“Ugh, so secretive.”
“You’ll know soon enough,” I say, laying a handover her thigh.
Once we arrive, I turn to the long-stay parking lot while the SUVs continue toward the airport, as instructed. I find the spot I booked and reverse into it before cutting off the ignition.
“What now?” Andrea asks.
I reach into the glove compartment and take out the large craft envelope I slipped in there earlier this morning. From it, I retrieve two plane tickets, which I hand to Andrea. “I fucking knew it,” she says with excitement. “Belize, here we come!”
“The company’s log will show that we got on that plane and landed in Belize, but we won’t.”
Her joy dies instantly, eyes looking up at me with equal parts betrayal and confusion. “Wait, where are we going then?”
“The opposite direction.”
“But that’s … north.”
“Exactly.”
She thinks about it for a second, and then it clicks. “Canada?! You’re taking me to fucking Canada?!”
I confirm with a dry nod.
“Ah, fuck, it’s even colder there.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
That, to my surprise, isn’t enough to buy her forgiveness. She stares at me with a miffed look and asks, “How are we going there?”
I motion at the window on her side, to the car parked right beside us. She lifts her head enough to see, and her eyebrows twist when she recognizes it. “Is that my car?”
“Yes. I changed the plates and registered them under another name. But we’ll switch to a better one at the border. If it can last that long,” I add, glaring at the rolling coffin. It’s the only flaw in my plan, but the beat-up Ford will offer us the perfect cover.
“Are we sure we can’t use these?” she insists, waving the plane tickets in her hand.
“You can’t swim in the sea yet, and you need to avoid the sun on your scar,” I remind her. “We’ll see once you’re fully healed.”
She sighs, defeated, and I lean in to offer her a small, apologetic kiss on her temple.
I can feel her eyes on me as I load the suitcases I prepared into her car, and when I return to help her out, her scowl hasn’t dimmed. As carefully as I can, I help her out of her seat and lead her to the passenger side of the old Ford. With her guidance, I adjust the seat to be as comfortable as possible for her, and close the door to head to my side, locking my car behind me.
“There are a few more things in there,” I say once I’m in, opening the craft envelope again. As I suspected, the sight of two foreignpassports piques her interest. “This one’s yours,” I explain, handing her the dark blue one.
“So, I’m Canadian? I’ll need to work on my accent.Aboot. Eh? I’msoorry.”
“Let’s hope we don’t encounter anyone,” I mumble, more to myself than to her.
She still hears it, though, and gives my arm a feeble smack. Side-eyeing me, she opens her passport before looking down at it. Her eyebrows rise when she sees the picture there. It’s her, but not entirely. It resembles her enough to pass, but not enough to be linked to her actual person in case it ends up being checked by the authorities.
Her surprise increases when she sees the name I picked for her. “I’m… Alexandra Wilson?”
I nod, now feeling silly for my decision. In my defense, the pressure of organizing all this in as little time as possible allowed little time for thinking things through.
“That’s hilarious. I love it,” she approves. Curious to see the names I’ve picked for myself, she grabs the second passport from my hand.
“British? Isn’t that risky? If you think my Canadian accent is bad, boy, do I have some news for you, buddy.”
“Whatever makes you think I can’t pass for a proper Englishman?” I ask with a perfect upper-class English accent—a useless skill I developed as a child.
