What Have We Done (64)

“Easy.”

Jenna waits.

“If it’s not a success, he’ll bring the woman who’s been trying to kill us all.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

THE TWINS

Casey wanders the lot. Semis are lined up to create an oversized maze at the truck stop. They need a truck. It’s the best portable interrogation site around. Isolated, windowless, easy to clean, hard to trace.

She’s mussed her hair, donned a tank top and fishnet stockings she ripped. For this role, she needs to look like a teen who’s trying to look like she’s young and for sale—fishnets are how television depicts prostitutes, and how Casey imagines a runaway would offer her wares.

The universal signal—Casey learned it from five minutes on the internet—is flashing headlights.

She also learned the going rate for a lot lizard is 30/60/90—each for a sex act more awful than the last.

When no one flashes their lights, she decides to be more aggressive. She climbs the steps to a rig, knocks on the window. The trucker rolls down the glass.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.” He has a lined face, beard, displays his wedding ring.

Casey considers jolting him with the stun gun, her second favorite weapon of choice after the captive bolt, but he’s a big guy. The hand he displayed with the ring is as big as a bear’s, and the current from the mini stun gun that’s designed to look like a tube of lipstick might not take him down.

Casey steps off and continues roaming the lot. She hadn’t anticipated it taking so long. It’s lunchtime.

Maybe that’s the problem. She might just have to steal a truck. She’s driven a rig—her uncle is a long-hauler—but she doesn’t know how to hot-wire one.

She goes inside the diner. Finds a spot where she’s hard to miss. She looks like she’s been on the streets for a time, but with her curves and face she’s not your average lot lizard. Someone will bite at the hook. She orders a water and gets a frown from the waitress.

“You can’t sit in here unless you order food.”

Bitch.

Casey isn’t hungry, so she decides she’ll head back to the lot. But a voice from one of the booths says, “You hungry? Go ahead and order, I’ll take care of it.”

A man in his late twenties—a clean-cut white trucker with a friendly smile—waves at her.

The waitress seems like she may say something to Casey, warn her perhaps, but instead asks impatiently what Casey wants. She orders pancakes.

“Pancakes in the afternoon?” the guy says.

Casey shrugs.

He smiles. “I like breakfast all day too.”

Casey minds her own business, plays hard to get.

The food arrives, and Casey eats like she’s starving. Uses her fingers.

“Where you headed?” the man asks.

She shrugs.

“Strong silent type. I get it.”

She eats, her eyes rising to catch his.

He wears a vest and jeans and it’s hard to tell if he’s a creep or Good Samaritan.

“I’m going to New York,” she says.

He nods. “What’s in New York?”

She shrugs again.

He pulls out a wad of bills. Puts the money on the table for his check, then walks over, drops a twenty for hers.

“This ought to cover it. Safe travels,” he says, and heads to the door.

She almost calls out to him, but patience is the key.

The man makes it to the door, stops. “I’m headed north,” he says.

And there it is. She keeps eating.

“I can drop you in Newark if that helps?”

She doesn’t reply.

He lingers for a beat, then says, “Well, good luck to you.”

“Wait,” she says, before he’s out the door.

The waitress is watching, shaking her head like she’s seen this a million times before.

“What do I have to do in return for the ride?”

The guy looks baffled, then understands. “Oh my. You don’t have to do anything. I’m—It’s not like that.”

Casey nods, pays the check, then follows him out.

On the way, he tells her his name is Chet.

Still in character, she doesn’t offer her name.

His rig is parked next to about ten others side-by-side in the lot. He climbs the steps to the cabin, gestures for her to go to the other side.

Ten minutes later, they’re on I-95. Breaking the quiet, she asks, “What are you hauling?”

“I just dropped off a load in Wilmington, and I’m heading to New Jersey for another.”

Casey nods. That’s what she needs. An empty trailer. She feels for the lipstick stun gun tucked into the pocket on her skirt.

“You have family in New York?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

“I hear you. I’ve got a lot of something like that in my life too.” He smiles. It’s a nice smile.

He’s handsome in a plain, almost dopey way.

“Want me to turn on some music or something?” he asks.

“Whatever you’d like.”

He says, “I like the quiet. Out here, on the road, you turn off the radio and it’s like you’re on a deserted island. No bosses, no parents, no TV, no social media. It’s peaceful.”