Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(38)

My heart beats heavily in my chest, triumphant and terrified. The light is off in the motel office, but I rush down and I try the door. Locked. I wonder if the teenage kid who worked there is staying in one of these rooms or whether he’s left the property. Either way, I’m not planning on banging on any doors to find out. That will give Grayson too much time to wake up and find me.

The road is long and empty both ways. I pick a direction and walk fast. With any luck, I can find help. With any luck, I can be free.

I pass an abandoned farmhouse, but no people are in sight. A truck passes by, but I’m too afraid to flag it down. What if the truck driver is as evil as Grayson? I can’t trust anyone. I stay in the shadow of the trees until the red taillights fade to black. I am alone here, disconnected.

It’s like with every passing mile, I am farther and farther away from safety—and farther from myself. From being human. I’m turning into this other type of being, one who jerks off criminals in crappy motel rooms. One who wants to be kissed in a getaway car.

I need to get away from him, away from this. It doesn’t matter if he kills me. I understand now why he had to escape prison. Even the threat of death won’t keep me locked down.

I follow the line of trees in case I need to use them for shelter, but I don’t go deep inside. The woods couldn’t protect me last time. They’ll only cut my skin. They’ll only make it easier for him to track me down. No, I’m going to walk until I reach people. Civilization. Safety.

Buildings appear like a mirage, and I almost can’t trust them. A small town. It’s like heaven. I walk faster.

By the time I reach the town, blue and purple hues streak above the horizon. Dawn. I’m running out of time. Cars are parked diagonally in front of old-time shops. A pharmacist. A lawyer’s office. Who can I trust? I hear the rumble of a truck. It could be anyone. It could be him. An uneven sidewalk trips me, and I fall, gasping at the jolt to my knee. I scramble up; I have to keep going.

My breath is loud in my ears, every puff an explosion. And then I see it down the street. A police station. A little police station with only a single cop car parked in front of the building, but it’s enough. If I can get there, I’ll be safe. Grayson won’t be able to touch me inside that building. Or will he? Will a small-town cop be able to stand on his own against Grayson? But he’s my only hope. And he’ll have a gun and probably a partner. He’ll have training. He’ll have backup. Grayson has nothing but his fierce will and ingenuity—though I have to admit, those things have gotten him further than anyone expected.

I imagine the crunch of gravel behind me, and I take off running, afraid even to look. There’s only now. No later. No future. No being open and honest and vulnerable with anyone else—not ever again.

My lungs burn. My legs are screaming in pain. It feels like my own body is holding me back. He’s gaining on me. I can hear him. Feel him.

I dart between cars in a parking lot, heading toward the little police station, and it’s like running through a fun house. Pale clouds are reflected in windshields. Endorphins twist my vision until everything looks wavy and strange.

The door to the station opens before I can reach it. Blue uniform shirt. An older man, graying hair. And a gun. God, yes. Finally. It’s wrapped up in black leather and tucked beneath his belly, but that’s fine. This man—this gun—is going to make things right.

“Help me,” I say in a burst of breath. “Please help me.”

The cop’s hand goes to his gun. He doesn’t pull it out; he just holds his hand there as he moves away to inspect me, gaze snapping down my body and then up again. “Miss? What’s happened? Are you okay?”

There’s a hint of suspicion in his voice; he doesn’t like that I ran up to him like this. It makes me laugh, half with freedom and half with hysteria. “He’s after me.”

With dark brown eyes set deep inside folded lids, he scans the street, the cars.

No one is there.

“Ma’am, are you in trouble?” the cop asks. “What happened?”

“It’s him. He escaped from a prison—the Kingman Correctional Facility. There was a riot and… His name is Grayson—Grayson Kane,” I say, recalling how proudly and painstakingly I typeset his name above his vignette in that stupid journal, making the margins just so.

The cop’s gaze turns sharp. “Kingman Correctional?”

“He was back at the motel, but I escaped. I thought he was chasing me.”

The cop scans the empty horizon, and finally his eyes fall to my red, swollen wrists. “Come inside.”

Relief fills me as I step into the cool office. The smell of stale coffee mingles with lemon-scented floor cleaner, making my stomach lurch. The cop introduces himself as Sheriff Dunham. He points to a swivel chair with pilling fabric.

“Sit down while I call this in.”

I follow his instructions, my hands shaking in my lap. I’m not sure why. This is a good thing. Now I can go home to…a room with bare walls? A string of endless classes? The only meaningful thing I’ve ever done is The Kingman Journal, and even that is tainted with what Grayson did.

My gaze goes back to the door, and I recognize what’s twisting my stomach: fear. Part of me thinks I’m safe now, but the other part of me remembers that Grayson did the unthinkable. He escaped from prison. He can do anything.