A loud crash from outside—a trucker dropping a ramp—made her jump, automatically moving closer to him. He could see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"You're doing fine," he said quietly.
"I'm buying clothes at a truck stop while professional killers are hunting me. I'm barely keeping it together."
"You're still standing. That's what matters."
She stood, testing the boots. "I look ridiculous."
"You look like someone who won't break an ankle if we have to run."
"Always the optimist." But her hand found his arm, steadying herself.
They grabbed additional essentials—socks, a baseball cap, basic toiletries. Sarah paused at a display of sunglasses, trying on a pair of aviators. Her hands were shaking again.
"Too Top Gun?"
"Too memorable. Get the plain ones."
She switched them out, then caught sight of herself in the security mirror. "I don't even recognize myself."
"That's the point."
Sarah nodded, straightening her shoulders. "Okay then."
At the checkout, the teenage cashier barely looked up from her phone. Griff paid cash, keeping his head down, baseball cap shadowing his face from the cameras. Sarah stood slightly behind him, but he could feel her tension, the way she tracked every person who walked past.
"Can I change here?" she asked the cashier, voice admirably steady.
"Bathroom's in the back."
While Sarah changed, he grabbed coffee and protein bars, keeping one eye on the bathroom door and another on the parking lot. Her ankle was clearly better, but she’d need ice again soon. Not at the moment, though. The woman was already beyond over-stimulated. Griff had the sense that any more input and she’d crack.
A state trooper strolled in. Sarah would have to walk right past him. Griff positioned himself to intercept if needed, but the trooper was only grabbing coffee, laughing with the cashier about something.
Sarah emerged five minutes later, and Griff could see she'd been crying. The kind of breakdown you have in a truck stop bathroom when you realize your old life is actually gone. But she'd pulled herself together, chin up, moving with purpose.
Gone was the polished professional. In her place stood someone who could have been any traveler on any highway—jeans, flannel over t-shirt, baseball cap pulled low, hiking boots. She'd scrubbed off what remained of her makeup, and without it, she looked younger, more vulnerable.
"Better?" she asked.
"Invisible. Perfect."
She dumped her old clothes in the trash, hesitating only when it came to the duct-taped boots.
"They saved my life," she said quietly.
"They did their job. Let them go."
She dropped them in, taking a shuddering breath. "Goodbye, old life."
Back in the SUV, Sarah pulled off the baseball cap the minute he hit the road and ran her fingers through her hair with shaking hands. "That cashier thought we were married."
"What?"
"She assumed. The way you were hovering, buying my clothes." Her voice was too bright again, forced cheerful. "She made a comment about 'my husband' being generous. I didn't correct her because married couple on a road trip is better cover than 'woman running from assassins with stranger she met two days ago.'"
She laughed, but it had an edge of hysteria.
