We all are.
“Should have beens don’t keep us safe. Do we have a plan?” I ask, redirecting.
“Besides getting as far away from him as possible?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Pushing him out of the way, the first voluntary physical contact I’ve had with him in over a week, my palms tingling with awareness as he backs out of the bench, I dive for my bag under the small table by the door. Digging out my notebook and a pen, I bring it back to the table, sliding in across from him. “Then let’s get started.” I flip it open and write ‘To-Do’ on the top in large, neat letters. Why work on my code when we’re on the run? A public trash can in any roadside town should be plenty safe.
Trips rolls his eyes, his breath coming out in a huff. “You think a checklist is really what we should focus on right now?”
“Where are we heading?”
“West.”
“Bad call. Most people flee west in the US. We need to plan.”
“Your criminal psych books don’t have all the answers.”
“You’re right. But they have a few of them. We need to choose a destination, preferably not straight west. Then, we need an actual plan. Driving and hoping isn’t going to get us out of this mess.”
“What, you think we’re going to take down my father’s decades’ worth of blackmail and intimidation with a little brainstorming session? Us and what army?”
I don’t have a plan. I’m realizing that my checklists are more of a way to keep my anxiety under control than evidence of my organizational capabilities. But the more Trips says, the more a not-plan drifts into my mind.
There’s no plan. Not really.
But, given enough information, enough time, there could be.
Before, my success at this might have been beginner’s luck, but now? I know more. Not a lot more, but with the guys’ experience? I’m going to find a way out of this.
I have to.
There’s not any alternative. Not anymore.
Chapter 36
Clara
El Paso, Texas, isn’t someplace any of us have been before, so when we get to Wyoming, we hang a left and head south down I-25. RJ and I take turns driving and resting, Jansen, Trips, and Walker all deemed too injured to drive for now.
As we get to Colorado, though, it’s obvious we need a place to stop for the night so RJ and I don’t crash the huge beast we’re on. None of us have driven something like an RV before, and my already scattered nerves are completely frayed by the time we find a state park with a hookup for the thing.
It’s only three in the afternoon, but we left at midnight, and none of us are doing well.
I try not to think about how I’m probably the farthest I’ve ever been from home right now. I fail.
We stopped at a shopping center earlier, and RJ jumped out and got us pay-as-you-go phones, a basic laptop, and a hot spotfor us all to share. Jansen and Trips grabbed groceries. Walker and I sat with the RV while I made a toy for Fluffington from chunks of a fraying crocheted monstrosity that was decorating the toilet.
Who decorates toilets?
Once we had the laptop, RJ found us this campsite, a preloaded credit card reserving our spot a few miles before we pulled in. And as soon as we park, he looks up how to attach the electricity and water to the beast, then hops off to get it going.
The rest of us sit in the living space. None of us say anything, the early afternoon sun brighter in the mountains than at home. My heart pounds like I’ve run up a hill, but according to RJ’s other research, that’s just the altitude making my heart work harder.
He handed out bottles of water to all of us, instructing us to drink them, and mine is nearly empty, the silence needing to be filled by something.
