“The trunk of the car that you blew up.”
“Disposed of.”
“Semantics.”
I huffed. “Because you strike me as the type to kick out the taillights and flag down help.”
“Because I’m beingkidnapped,” she said, studying me with narrowed eyes, as if she was clarifying what was happening—not arguing about it.
I rolled the term around in my head and decided against using that particular piece of the English language. “You’re being proactively relocated.”
“Against my will.”
“That’s where theproactivepart comes in.” I peeled my eyes away from Amelia as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“No,” she mumbled. “But I think I started my period.”
“Do you have any pads or tampons with you?”
“Idid, but you blew up my bag,” Amelia sassed. “Remember?”
She pointed at a sign that marked a slew of gas station options at the next exit. “Can we stop?”
My gut said no. We needed to keep going. We needed to put more distance between us and Atlantic City. We needed to cover as much ground as we could under the cover of darkness. Besides, gas stations had security cameras.
But I couldn’t exactly say no . . .
I bit back an irritated huff and flipped on my turn signal. “Open the glove box.”
For a fleeting moment, Amelia actually looked annoyed. But as quickly as the expression came, it was gone. She opened the glove box as I circled the exit ramp. Her shock as she pulled the box of tampons out was palpable.
“Why on earth do you have an entire box of tampons in your super-secret backup vehicle?”
“Because they’re sealed, sterile, and incredibly convenient for packing gunshot wounds.”
She arched an eyebrow. “And you’ve had experience packinggunshot woundswith tampons?”
“Yes,” I said simply as I sat at a red light before turning right onto a street with two major gas station chains and a mom-and-pop store.
John would assume I went to the run-down, poorly lit store, so I went with the second chain station and parked by the back door, next to anemployees onlysign.
“Keep your head down,” I said as I unbuckled.
Amelia’s lip curled in disgust. “You’re not chaperoning me while I go to the bathroom.”
“I am,” I said. “We shouldn’t stop, but I did. This is calledcompromise. Get used to it.”
If she had really started her period, she’d argue but go anyway. If she was bluffing, she’d make an excuse for us to keep going to another stop.
But Amelia climbed out of the truck, tampon in hand.
We walked calmly toward the side entrance of the store. I yanked the door open and held it for her as I kept my head on a swivel. The moment the clerk clocked us, I kissed the top of her head and said, “Do you want a snack, sweetheart?”
Amelia stiffened.
Come on, little fox. Play along.
Her eyes scanned the rows of snack cakes, chips, candy, and sodas. “Chocolate and salt.”
