Page 33 of The Escape Plan

Keeley Roberts.

I love her name. It just sounds so… American. Like she’s one of those Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders Aoife’s always on about.

Although the thought of Keeley with her eyeliner and dark nails and nose ring in a cheerleading outfit makes me want to laugh.

“That reminds me, Becks, Niamh’s wondering if you got her that autograph yet?” Aoife asks.

“I’ve only been here a few days, Aoife.”

She scoffs. “Only takes two seconds to sign a piece of paper, though.”

“Was Oprah being difficult about giving you her signature?” Mam pipes up indignantly.

“No. Mam. I have not seen, nor spoken to, Oprah just yet.”

She shakes her head like I’m a half-wit. “What are you waiting for?”

I swear these conversations are like literal roundabouts. With no exits.

Or traffic circles, as I believe they’re known on this side of the pond.

“You’re right, Mam. I’ll just track Oprah down once I’m done with my morning coffee.”

Coffee, again. Because I can’t seem to find any decent tea in this country.

“There’s the can-do attitude I like to see,” Mam says with a nod of approval, then covers the speaker on her phone as she turns her head towards Paul, who has just popped up behind her wearing a dashing neon pink and yellow Hawaiian shirt that really sets off his crisp sunburn. A moment later, she’s back. “Paul says hi and it’s time for us to get ready for our dinner reservations. We’re tryingstuffed vine leavestonight. And spanako-whatsit. Can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s something with pastry. Very exotic, don’t you think?”

I stifle a laugh. Mam thinks adding black pepper to her mashed potatoes is adventurous eating. I don’t think the woman even had Chinese food until about a year ago.

“Enjoy that,” I tell her.

Aoife tuts. “Hope you don’t get food poisoning. Emmett McGee told me his wife got a dreadful upset stomach on her holidays last year.”

“Ah, there’s a shame. Was she in Greece, too?”

“No, no. She went to Blackpool.”

“Blackpool, England? As in, nowhere near Greece in the slightest?” I question.

Aoife gives me a withering look. “Traveler’s diarrhea can strike anywhere, anytime, Beckett.”

“And on that note, I’ll be off,” I say firmly, having no wish to further discuss Maureen McGee’s bowel movements.

But of course, it’s never that easy. And after a lengthy course of goodbyes, about sixteen more remarks about food poisoning, and a quick (not) Google search from Aoife to inform me that if my own stomach starts to play up, I can find Imodium at a place called “CVS,” I finally hang up and jump into the truck.

The vehicle rumbles noisily to life, and I exit the parking garage and drive towards Spring Foods, which is apparently the local place to shop for food.

My GPS is on, and my eyes flicker between the suggested route and the road as I drive. I’m paying so much attention to not taking a wrong turn that I almost don't notice the woman with her familiar streak of black hair running down the sidewalk.

It’s Keeley. Dressed in sneakers, a tank top, and athletic shorts.

Without hesitation, I swerve to pull the truck over and wind the window down.

“Keeley! What are you doing?”

She halts in her tracks and a look of pure mortification dances over her delicate features, before her eyes flash with something akin to annoyance.

She’s covered in sweat, there’s a clump of damp hair stuck to her forehead, and her cheeks are glowing bright red beacons… And I find myself simultaneously wanting to laugh and wrap her in a hug. Neither of which are appropriate reactions to greeting your sweaty new friend, I’m sure.

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