“Well, this heap of shit isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.”
“Because of you.” My heart thrums in my chest as Fox tries to trap me. “I don’t have to put up with this.” I grab my bags, open the driver’s door, and fling myself out of the garage and stomp down the shadowy drive.
Fox catches up with me, his stupid long legs having no problem keeping pace with me. “Where are you going at this time of night?” he asks as his gaze drops to my feet. “In a pair of Crocs?” Like my footwear is the biggest issue here.
“Anywhere away from you.”
“This is Red Lake, Cleo. There are no buses, Ubers, or even hotels that will open their doors to you at this time of night. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I don’t need a car to get away from you.” My heart pounds at the thought of being trapped once again by a man who thinks he knows better.
“I could see if Samuel’s awake? Give me your phone, andI’ll pop his number in. Oh wait. You don’t have a phone. Why is that?”
“Because technology is slowly but surely killing our social skills. I made an active choice to switch off. You should try it sometime. Looks like you could do with a little relaxing.” The strap of my rucksack falls off my shoulder into the crook of my arm, but I don’t pause as I keep stomping toward the main road.
Fox plucks the bag from my arm and swings it over his shoulder. I freeze and turn to face him. “Give it back.”
He smirks. “I’m being a gentleman. Also double-checking you didn’t decide to take a little extra on your way out the door.” He swings it forward and unzips it.
“Hey! You have zero personal boundaries.”
“Can’t have personal boundaries for a person whose name you don’t know.”
“That makes no sense. Personal boundaries don’t stop existing because you don’t know someone’s name.”
“So you admit Cleo isn’t your real name?” I press my lips together as he roots around in my bag. He whistles. “Who carries this much cash around with them? Do you have a bank account? Oh wait, no. That would need a real name. My grandmother has really been paying you in cash? I need to have a talk with her about money laundering.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you a ride to the nearest station.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. The nearest police station where they can take your fingerprints and photo which they can run through their systems and maybe they can tell us who you really are.”
“Not everyone who’s running has something to hide. Sometimes they’re just hiding from people.”
“In my experience, people who run do so because they havedone something wrong. What did you do? What sort of trouble did you cause?”
I laugh, but it’s an empty sound. “I loved the wrong person. That’s my crime.”
His gaze narrows on my face like he’s picking apart my words. “What does that mean?” he says low, as if the shadows are waiting for my secrets to be spilled. There’s a tug in my chest, willing me to explain my history to this stranger. But why would he believe me when even my own parents didn’t? Gideon is an expert at portraying the dutiful and concerned husband. He’s likely to have me committed for my psychological needs—if I’m lucky. If I’m not, he will make that secret room my entire world. No, I have to continue to hold these experiences in my chest, releasing them into the world gives them weight and allows others access to my pain which they could use against me. It’s a weakness.
“My crime is imperfection. You still want to take me to the police station? You will get a hit but not for the reasons you are imagining.”
“A month.”
I frown. “What?”
“Give me a month.”
“A month for what?”
“You stay here for one month.”
I shake my head and try to lift my rucksack from his hands. “No.”
“It’s not for you or me. It’s for my gran. If shit goes sideways, she’s going to need your support. You’re not the only one hiding, Cleo.”
