Chapter 5 - Mile Marker Forty-Two
The rusted utility van groaned as I pushed it past sixty miles per hour on Route 9 scalar highway, the engine whining like a trapped animal every time I pressed down on the accelerator. The dashboard heater blew lukewarm air smelling faintly of old gasoline and damp upholstery. Outside, the landscape had flattened into endless tracts of marshland and skeletal pine trees standing under a bruised, low-hanging sky.
My phone—the one Sarah had given me—sat on the passenger seat next to a crumpled map of county roads. I had ditched my sedan behind a shuttered farm supply store three counties back, transferring my duffel bag into the back of this anonymous gray box of metal before heading north toward the state line.
The local radio station played intermittently, cutting in and out of static as the van climbed the long, rolling hills of the county line. I kept the dial tuned to the news, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. For twenty miles, it was just weather reports and farm market prices, until the announcer's voice suddenly sharpened, dropping an octave.
—authorities in St. Andrew’s Parish have expanded their inquiry following a high-profile disruption at Saturday’s wedding ceremony involving prominent foundation director Mark Sterling. Officials have released no details regarding the identity of the bride who fled the scene, but corporate representatives have issued a statement characterizing the incident as a private family matter resulting from emotional distress.
I gripped the wheel tighter, my eyes locked on the endless asphalt ribbon stretching out ahead of the headlights. Emotional distress. That was Mark's neat, sterile phrase for a life upended and an identity dissected under the harsh altar lights.
In related news, the announcer continued, the static hissing against the speakers, state police are asking motorists along the northern corridor to remain alert for a late-model gray sedan or an older utility vehicle matching descriptions tied to individuals sought for questioning in connection with ongoing financial audits at the Sterling Foundation.
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. They weren't just looking for a runaway bride; they were tying my flight to the foundation's missing ledgers—the very documents I had discovered hidden in the false bottom of my office desk three weeks before the wedding. Mark wasn't just protecting his public image; he was building a narrative that cast me as a troubled, unstable embezzler who had cracked under pressure and fled into the rural counties.
Suddenly, the van’s engine gave a harsh, metallic cough. The dashboard lights flickered once, twice, and then the needle on the temperature gauge spiked violently into the red. A thin plume of white steam began to seep out from beneath the front hood, curling up against the cracked windshield.
"No, no, not now," I muttered, pumping the gas pedal.
The van sputtered, lost power, and began to decelerate despite my foot pressing hard to the floorboards. I steered the dying vehicle onto the narrow gravel shoulder just past mile marker forty-two, shifting into neutral as the engine finally died with a dismal shudder. Silence rushed in around me, broken only by the steady ping of the cooling metal engine block under the hood.
I reached for the burner phone on the passenger seat. The screen was dark. I pressed the power button, but nothing happened—the battery was dead, drained by hours of running the location tracker Sarah had warned me about.
May you like
I was stranded on a desolate stretch of highway, twenty miles from the nearest town, with a smoking van and a state police dragnet closing in on every gray vehicle in the northern sector.
###
