Page 17 of Dotted Lines (Runaway 5)

She went one way and I went the other, making my way the seven blocks to the closest grocery store. My shopping didn’t take long. I didn’t have the money to fill a cart or the means to get it home, so I picked out the few items on my list, made it through checkout and found a bench outside to load my haul into my backpack.

I was just zipping it up when a flash of electric blue caught my eye.

The jogger.

I stood straight and faced her.

She was staring at me, hovering beside the store’s brick wall. Her face wasn’t red. Her chest was dry, not even a sheen of sweat above her breasts. No way this lady had gone for a strenuous run.

The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. With a fast swoop, I swung my bag over a shoulder and scurried away, dodging the few people going in and coming out of the grocery store.

I didn’t look back to see if she’d followed as I hurried to the diner, where I ducked in the rear employee entrance and let the door shut with a slam.

“Hey.” One of the cooks spotted me as he came out of the walk-in refrigerator.

“Hey.” I forced a shaky smile, hovering by the door until he left. Then, when I was alone, I cracked the door open and scanned the alley. The dumpster was overflowing and due to be picked up today. The cars parked next to the building all belonged to the staff.

Besides a crow pecking at a clump of dry grass, the alley was devoid of any life. No lady in electric blue.

“You’re early.”

I jumped at my boss’s voice and let the door close again, turning to face her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Dishes are waiting.”

I nodded and got to work, stowing my backpack in a small cubby. Then I tied on a grease-stained apron and took my place at the restaurant-grade dishwasher, spending my day scrubbing away syrup and ketchup from thick, heavy ceramic plates.

When Aria arrived an hour before my shift ended, she poked her head in to say hello before retreating into the diner to wait at a small table and drink a Dr. Pepper. The waitresses were supposed to charge for soda and refills, but they never made Aria pay.

The hour she waited was the longest of the day. All I wanted to do was tell her about the creeptastic jogger, and by the time my shift ended, the nervous energy was making my bones rattle. The second we stepped outside, I told her the whole story.

“Do you think she’s a cop?” I asked. “Like, maybe undercover or something. Or a private investigator? Maybe the sick fucker hired her to find us.”

The sick fucker. Our uncle. Aria and I referred to him with a variety of expletives, only speaking his name when necessary.

“Do you think he’s been looking all this time?”

“I don’t know.” The worry on her face made the knot in my stomach bunch tighter. “He’s crazy.”

And after all he’d done—to us, to her—there was no telling how psycho he’d gone after we’d run away. “Let’s just . . . get home.”

Home to the junkyard, where there was a padlock to keep people out. Where there was a maze of scrap metal and broken cars to hide in.

Where there was Karson.

We walked so fast that both Aria and I were panting as we squeezed through the side gate. Between the two of us, we’d kept a constant eye behind us. There’d been no sight of the woman in blue in town, and when we’d hit the road to the junkyard, there’d been no sign of anyone. Even the dogs were absent, probably down for an afternoon nap or snack inside with their owners.

“Tomorrow, we should go in even earlier. Like, mix up our routine,” Aria said as we unloaded our things into the truck.

“Yeah. Good idea. And maybe we don’t walk home right after work. We could go to a park or something.”

She nodded and kicked off her shoes. Then she plucked my newest book off the stack. “Can I read this?”

“Sure. I’m going to go say hi to Karson. Tell him about the jogger.”

“’Kay.” Aria settled on her bed and opened the book to the first page.

She’d be lost in the first chapter before I returned. It was a really good book, maybe good enough to make the take-to-Vegas pile.