I scrape the car, adjust the seat, and I’m rumbling off.
Four blocks away, I find a newer Honda that I know the device will work on, and I park the Mustang next to it, then get to work on that car.
Circling Dinkytown in the Honda, I spy an old school Land Rover I can boost manually, so I park the Honda next to it and pull out my tools. It’s hard with one hand screaming at me, but I manage it.
Two more cars boosted and parked, then I’m heading out to the suburbs.
It takes forty minutes, turning up and down streets, minutes slipping by that I’m not sure I have, but I find what I’m looking for. I park a few blocks away in the lot of an office park, andtrudge back to the place I saw, my ankle now swollen and achy. It takes another ten minutes of digging through the attached garage, my breath halting with every creak of the wind against the walls, to find the surprisingly well-labeled bin of towing supplies.
Then, I’m pulling out of the driveway, strangely elated, having never driven one of these things before, carefully inching across the icy streets back to the car, then struggling to hitch the stolen car behind, yet another thing I’ve never done before. And with no internet to help me out, I’m not sure I’ve done it right.
But when I pull onto the freeway, it stays hitched, so I assume I haven’t fucked up too badly.
And because I’m a bit of an ass, I pull off about a mile before I should, parking in a McDonald’s lot and unhitching.
I bring my last stolen car—a high-end SUV with after-market rims—to the spot I stole the Mustang from, parking it where the Mustang was, and with a painful skip and whistle, start the long, hobbling walk back to my prize.
Each car stolen within a mile of our house tonight will lead to another car stolen within a mile of our house. One big circle screaming ‘fuck you’ to whoever is looking for us.
They’ll have to scan far and wide to figure out what we’re actually driving. And even then, we’re probably going to switch a few more times.
Disappearing.
I never thought we’d have to.
But I never thought the girl I love would be forced into marrying my friend. Or that we’d be watched by so many interested parties, not one of them standing on the right side of the law.
I never thought that I’d leave without saying goodbye.
But life is funny like that sometimes. Saying goodbye rarely happens, not when it really matters.
I check the time—I’m cutting it close, but I’ll make it. And then?
Then we start a new journey.
A whole ass new life. The five of us. And in this one, I get to be Canadian. Why the fuck not?
Only when I get inside the dark, nasty house, I’m the only one there.
Thirty minutes until it’s go time.
Where is everyone?
Chapter 28
Walker
Trips lets me take the driver’s seat without a fight, which is one of many indications that this guy is broken. After he explained what had happened, he didn’t say much of anything, leaving the three of us to decide to run.
His contribution was staring at Clara as she clung to me. His face was blank enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know him.
Too blank to fool any of us.
His father is dangerous, so dangerous that fleeing is the right choice, one he didn’t even fight against. He mentioned his sister, once, but then shut up and went along with it. His hand is nearly the size of his big-ass head, and every time he goes to do something with it, he sucks in a breath, an announcement on a billboard signaling that it hurts like hell. Add the scratches from the cat? He’s not doing well.
“Where to?” I ask, pulling out of the drive.
“Where would you go on a Sunday night?”
