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“Do you miss the library?” I question, hoping the subject change will lighten the mood.
“Every second. It’s stupid, but it’s the only place I’ve ever felt I could just… be. No expectations to be something I’m not, only books and peace.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“You know, back in high school, I used to volunteer at our local library, and when people would come in, I’d make up stories about their lives. If someone were getting cookbooks, I’d pretend they had a special date they wanted to impress. Crime novels—they were using them to study how not to get caught—”
“Sounds like good practice for real life.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “I thought it was harmless, making up little dramas in my head.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m the one in the crime story.”
I reach over slowly, grabbing her smooth hand, tangling mine with hers. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away, and the uncomfortable feeling I’ve been carrying eases.
“Wherever we end up, I’ll build you your own personal library. I don’t care if it’s a beach house in Mexico, or in a cabin in the mountains of Switzerland, or under the stars in the middle of an African desert—I’ll find you every book you’ve ever loved and a million more you haven’t discovered yet.”
Her lips curve, but it doesn’t seem to be out of happiness, but it’s not quite sorrow either. Her eyes wander down to our intertwined hands.
“You say that like it’s not hard to believe.”
“I believe it. I mean it when I say it.”
“I know.” She exhales.
The further we drive, the more the weight of the past seems to slide off my shoulders, though I can’t help but feel the sharp edge of it pressing behind us like a blade between my shoulders. We aren’t safe, not yet.
I check the rearview mirror again, now out of habit, scanning for lights that don’t belong, or patterns in that traffic that might mean pursuit. Thankfully, it’s nothing but uneventful drivers and the sky beginning to darken. I don’t say anything else to Wynnie, knowing that it’s better than saying too much. She’s still learning to trust me, slowly piece-by-piece; I’ll hold on to that with bleeding fingers if I have to.
“There,” I nod toward the approaching sign that shows lodging and an exit several miles ahead in Nevada. “Once we get there, we’ll stop there for the night.”
Wynnie squeezes my hand once, gently, before letting go and turning back to watch out the window. She doesn’t curl back into herself as she had earlier. Progress, I think—small steps toward what might be trust.
22
Darling
Being in the car with Preston for so long isn’t as miserable as I’d expected. I imagined tension and drowning in dread, and while that was true some of the time, I feel mostly safe.
He’s a good driver, confident and careful, even in the dark and through the rain. He listens to me talk about everything that’s on my mind when I’m ready to open up. When I feel panicked, I find myself chatting more to distract my mind, going on about books and stupid facts I’d picked up. About random adventures Blaire and I used to go on. He lets me hate him, then feel fine about him again the next second.
And he doesn’t just pretend to listen, as most men do; he pays attention. Occasionally, he would ask for the author of a book, laugh at ridiculous stories, and nod while I explained the Dewey Decimal System as if he actually cared. Nobody actually cares. It reminds me of how he used to be when we’d cross paths—always polite, lingering for a little longer than necessary when checking out. I thought it was small talk then, but now I know it was so much more to him.
I feel like I’ve learned so much about him and his behavior along the way, too. He drums his thumb on his lap when he’s zoned out, and he had a home, but was never there because his parents and nannies always whisked him away to travel. The scar on his knuckles is actually a sweet story of him changing his brother’s bike chain when he was twelve.
He allows me to sit, doesn’t push for me to speak or to open up about my family as he has with his.
When I have nothing to say again, I make the mistake of turning on the radio.
“—An anonymous source reveals that police are saying they’re closing in on where they believe Wynnie Jackson and Preston Grant are. Security cameras showed them leaving Grant’s residence, though the make and model of the vehicle have not yet been confirmed to the public. Authorities ask, if you come across Jackson and Grant, do not approach. Call the local police department as they are considered armed and dan—”
Preston quickly reaches over and shuts it off before the woman can finish.
“Do you think they actually know?”
“Probably not,” he assures me without missing a beat. “I had a friend who works at the HPD. He says half of what gets aired in the beginning is just speculation; the police don’t say shit to the news, so they don’t scare the suspects away. That’s why they won’t say what kind of car we’re in, because they don’t actually know. Yes, we’re on the run, obviously. Are we considered an immediate danger? Sure, of course, that’s why they put our names out there so quickly in the first place, but the media doesn’t really know the facts.”
