Page 103 of Freckles

Telling Kincaid is tantamount to throwing myself on his uncle’s mercy.

The only viable option left is to run.

I move indoors, packing a bag with necessary belongings, tossing the cash and burner phone from the pawn shop in there, leaving behind anything that doesn’t matter.

Panic is nipping at my heels, but I keep it at bay by staying on the move, letting my head filter through the ideas on where and how to run, getting back into the driver’s seat in ten minutes flat.

The car isn’t in my name yet. If I drive anywhere for too long, they’ll report it stolen and let the police bring me straight back into their trap. With less than an hour before the game ends, Kincaid will soon discover I’m not where I’m meant to be.

I need to ditch it before then.

Although the airport is tempting, the airlines won’t let me board without ID, and I don’t have the money or knowhow to arrange a pseudonym at short notice. Use my real name, and Kincaid will be waiting at my destination.

Breathe.

You still have time.

I head to the airport anyway, and leave the car in the long-term parking, tossing the keys into the nearest rubbish bin. I’m about to board the shuttle to the bus exchange when my phone buzzes against my hip.

Panic screams through me as I realise my first big mistake.

He’s tracking the phone.

I hunch my shoulders, taking covert glances at my surroundings like I’m being watched in real time, then I force out a laugh.

Kincaid’s good but he’s notthatgood.

The laugh resets me, clearing my mind enough to think. I retrace my steps, finding the same bin I tossed the keys into, and hold the phone above it. I could take out the SIM card and keep my number, but chances are that’s traceable. Better to throw the lot away.

My fingers refuse to release it. I stare at my hand, breaths getting shorter as my knuckles turn white.

I don’t want to ditch the last connection I have with Kincaid. I hate that I remembered he can track it because all I want is for him to come and rescue me, wrap his arms tight around my torso and tell me everything’s going to be all right. Save me the way he did before, when I confessed the truth about the man in my garage freezer.

But this isn’t the death of a stranger he doesn’t give a damn about.

The points are valid, yet my fingers still refuse the command. I shake, standing beside a bin in the crowded airport carpark. Struggling to breathe.

Pathetic.

I was a girl who wanted to send people to the stars, and now I can’t even control my fingers.

“Do you need a hand there, love?”

The sudden query makes me jerk and I drop the phone, giving a cry as I spin to see a man frowning at me, his eyes thrown into shade by the long bill of a promotional cap.

I skitter away from him, shaking my head, grateful to see a new shuttle has already pulled to the curb.

A few passengers shuffle their feet, waiting for it to open its doors, and I join them. Bag over my shoulder, head down, not making eye contact. Wishing I’d thought to bring a cap to hide my distinctive hair.

Once I’ve boarded, I sigh in relief as the shuttle pulls into the flow of traffic, heading for the central bus depot. A minor piece of redirection that might gain me anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours head start, and at this point, I’ll take any advantage I can get.

When I arrive, I book a ticket to Wellington, the cheapest available, including the ferry ride across the strait.

During the short wait until boarding, I pace back and forth, scared to move too far in case the vehicle leaves without me.

Even when I’m seated and the bus pulls away, I can’t relax.

I might never be able to relax again.

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