In other circumstances, the honey-smooth drawl might have made me feel safe. Under these circumstances, on the run and exhausted to the bone, safety had taken a permanent vacation. Exactly where it had been most of my life.
I reach for the passenger side drawer, hoping he doesn’t see my hand tremble. I find the little insurance slip—the cheapest kind that anyone sells. My license I pull from my purse. Then I hand them over, squinting into the light.
“May I ask why you pulled me over?”
There’s a ninety-five percent chance that this will end in tragedy. That this cop is somehow connected to the Luski mafia. That even if he isn’t, he’ll run my papers which will somehow notify the cops who are connected to my ex.
But there’s a five percent chance that I can play this right. That despite the odds I’ll end up okay. That Ky will be safe. I’ve lived my life in that five percent.
He moves the flashlight to the paper, casting a demonic glow on his features. “You were driving erratically back there, Ms. Beck.”
“I’m so sorry. I guess I’m a little sleepy. I’ll stop at the next gas station and get some caffeine.” And if he writes me a ticket I’ll definitely be in the system, where Stefano’s people can find me. “I promise to be more careful.”
“Mason closes at ten every night.”
The wheels in my tired brain turn slow and squeaky. “Who?”
A small upturn of his lips. “The owner of the gas station in this direction. He used to stay open until midnight, until Sherri had the baby. The next place isn’t for fifty miles.”
I was born in the Tanglewood county hospital, the eighth child in an unhappy home. All of us weeds coming up through the cracks—unwanted but unstoppable. I have never known anything other than the neon lights and exposed bricks of the city. Certainly every gas station is open twenty four hours, with metal bars on the windows and deals with the neighborhood gang to keep them from being held up too many times.
In all my eighteen years I’ve never seen such a long stretch of nothingness.
And in the middle of a black inky land there’s him—a real life small town sheriff with a slow drawl and a twinkle in his brown eyes.
“Is there a motel nearby?” I won’t get very far without gas.
Besides, nothing sounds better than a moderately clean bed.
“A motel? Lisa Renee would be offended to hear the word used to describe the Bed & Breakfast. She won’t hear you say it, though. She’s gone on a cruise to Alaska. Takes a trip every year during the slow season.”
I can’t imagine a place this wide open ever having a fast season.
“Do you think you could just let me go?”
That earns me a full-fledged smile, his teeth sharp white against the dark night. In my delirium he looks like some kind of prince, his sheriff’s badge his shining armor and his black-and-white his honorable steed.
“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you keep weaving and bobbing on this back road.” He tilts the flashlight to the side, casting a faint glow over the backseat without shining directly in Ky’s face. “And it looks like you have a small passenger. Couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to him.”
My stomach turns into a hard stone. “Then what can I do?”
His lips press together. He seems almost regretful as he looks back at his car and then to me. “What you can do is step out of the vehicle.”
CHAPTER THREE
The third fairy said, “She shall have a wonderful grace in all she does or says.”
Jessica
Fear has a flavor, like I’ve bitten into lip and drawn blood. Step out of the vehicle. That’s what happens when you’re in trouble. Big trouble. When things are about to get worse.
“Why?”
“I need to check you for alcohol consumption.”
“I’m not drunk. I never drink.” Which suddenly seemed like a travesty. Years of sobriety. Of careful planning and hiding, all turned to dust in one terrible evening.
“All the same, ma’am.”
I press my hand to my forehead, as if the answer might be written on my skin. Somewhere close. Somewhere I can’t see. I’m not worried about what he’ll do if I fail an alcohol test. Even running on two hours of sleep I can walk in a straight line.
I’m more worried about what he’ll do with me after that.
There are more corrupt cops on the city streets than clean ones. Even if he doesn’t have ties to the Luskis he could touch me. He could use me. All while Ky sleeps peacefully in the backseat. I don’t trust cops any more than he seems to trust sleepy drivers.
“You have to promise something.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “It seems to me you aren’t in a position to bargain.”
“Swear that you won’t touch me.” I would floor the car before I got out, if he didn’t agree to this. If he didn’t make me believe in him this much.
Brown eyes seem to shine even in the darkness. That gaze skims over my body in the recesses of the car, seeming to take everything in. “I assume you’re not carrying, Ms. Beck.”
A shiver runs over my skin, whether from the cool night air or his piercing eyes. “I would never carry a gun, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little cautious, considering the mark on your finger.”
Every muscle in my body pulls taut.
I’m usually careful about keeping my hands hidden, but I must have slipped. Or he has a sharp eye. Either way he’s seen the bleeding heart and the needle that runs through it, in black ink on the inside of my right forefinger.
Everyone affiliated with the Luskis has this mark somewhere on their bodies. Stefano has an elaborate tattoo covering his right hand, an anatomical heart with arteries dangling and spewing blood across his forearm, as if its been ripped from his body. The needle drawn straight up his middle finger. It’s as beautiful as it is terrifying.
My tattoo is much smaller, much more crude. Because I’m not a lieutenant in the organization. I’m one of the girls they own.
At least I was until Stefano sent me away.
I curl my fingers around the steering wheel, staring into the abyss. “How do you know what it means?”
A low laugh. “Provence is about halfway between Tanglewood and Stillwater. We get a decent amount of drug trade coming through here. Weapons sometimes.” He glances back at the sleeping child, as if moderating his words. “And worse.”
Worse, meaning human trafficking. Humans like me. Like Ky would be.
No, Stefano would turn his son into a soldier. A cruel man, in his own image.
And that seems even worse.
“I’m not carrying,” I say, my voice low with shame. Because even though I’ve never held a gun in my life, that’s my heritage. An ancestry in violence and greed. “And I don’t have any drugs. I only want to drive.”
I open the car door, giving Ky one last look, praying he’ll stay asleep for this.
The sheriff’s hand doesn’t go near his holstered weapon, but I imagine he could pull it out pretty fast, like one of those old-time western movies. I can feel his wariness, his watchfulness, as if I might be a drug runner with my baby in the backseat.