Without any more information to go by, I start searching, striding past him into the living room. There’s a small drawer in the coffee table, and as I pull it out, I find the TV remote. Then as if on autopilot, I pick it up.
“The fuck are you doing?” he questions from the kitchen.
“Just give me a sec,” I murmur, holding up a finger and following my gut. “I just need to check something.”
He tracks my movements as I sit on the edge of the couch, his hands going out wide as if to say what the fuck are you doing? But he simply watches as I point the remote toward the television.
“Now isn’t exactly the best time to catch up on Game of Thrones,” he says, still searching drawers.
I scoff. “That masterpiece wrapped before you even got your ass locked up,” I tell him, pressing buttons on the remote and flipping through the channels until I find what I’m looking for.Then, just as expected, I find Stone’s face plastered across half the TV, the words ESCAPED PRISONER under his mugshot. A news reporter is on the other side, going live from outside Hartley Creek prison.
“Well fuck,” Stone mutters, suddenly no longer interested in his search as he inches closer to the TV, his undivided attention locked on the screen.
I knew this was coming. How could I not? I’ve worked as a journalist for the past four years. Every spare moment I’ve had—and trust me, there have been a lot of them—my mind can’t help but put all this shit into a breaking news story. It’s natural at this point, and Stone’s escape has been one of the most exciting stories that’s ever captured my attention. I’d be all over this if I were back in my office, begging Jedd to be the one to work the front page article. Although I suppose I won’t be begging Jedd for anything anymore.
Keeping my gaze focused on the reporter, I listen to her warn the public to be cautious, and if they see this dangerous criminal, dial 911 and steer clear. Stone’s mugshot disappears from the screen, replaced by live drone footage of advanced search teams making their way through the bushland we’d just spent the past two days hiking through. The camera zooms in on a K9 officer with a massive German Shepherd, and I just know, if we were going to be tracked down, it’ll be that big fucker who catches us.
The reporter finishes telling us all about the enormous efforts that local law enforcement has put in, but truth be told, there’s nothing local about them. Not if the FBI signage on the back of their bulletproof vests is anything to go by. They’ve called in the big guns, and that alone has nerves filling my veins. It’s one thing to evade the cops, but the FBI? Shit, that’s a whole new level of insanity. We’re playing with the big kids now.
The reporter falls away, and suddenly my LinkedIn profile photo is plastered across the screen, right where Stone’s wasonly a moment ago. There’s an urgent call put out to the public, that if anybody was to see me, to call for immediate help, and just when I think the shitshow couldn’t get any worse, the inside of Pulse Media appears across the flatscreen TV, with none other than Janette’s face staring back at me.
“Ugh,” I groan, taking in the fake tears on her face, watching the way she shamelessly dabs at her cheeks.
“We’re crossing live to Pulse Media, with interim CEO, Janette McArby. Janette, how is the team at Pulse Media taking the news of Aria’s disappearance?”
“Interim CEO? How the fuck did that happen?” I sneer, throwing my hands up at the TV, the same way the guys in sports bars do during a football game. “Anyone but that delusional hall monitor. She’s the human equivalent of a laminated ID badge.”
“Fuck, Menace. Tell me how you really feel.”
I roll my eyes and focus on Janette’s performance, watching her bottom lip tremble. “We’re devastated here at Pulse Media,” she wails. “Young Aria has been with us four years now and has proven her absolute worth. She’s the best assistant we’ve ever had. The whole team is feeling her loss. It’s not a family without her.”
“Assistant?” I screech, getting to my feet. “I’m nobody’s assistant. I’m a junior journalist working the biggest case this firm has ever seen. I swear, I could kill her. She did not just call me a coffee runner on national TV.”
“You know, I could take care of that problem for you,” Stone suggests.
My brow arches, and I consider it for just a second before realizing my immediate answer should have been a disgusted no. The fact that I even took a moment to think about it tells me how far I’m sinking, and I’ve only been gone two days. I barely even recognize myself anymore.
I should be petrified. I should be searching for every escape. Looking for ways to free myself and land this asshole back in prison. Instead, I’m anxiously waiting for the next time he just so happens to throw me up against a wall. Hell, I’ve already started plotting ways to get under his skin just enough to make that infinite control slip.
“Come on,” Stone murmurs, as the reporter asks Janette what she would say to me if she knew I was watching right now. “We’ve seen what we need to see. We’ve gotta find these keys and move.”
I nod, and as Janette wails again, I turn off the TV, not giving a flying fuck what she wants to say to me right now. Setting the remote back in the coffee table drawer, I make sure it’s exactly where I left it before getting up and following Stone out of the living room.
We search the house for almost fifteen minutes, and I’m starting to lose hope as I kneel next to the owner’s bed, madly searching through a bedside drawer. Beneath a pile of old mail and auto repair invoices, a single black key stares back at me. It’s hanging from a small red keyring that reads Firebird.
“This it?” I call.
Stone appears in the doorway, his eyes tracking over the key before grinning. “That’s it,” he says, walking in and taking the little fucker right out of my hand.
Pride swells in my chest as I follow Stone out of the bedroom, but the moment lasts only a second when he stops in the kitchen and pulls out a large black trash bag, shaking it out. “What are you—”
He doesn’t allow me a chance to get my question out before cutting past me to the small bathroom and collecting our old clothes, shoving his orange jumpsuit into the bag along with the sage pants that had cost me a pretty penny.
I figured we were leaving that shit behind. It’s not as though we have any need for it, but on second thought, we need to cover our tracks. Any evidence left behind is an arrow leading the FBI directly to us.
He comes straight back to the kitchen and collects a backpack off the ground, throwing it over his shoulder as I gape at it. When the hell did he have a chance to pack a bag? But more importantly, what the fuck is in it? It’s filled to the brim, water bottles shoved into the side pockets, while blankets and spare jackets were left sitting on top.
“Come on, we need to get going,” he murmurs.
