The Outliers (The Outliers, #1)(34)

“Fuck!” Doug yells, grabbing at his hand as he buckles.

Jasper coughs violently and lurches for the door. But I’m frozen. All I can do is look at the blood on my hand, on Doug. The floor. There’s so much already. So much more blood than I ever would have thought. And it’s such a bright red.

“Come on!” Jasper pulls me past Doug and toward the door.

We bang too loudly back into the dining room. The noise, our speed, it’s enough to make the whole room fall silent, turn to look. The hostess who was so nice a second ago turns, suspicious. I don’t see Lexi. She’s not near the door. Not at a table. Nowhere in sight, and neither is the car seat.

Jasper and I thread our way through the restaurant, toward the door. Not running, not quite. Pretending not to be two people on the run.

“Whoa, buddy, is that blood?” A voice behind us. When I turn, Doug is leaning against the doorway. There’s an older man next to him, a hand on his shoulder. I watch Doug say something to him. “Hey, those kids just tried to rob him!”

He points at us as a waitress rushes over to Doug with a towel. But Doug never takes his eyes off us. Or me. Never even blinks. And that look on his face. Like he wants to kill me. Like he will. The only question is when.

“Watch out!” It’s the old man again. “She’s got a knife!”

It isn’t until then that I look down at my hand. Sure enough, my mom’s pocketknife is still gripped in my fist. There’s blood on the stubby blade, and all over my fingers. I am no longer just a crazy girl with chopped hair. I am a crazy girl with chopped hair and a knife. A girl who has already proved that she is definitely a danger to others.

And am I? Did I really need to stab Doug? Why didn’t I yell for him to stop first? Why didn’t I at least try shouting for help?

Jasper tugs me forward again. We’re running now through the restaurant, but in a way that feels slow and useless. Like with every step forward the way out is getting farther away.

“You! Stop!” It’s the hostess. She’s standing in front of the door with a phone in her hand. Pointing at us. “I’m calling the police. Don’t you go anywhere.” She waves at a couple of big guys in a booth at the back. “Come on. We can’t just let them leave!”

“Sorry, but we’ve got to go.” Jasper shoves her politely but firmly to the side.

We pound out one set of doors and then the next. Fly down the rickety steps. When I glance back, I can see a pack forming near the diner doors, maybe around Doug. I can’t see him. But who knows what he’ll convince them of? He is a really good liar.

“Look,” Jasper says as we hit the gravel of the parking lot. “Over there.”

Lexi and Doug’s car is on the other side of the parking lot. Engine running, pointed at the exit. Whatever Doug’s plan, Lexi was his getaway driver. Slowly, she turns in our direction.

“She’s looking at us,” I say.

But she doesn’t jump out of the car like I brace for her to. She just stares at us for a long moment before dropping her face into her hands. Why? It’s such a weird, weird thing to do. Is she hiding? Crying? Not because of what I did to Doug. If she knew, she’d be running back inside to help him.

“Let’s go,” Jasper says, sprinting ahead toward the back of the diner, in the direction of the woods. “They’ll be coming.”





Branches whip across my face, snapping back against my arms as we rush headlong through the darkness. Soon the forest is so dense that we have to slow. Can’t go much faster than a walk, each of us hiking our knees up over fallen trees, tripping into small ditches. Not moving fast enough to outrun anyone.

With each big marching step farther into the pitch-black woods, deeper into the silence, I feel more and more lost. The branches feel more tangled, our path less and less clear. And yet we can do nothing but press on. For us, there is no turning back. Not anymore.

After five, ten minutes—I don’t know how long—the trees finally open up a little. But just when the going gets a little easier, lights flicker off the tall trees in front of us. We stop short. But it’s not lights up ahead. They’re coming from behind us.

Flashlights. Someone following. We knew they would. Probably not the police, not that fast. Doug for sure, assuming he isn’t bleeding to death. With some people from the diner, maybe. I think of that truck with the NRA sticker and the dead deer. There were people with guns in that diner. I wonder if it would be legal to shoot us in the back. I was the one with the knife. The one who did the hurting first. I am the one who is a danger to others.

Even in the dark, I can see Doug’s blood staining my fingers. And I can still feel the way my mom’s little knife bounced back when it hit flesh and bone. I shake my head hard. Because I have to focus. They, whoever they are, are closer now, their voices echoing through the trees.

We’ll never outrun them. I’ve done my share of hiking, sure. But no amount of that experience will make the going any easier. The woods are just too dense. We need another plan. Alternatives. Climb? It could be our best chance. Our only one, actually.

I head over to where a log is rested against another tree with a few thick, low-hanging branches. I stare up the length of it, reaching forever into the dark sky. The only thing my mom ever taught me about climbing trees was not to do it to escape a bear. But I do know how to adjust my balance. How to test a foothold. I know that my arms are much stronger than I think.