Page 106 of Ruthless Possession
"Morgan?" Her voice is slurred, thick with whatever he gave her. "Morgan, where?—"
"Stay down," Evan says, without looking back. "Don't move. Don't talk."
The gun is still in his lap. Still pointed at me.
Trixie goes quiet. But I can hear her breathing change, faster now, sharper. She's awake. She's processing. She's an ER nurse. She knows what's happening even through the fog of whatever drug is in her system.
I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. They're wide, terrified, but clear enough to understand. I give her the smallest shake of my head. Don't. Don't move. Don't speak. Don't give him a reason.
She understands. I see it in the way her jaw clenches, the way her hand curls into a fist against the blanket. She stays still.
The highway opens up ahead of us, the streetlights giving way to the long, dark stretch of road that cuts through farmland and forest. Harris accelerates smoothly, the car eating up the road with a hum that seems too quiet for what's happening inside it.
I think about the restaurant. About Trenton checking his watch and Matthew stepping into the hallway to look for me. About Charlie, who just became officially ours, sitting at a table surrounded by people who love her.
They'll find my phone. They'll see the text. And they'll know.
But knowing and finding are different things, and we're already getting farther away with every second.
Trixie's eyes find mine in the mirror again. She mouths something I can't read in the dark. Then her hand moves slowly, carefully, beneath the blanket.
Evan doesn't notice. His attention is fixed on the road ahead, on the empty highway stretching into the night.
I keep my eyes on him. On the gun. On the road.
And I wait.
Matthew
The TV volume goes up mid-laugh.
I'm not even looking at the screen when the anchor's voice cuts through the room. His tone is clipped and urgent, making the back of my neck prickle before my brain has processed a single word.
"Breaking news. We're receiving reports of a prison break at Cedar Creek Correctional Facility."
My glass stops halfway to my mouth.
"…at least three inmates have escaped, including Evan Harris, who was awaiting trial for multiple homicides."
The word Harris lands in my chest like a round hitting a plate carrier. Not through. Stopped. But felt.
I set the glass down. I don't remember deciding to do that.
Trenton is already standing. I didn't see him get up. He's just suddenly on his feet, his chair pushed back, and his eyes locked on the screen with the particular flatness that means he's already past the processing stage and into the response stage.
The room has gone completely silent except for the TV.
"Authorities are urging residents in surrounding areas to remain indoors while they conduct a manhunt. Harris is considered armed and extremely dangerous."
I look at Trenton. He looks at me.
"Morgan," I say.
The word comes out before I've finished the thought, because the thought completes itself in the half second between his eyes finding mine and my mouth opening. Morgan went to the bathroom. Morgan hasn't come back. Morgan has been gone for?—
How long? My mind reaches for the number and finds nothing. Ten minutes? Fifteen? I didn't track it. Why didn't I track it? We've been careful for a month with cameras and perimeter checks and never letting her walk to the car alone, and tonight—tonight of all nights—I stopped tracking.
"Where is she?" Trenton's voice is low. Controlled.
