparison to the smiling head shot on her driver’s license, the photo she’d seen of herself on the Internet—already they were looking for her—she was still Ivy Wilde. That would have to change. She couldn’t chance being identified, or turned in, not until she did it on her own terms, not until she was certain she would be safe. If that were even possible.
She had hours before she could leave, so she’d have to find a place to crash. A dive of a no-tell motel, and while there she would change her appearance. Cut her hair. Dye it. Find a pair of sunglasses for herself and some kind of hat that didn’t stand out, but would cover her forehead and shade her eyes. And buy an oversized sweatshirt to wear over her jacket, to make her look heavier.
Back at her table, she found her order waiting, the hamburger still warm, the French fries crispy. She was hungry and dug into the burger with gusto, washing the first couple of bites down with swallows of her Diet Coke. Then her stomach seized. Threatened to hurl. She waited. Sipped the soda, glanced out the huge plate glass window to the parking lot where a few dusty cars and pickups were scattered.
She tried again.
The next bite stuck in her throat.
Another swallow of the diet drink. Maybe the fizz would . . .
Something caught her eye. A shadow outside. Quick movement. She squinted to a hedgerow separating the burger joint’s parking lot from that of a neighboring brick building.
Then nothing.
Everything seemed normal.
Four teenagers, loud and laughing, walked into the restaurant and found a booth where the two girls giggled at whatever it was the boys were saying. They fell onto the benches and sprawled, high on life or whatever.
Ivy couldn’t handle another bite. What she had eaten felt like a brick, heavy in her stomach. She took another swallow of the soda, then peered through the window again, her gaze scouring every inch of the parking lot, but as she did, she let her mind wander . . . and it returned once again to the image of her mother lying naked and dead in her bed.
