Chapter 1
Ashley
Ishouldnotbespeeding.
I know that. I really do.
But the road is empty, the sun is already slipping behind the ridge, and my nerves are stretched thin. If I slow down long enough to think, I might fall apart completely.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. I tell myself I'm almost there.Wherever there happens to be.
Somewhere new. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere far from my controlling ex-boyfriend.
The speedometer creeps higher.
Then red and blue lights flare in my rearview mirror.
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. My hands start trembling.
"No," I whisper, even though there's no one to hear me. "No, no, no."
I ease my foot off the gas and pull onto the narrow shoulder, pulse hammering in my wrists like I've done something far worse than drive too fast on an empty mountain road.
This can't be happening.
I glance at the passenger seat, then the back seat, cataloging everything that suddenly feels incriminating now that a police cruiser is parked behind me.
Boxes. Bags. A duffle stuffed with clothes I grabbed in a hurry. An envelope of cash. A folder with all my personal papers, my birth certificate, and social security card.
It looks like I’m running from something.
I roll the window down and wait, forcing myself to breathe as boots crunch against gravel behind me.
When he steps into view, my brain stutters.
He’s beautiful. Tall, with broad shoulders that fill out his uniform. The badge on his chest catches the last of the daylight.
Officer Ross Kavanaugh, his nameplate reads.
He stops beside my window, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. Not unfriendly. Not aggressive. Just... present.
"Evening," he says. His voice is deep, calm and steady, and he has a gentle Appalachian drawl. "Any idea how fast you were going back there?"
My face flushes. "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching the speedometer."
That's technically true, even if the reason I wasn't watching it is because I was busy trying not to panic about my entire life.
He studies me for a second, and I have the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that he sees more than he should. My clenched jaw. The way my hands won't stop shaking.
"License and registration, please."
My fingers fumble as I reach into the glove compartment. Papers spill out, sliding onto the floor at my feet. I mutter anapology that sounds thin even to my own ears and scramble to gather them.
He waits, patient and observant.
When I finally hand everything over, his gaze flicks briefly to the backseat, where boxes are stacked like I packed my life in a rush.
Which I did.
