Page 26 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)
“Thank God!” I slam the button on the console to unlock the rest. “Get in.”
“Can you drive?” the woman asks fearfully as I claim the driver’s seat.
I don’t answer her. Once again, fate has chosen to both mock and reward me. The owner of this vehicle left the keys in the ignition.
As well as a knife on the passenger’s seat.
A reddish liquid paints the surface and my stomach churns. I wrench the glove compartment open and find a wad of tissues, which I toss over the weapon for the child’s sake.
Then I palm the steering wheel and try to breathe.
“Hold on,” I warn as I rack my brain for every lesson Mischa taught me. Brake, I recall, identifying that particular pedal. Gas.
After that? Hope and prayer.
“I can do this,” I murmur. Then I glance in the rearview mirror and my blood runs cold.
The smoking man has returned. Only now, he stands awkwardly, his neck craned, his hand positioned over his eyes like a visor as he stares in our direction.
“Oh God,” Ama chokes out. “He’ll spot us soon, if he hasn’t already.”
“We’re fine,” I insist.
But there isn’t even time to panic.
Aiming my gaze on a clear path through the lot, I twist the key and slam on the gas. The van jerks beneath me, a living, untamable thing. I have to throw myself against the steering wheel to narrowly avoid hitting another vehicle.
“Careful!” Ama cries. “Please…”
Mingled with her voice is a softer whine that tugs at my heart.
“It’s fine,” I rasp.
Fortunately, the parking lot is surrounded by a stretch of desolate fields, and in the distance, a lone road leads to the horizon. I don’t recognize this area—which only reinforces the fact that I barely know a world beyond Winthorp Manor.
I could be leading us to a dead end. A river. A lake. A cliff.
For a second, I can’t suppress that panicked, pathetic part of me Robert Winthorp nurtured for so damn long.
What am I doing? I should return. Give in. Surrender.
But Mischa’s voice is louder, drowning out all other thoughts in my head.
Run, Little Rose. Fucking run.
* * *
Idrive for hours until the van slows to a crawl despite how hard I slam on the gas pedal. A straining groan issues from the engine with every attempt.
“We’re out of petrol,” Ama points out, her voice thin. Around a yawn, she warns, “We won’t make it far on foot.”
She sounds more realistic than pessimistic, but the point is the same: Without the van, it’s only a matter of time until we wind up caught in the net of one monster or the other.
Suspiciously, I don’t think we’ve been followed. Yet.
“They must not have noticed we’re gone,” Ama says as if reading my mind. I glance back and find her staring pensively from the window, stroking her son’s hair. “But not for long.”
I copy her, unnerved by the lightening sky. Eventually, I have no choice but to pull over onto the side of the road before the engine dies altogether. The surrounding countryside is eerily empty—something that I doubt is a regular occurrence.
