He did this for me.
He sweeps forward. I gasp as he scoops me up and briskly walks back around to the front of the building where he unlocks his pickup, deposits me into the passenger’s seat, locks the doors, and disappears back around the building.
When he reappears, he’s carrying a knife.
A few seconds later, we’re driving off, leaving the three men and the truck stop are behind us.
“You’ve got blood on your blanket,” he tells me a short time later. His tone is brisk, cold. Stating a fact rather than condolences.
“Afghan. It’s my mama’s afghan.” I stare down at it, at my forearm, at my leg.
And as I turn to finally look at him, at his hands.
Nausea hits me like an amusement park ride. The Cyclone Spinner. The House of Horrors.
“It’s adrenaline kicking in. It’ll pass.” He rolls down the windows, and a blast of warm air hits me face.
“Blood. It’s the blood and what it . . . represents.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“You shot them because of me. They shouldn’t have been chasing me but without emergency help, now they could die because of me.” I turn to find him watching me. A chill races up my spine. There’s a tension in his body, a stiffness. He’s angry. No . . . he’s furious.
I swallow hard, suddenly unsure of him. Of everything. I don’t mention calling for an ambulance again.
We drive another twenty miles until he pulls into another rest stop and parks the pickup off to the side of the building.
“Get out,” he orders, already in motion himself.
I do as he asks, and as he waves me forward and opens a door, I realize why we’ve stopped.
A restroom.
I step by him and inside am immediately assaulted by the smell of Lysol and bleach. Kylie and I always preferred Pine-Sol’s more natural scent. But at least it’s not Public Urine–Sol.
Great, I’ll live a day longer knowing I’ve seen my first clean truck-stop bathroom.
He enters behind me, shuts the door and locks it, then tosses the door key onto the sink vanity.
Insurance no one will interrupt us.
That’s a good thing, right?
He removes the afghan from around my shoulders, moves away from me to drop my duffle bag on a long wooden bench opposite the showers, and stalks over to the sink. Turning on the water, he meticulously washes his hands before rinsing the blood out of my afghan.
I don’t know what to say or how to feel. He’s like a stone, cold and unbendable, but when you somehow manage to flip it over, a lovely surprise lay anchored to the bottom of it.
“What’s going to happen now?”
He sighs like my question annoys him. “Nothing.”
“They’ll talk. You don’t think the police will come after us?”
“Forget about them.”
I shake my head. “Forget? I’ve got their blood on my body.”
“And I’ve got their blood on my hands.”
