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But right as I press the shutter, a red- and white-striped umbrella flies open, blocking my view and cocooning the two in privacy.
“Dammit!” I continue filling my SD card with image after image as they move.
They make their way toward the vehicle opposite the sedan, and Marcus carefully tucks her into the back before taking the driver’s seat for himself.
Defeated, I lower my camera as their ghost driver takes off.
My thoughts spin out of control, and a sinking sensation pits my stomach while Marcus puts the car into drive and heads in the opposite direction of the previous driver.
“Hey, you!” a man wearing tattered coveralls and muddied boots shouts. “What are you doing over there?”
Two men flank his sides as they barrel after me.
“Time to go.” I don’t waste another second before cramming my camera into its bag. Zipping it as fast as I can, I sling it over my shoulder, then pedal my way through a maze of junk piles and containers.
When the pounding of boots against wet concrete finally subsides, and I’ve hit an open, empty stretch of road, I cleanse my lungs with a deep breath.
I don’t know what Marcus is up to, and after what I just witnessed, I’m nervous to find out. But if I’ve learned anything about curiosity in journalism, it’s that it either leads to an incredible story or an immense amount of regret.
CHAPTERTWO
Marcus
By the way, do you have any idea how annoying this thing is?” Penelope pipes up from the backseat before stripping out of her disguise.
“Annoying, but necessary,” I say sternly. “If I get caught, I’m not taking you down with me.”
I glance at the umbrella shoved between the console and the passenger seat. There’s no such thing as being too cautious where the media is concerned.
In the rearview mirror, her long brown hair tumbles out of a thin cap.
When her reflection raises a scolding glare, I smirk. “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Besides, it’s not like I’m asking you to pretend to be my girlfriend or anything.”
The black wig smacks my cheek, and I toss the mangled hair on the seat beside me.
“Barf.” She wrinkles her freckled nose. “I can see the headline now, ‘Marcus Matthews caught kissing his cousin.’”
I huff a laugh. “We can add it to the family’s ever-growing list of scandals.”
I’ve lost track of them all at this point, anyway.
“Do you think anyone saw us?” Penelope asks.
“I don’t think so. But as long as no one follows us to Augustine, we’re good.”
The locals there are our second family, and I’ll stop at nothing to keep them safe.
She leans forward, to get a better view of the countryside. “I’m pretty sure if there were any stragglers, you’ve lost them by now.”
Augustine is nestled in the most rural part of Topica Bay, and about an hour south of Tauntuma. Tropical forests give way to lush farmland the farther we travel from the city, making this area in particular ideal for livestock and horse breeding.
The mountains scale high enough to brush low-hanging clouds, and bountiful patches of land have been preserved for various crops at their bases.
A sense of nostalgia washes over me as we pass a cluster of cottage-style homes, like those surrounding my uncle’s ranch. I check the road behind us, finding nothing but billowing dust as we bump along toward our home away from home.
The old red barn we used to play in as kids sits high on a hill, encompassed by miles of acreage for Uncle Patrick’s collection of horses.
“He’s really kept this place up,” I murmur more to myself than to my cousin.
