Chapter 9 - The Highway Escape North
The latch of the den window clicked back with a dry, metallic snap, and the night air rushed in, carrying the scent of damp mulch and dying azaleas. My fingers were slick with nervous sweat as I gripped the cedar sill, hoisting myself over and dropping onto the cold flagstones of the patio. My heels bit into the dirt, nearly turning my ankle before I caught my balance. Inside the house, the muffled, heavy thud of footsteps crossed the front foyer hardwood. They were early. Or Julian had sent someone twice as fast as I had calculated.
I didn't look back. I kept my posture low, staying within the dense shadow cast by the overgrown boxwood hedges bordering the property line. My long silver-trimmed coat had been discarded back in the dressing suite hours ago, leaving me in a simple black silk blouse and tailored trousers that offered at least some mobility against the chill. My rented sedan sat tucked into the far corner of the cul-de-sac behind a row of contractor vans, anonymous and gray.
My key fob chirped once with a soft, muted beep. I yanked the driver-side door open, slid into the bucket seat, and slammed it shut, locking the doors before my breathing had even begun to slow. The dashboard illuminated in a wash of pale green light as the engine caught on the first crank. I threw the gearshift into reverse, checked the side mirrors without turning on the headlights until I cleared the driveway apron, and eased the car out into the empty suburban street.
Two blocks away, beneath the amber sodium glare of a lone overhead streetlight, I finally flicked the headlights on and merged onto the entrance ramp for Interstate 95 North.
The highway stretched out before me like a long, dark ribbon, mostly clear of traffic save for the occasional eighteen-wheeler hauling freight toward the state line. I set the cruise control at a steady sixty-five, keeping my hands locked at the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel. Every few seconds, my eyes darted to the rear-view mirror. For the first ten miles, the headlights behind me belonged only to distant, ordinary sedans and semi-trucks that drifted off at the local exits. Julian's black car never materialized in the glass, but the phantom weight of his narrow, dark eyes remained pressed against the back of my neck.
The air inside the car felt thin. My palms left damp smudges on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I needed a destination that didn't exist in any corporate database, somewhere Julian's foundation auditors and private security fixers wouldn't think to look.
I reached into my handbag, pulled out my burner phone, and fumbled with the touch screen until I found the contact. It had been nearly three years since we last spoke—long before Julian and his high-society charity boards had systematically pruned every independent relationship I owned. I pressed the call button and held the device to my ear.
It rang four times before a raspy, sleep-thickened voice answered. "Hello?"
"Sarah," I said, my voice tight and thin against the low hum of the engine. "It's me. Clara."
A brief pause stretched down the line, filled only with the faint static of a long-distance connection and the sound of rustling bedsheets. "Clara? Do you know what time it is? It's past three in the morning."
"I know. I'm sorry." I swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden sting of heat behind my eyelids. "I'm on the highway. Heading north. I need to know if I can crash on your pull-out couch for a couple of days. Just until I figure out my next move."
Sarah was fully awake now. The sleepy grit vanished from her tone, replaced by the sharp, protective edge I remembered from our college years. "Clara, you sound terrible. Where are you? What happened with Julian? Did he—"
"Don't say his name out loud," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Just... leave the side door unlocked. And don't answer if anyone comes asking about me."
Another heavy silence hung on the line, heavier this time. Then came the sound of a sigh. "The key's always under the blue ceramic flowerpot by the back steps, you know that. Drive safe, Clara. Call me when you cross the county line."
May you like
The line clicked dead. I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, gripped the wheel tighter, and pressed my foot slightly harder against the gas pedal as the mile markers ticked past into the dark.
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