Page 4 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

Margaret stepped forward, steadying herself to project confidence despite the flutter of nerves beneath her composed exterior. “I need to leave town as soon as possible. I am prepared to pay for a modest ride or even a used vehicle—anything that will enable me to depart.”

Frank studied her carefully, weighing her sincerity against his instincts. “And you reckon someone like me’s going to help a well-off lady like you?”

She met his gaze steadily, urgency permeating her refined tone. “Please understand, I would not make such a request if it weren’t absolutely necessary. I simply require a means to leave this place behind, and I am willing to offer whatever compensation I can muster.”

He continued to scrutinize her for a few moments before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ve got an old Camry out back. It’s not much to look at, but it’ll get you where you need to go. There’s about half a tank of gas.”

A flicker of hope sparked within her at the thought of escape. “Thank you, truly,” she said, relief evident in her voice.

She followed Frank to the rear of the station, where a weathered sedan sat beneath a flickering light. “Ain’t much to it,” Frank said, gesturing toward the car with reluctant approval. “But it’s got a good engine. Should serve you well for a while.”

Margaret approached the sedan, heart pounding as she took in the peeling paint and rust spots. It wasn’t glamorous by any means, but it was her ticket to freedom. “I can make it work,” she said, forcing a smile that held more hope than certainty.

Frank opened the driver’s door and gestured for her to hop in. As she climbed inside, she was immediately enveloped by the smell of old leather, fading upholstery, and stale fast food lingering in the air. When she turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered and coughed before roaring to life with a slight rattle. She couldn’t help but feel a rush of exhilaration at the sound because it was hers now, her means of escaping from Charles.

“Here’s the deal,” Frank said, leaning against the door frame. “I want a thousand in cash and I’ll transfer the title to you. That means you’ll officially own the car.”

Margaret blinked, unfamiliar with the term. “Transfer the title?”

Frank nodded patiently. “Yeah, it’s the legal paper that says you’re the owner. We sign it over to you so it’s in your name. That way, if anything happens, the car’s yours—no questions asked.”

“I see,” she replied, nodding slowly. “Thank you for explaining.”

Margaret reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of bills, handing over the cash. Frank pulled the papers from the glove compartment and went through them carefully with her, explaining each step as she signed. Once everything was done, he handed her the keys, his expression softening.

“Just keep your head down and drive safely. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Margaret took the keys, sensing their solid presence in her palm, a tangible connection to her new beginning. “I will. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

Frank left and wandered back inside, leaving her alone with the night and her thoughts. The sound of the bell jingling as the door closed behind him punctuated the stillness, somehow reinforcing her isolation.

As the tires crunched against the gravel of the road, the darkness enveloped her, but she welcomed it—a shroud of anonymity that promised freedom from the chains of her previous existence. With a deep breath, she pulled away from the gas station, feeling a mix of nerves and exhilaration wash over her. The only direction was forward, and for the first time in years, Margaret had chosen to take her life into her own hands.

And she was not looking back.

3 - MARGARET

The 2010 Toyota Camry rattled exactly at fifty-eight miles per hour. Margaret knew this because she had been gripping the plastic steering wheel for five hours, her knuckles white, watching the needle hover just below sixty as the flat Virginia landscape slowly crumpled into the looming Blue Ridge Mountains. Every pair of headlights that appeared in her rearview mirror made her breath catch. She kept expecting to see Charles’s black SUVs cresting the hill behind her, sent to ensure she suffered a “tragic accident” just like his first wife.

For the last ten years, her primary mode of transportation had been the back seat of a Mercedes S-Class, driven by a man named Thomas who always had the climate control set to a perfect seventy-two degrees. If she needed to go to New York, there was a first-class ticket or a chartered flight.

The fuel light on the dashboard blinked, a bright, angry orange.

Don’t panic, Margaret told herself, her heart executing a fast, erratic flutter. It’s just a car. Millions of people put gas in their cars every day. You organized a silent auction that raised three million dollars for pediatric oncology. You can dispense liquid into a tank.

She pulled off the highway at the next exit, easing the rattling Camry into a dusty, brightly lit Exxon station. She pulled up right next to the pump, threw the car in park, and took a deep breath. She grabbed her purse, stepped out into the chilly mountain air, and walked around to the back of the car.

The gas cap was on the other side.

Margaret closed her eyes, letting her head drop back. She could practically hear Charles’s voice, smooth and dripping with condescension: Spatial awareness, Maggie. It’s not that difficult to observe your surroundings.

“Shut up, Charles,” she whispered to the empty parking lot.

She got back in, started the engine, and drove in a wide, clumsy circle around the pump. She parked again, this time a solid four feet away from the machine, just to be safe.

Stepping out, she confronted the pump. It had a screen, several buttons, and a card reader. She pulled out the prepaid Visa card she’d bought at a pharmacy—untraceable, the internet had said. She slid it into the slot.

The screen beeped: PLEASE ENTER ZIP CODE.