I used to follow her advice on fun adventures. That is, until she killed her husband on one of them.
—@livelovelaugh47
Cara’s palms burned and her knee throbbed from breaking her fall. At least she hadn’t hit her head, although a concussion might have given her a break from her current reality. Lifting herself into a sitting position, she pulled aside the torn and blood-soaked fabric of her jumpsuit to see how badly she’d banged herself up. It didn’t look great.
The phone still seemed to work, but there was no service. In the past, Cara had wasted countless hours scrolling her For You pages, looking for the best fragrances, hottest makeup dupes, and the latest home decor ideas. In all that time, only one of the online astrologers she followed had actually foretoldupcoming difficulty, and even that one had failed to pinpoint imprisonment or this sudden turn as a fugitive. Now here she was, in need of first aid, and all she knew was not to swab her bloody knee with a leaf that could turn out to be poison oak.
Making matters even worse, the bottom of her right fake Croc had a rock wedged in the arch and its rubber was split open. She may have had no idea how to treat a wound, but she’d seen enough hacks to try and fix her broken shoe. In her former life as an influencer, Cara might even have reapplied lipstick, set up her phone and ring light, and recorded what she thought of as one of her “relatable” posts:First, pry the jagged rock from the sole. Then grab a handful of small pebbles, which you will use to rejoin one side to the other by inserting them into the rubber along the cracked sole. Press the two sides together, and voila!
The first pebble was too dull and wouldn’t go in. The second gouged a bigger hole than the one she already had. And while she managed to insert the third pebble into both sides and press them together, they didn’t stay that way for long. She let the fourth pebble fall from her hand, knowing this was a true #DIYfail.
Cara hobbled toward the lake, her knee aching and her good leg hampered by the broken shoe. She could only put weight on her toes and the usable front part while the heel and strap flopped flaccidly behind. She wasn’t really hurt, but the setback from the minor fall was enough to fill her eyes with dusty tears.
Tears that kept coming.
For months, she had cried herself to sleep picturing Karl’s mangled, bludgeoned body, with dried blood darkening his gray hair and beard, at the bottom of the ravine below Johnson’s Point. When and where she’d ever sleep again, she had no idea, but she knew that ghastly image would now be accompanied by those of Eve, New Girl, Poff, and Vozenilek’s severed head. Bree’s dying moments would haunt her for the rest of her own life.
She was still ugly-crying as she rounded a bend and saw a glint of metal.
Panic stopped her tears. She froze until she realized the sunlight was not reflecting off the wheel rim of a police cruiser, as she had feared, but a Portofino Blue Range Rover SE.
Cara knew the car because she drove one.
Or used to, anyway.
She’d settled for Hakuba Silver, her second-favorite color, because she was too impatient to wait three to six months for a blue one with the illuminated metal treadplates and cabin air purification she just had to have. She knew everything about the vehicle, from how to use the automatic-access height feature to the cornering brake control—and she would park it in a safe place, to be reclaimed by its rightful owner, just as soon as she was done using it.
So it wouldn’t be stealing, not really.
The Portofino Blue Range Rover—now, more than ever, the car of her dreams—was parked beside a lakeside picnic table. Cara spotted a yellow-and-blue striped beach towel on the bench just as she heard splashing in the distance. Climbing a few steps up a nearby hill, she hid behind a cottonwood tree to assess the situation.
The serene lake was bathed in afternoon sun. On the other side of the picnic area, down a tree-lined path, was a small cove, where she could just barely see a seemingly nude couple frolicking in the water. The scene was so on-brand for @carasloveisgold the hashtags wrote themselves:#Romance #GetawaysAreGold,#AfternoonDip, #LovingMyLife, #SunAndSwim.
#AboutToHaveMyCarStolen.
With luck, the twosome would remain blissfully unaware that the FBI’s soon-to-be-most-wanted fugitive was about to relieve them of their transportation.
That is, if they’d left the vehicle unlocked.
Cara crept toward the passenger side of the car. Its windows were tinted, but she could still make out the outline of a cooler, a grocery store jug of water, and tote bags containing assorted supplies. This couple came prepared. Certainly, they were the type of people who would have the optional Range Rover First Aid Kit tucked into the cargo area. She was all set, so long as the vehicle was open and they’d left the keys inside—which seemed possible. All she had to do was slide in from the passenger side, climb into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. She’d be halfway down the gravel road before the owners swam to shore.
She reached for the passenger-side door handle.
It was locked.
Cara’s next impulse was to pick up a rock and break the back window, car alarm be damned. Thinking better of it, she sneaked over to the picnic table to see if they’d left the key fob underneath the towel.
There were no keys there.
There were, however, a white chocolate macadamia Clif bar and a pair of Golden Goose Super-Star sneakers.
Her stomach growled at the sight of food while her feet practically shouted with relief at the prospect of real shoes.
The splashing at the shore had stopped. Hurrying, Cara slipped off her fake Crocs, pulled her extra-long pant legs down over her the heels and arches of her size-seven-and-a-half feet in order to avoid blisters, and slipped on one of the decidedly larger shoes. She had tied and double-knotted it, and was about to start on the other, when she heard a voice.
“Hey!”
The man—huskier than she’d imagined the male half of her fashionista couple to be—stood halfway up the path from the cove, the other yellow-and-blue towel knotted loosely around his waist.
