“Because we need to know whose life we just took over. Registration. Insurance. See if there's a gun in there. Something.”
I hesitate, staring at the latch on the sleek black dashboard. Opening it feels like crossing another invisible line—a final invasion of privacy.
“Rue,” he warns, his tone dropping an octave. “Just fucking check it.”
With a sharp exhale, I lower my legs and reach forward. I press the latch. It falls open, spilling a small flashlight and a stack of folded napkins onto my lap. I dig past them, my fingers brushing against a thick leather manual and a folded piece of paper.
I pull the registration out and hold it up to the dim overhead dome light.
“Well?” Noah asks, his eyes glued to the dark road.
I read the name printed on the blue-lined paper, my stomach twisting into a painful knot.
“Christopher Banderra.” The name is as foreign as this freaking car. I shove the registration back into the glovebox, along with the napkins and flashlight. And then, as if the boundary has already been destroyed, I slowly make my way to the console, flipping it up and peering in. It’s empty, except for some loose change.
And a wallet.
My heart jumps to my throat, and I reach in, plucking it out and flipping it open. I’m met with the chocolate brown eyes of a stranger. I squeeze my eyes closed for just a second.
“Any cash?” Noah asks.
I purse my lips as I open the pocket, revealing a wad of green. “Oh.” I pull out the stack, flipping through ten twenties and three one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Worth it,” Noah glances over to me and then down to the gas gauge. “Five hundred is a lot of gas.”
I lean over, seeing exactly why he says that.
Eighty miles to E.
“Great, we stole a car without any gas in it.”
“It’ll be fine,” Noah says, his voice dropping. “Just sit back.” He catches my gaze. “And ifanythinghappens, I made you get in this car.”
I narrow my eyes. “But?—”
“I made you get in this car.”
23
NOAH
Seventy-four miles to empty.
The numbers mock me, a ticking countdown to our next disaster, I’m pretty fucking sure. The adrenaline that propelled me out of the Glenrio Travel Center, that had me scooping up the dog and ripping open the door of a running vehicle, is bleeding out of my system. In its place, a cold, hollow ache settles deep in my bones.
Maybe it was the wrong decision. Maybe we should’ve waited it out.
I grip the leather steering wheel tighter, my knuckles white. The interstate is a straight, black ribbon cutting through the desert, but it feels way too exposed right now.
Every time a pair of headlights appears in the rearview mirror, my chest tightens, my muscles locking up as I wait for the flashing red and blues to ignite the night.
I can’t keep doing this. Not on the main artery of this state.
Up ahead, a faded, bullet-riddled sign reflects in the high beams:See Historic Route 66! Next Right.
I don’t even signal. I just jerk the wheel, taking the exit ramp a little too fast. The SUV’s suspension absorbs the dip, and thesmooth hum of I-40 is instantly replaced by the rough, rhythmic thud of cracked asphalt and overgrown weeds snapping against the undercarriage.
“Um… Where are we going?” Rue’s voice is almost a whisper. It barely carries over the sound of the road.
