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We’re nearing the bottom step when a young man with a mop of curly brown hair holds his phone in my face, presumably using the phone’s video recorder. “Why did you kill your wife, Will? Is it true she was planning to leave you? Were you having an affair with another woman?”
Anger surges through me. Smacking his phone away, I grab a fistful of his shirt and rear back my fist.
Marlowe grabs my hand, preventing me from punching the reporter.
“Let it go, Will. This little punk is not worth the trouble.” Marlowe clamps a hand onto my arm and drags me out to my truck. “You need to control your anger, man. I’ve been watching you these past few weeks. You’re a rumbling volcano. If you don’t get a hold of your emotions, you could lose everything. That little scene you just caused will end up all over social media. I understand your in-laws are suing for custody of your daughters. If that’s true, this is the last thing you want them to see. I’m willing to help you, but not if you’re gonna act like that.”
“I don’t need your help.” I wrench my arm free of his grip and get in my truck. As I speed away from the station, I punch the roof of my truck. The truth is, I do need Marlowe’s help. Without it, I could go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.
FOUR
JULIA
I fall into a deep sleep a few miles outside of El Paso. When I wake several hours later, we’re passing through Lubbock. I suspected we would be traveling north. Winter apparel—stocking caps, scarves, and parkas—will make hiding our identities easier. But I’m disappointed just the same. I was foolishly hoping for a balmy climate, someplace tropical with palm trees and ocean breezes.
I glance over at my son, who is snoring softly in the seat beside me. Our escorts, the Suburbans in front and behind us, are now gone, and Eleanor is having a quiet but heated political discussion with the nameless marshal in the passenger seat.
I remove my computer from my bag and open it on my lap. Eleanor confiscated all my Apple devices and exchanged them for a cheap Dell computer and an Android phone and tablet. I look down at the blank document in my writing app. I haven’t written a word in four months. To connect with my characters, I need a peaceful setting, which the dingy apartment in Austin failed to provide. I miss the farm more than I ever thought possible. The rolling hills and grasslands, the bluebonnets that blanket the area in the spring, offered the tranquility I needed to write my first twenty cozy mysteries.
“Mommy, I have to go potty,” my son says, his face flushed from sleep.
“Okay, sweetheart.” I tap Eleanor on the shoulder. “Le—” I stop myself from calling my son by his real name. “Conrad needs to use the restroom.”
“Here.” The marshal tosses me an empty Styrofoam cup. “Tell him to use this!”
I throw the cup back at him. “Forget it. Besides, I need to pee too. Who are you anyway?”
“U.S. Marshal Roderick Painter. You can call me Rod. I’ll be taking over your case when we get to Denver.”
My mouth falls open. Eleanor is abandoning us? I’ve trusted her with my life for four months, and she’s turning us over to this arrogant jerk. “Is Denver our final destination?”
“Not hardly,” he says with a huff of sarcasm. “Austin to Denver is the first leg of our very long journey. But it’s the end of the road for Eleanor. She’ll return to Austin tomorrow morning, and I’ll continue with you to your destination.”
My throat swells. I always assumed Eleanor would stay with us until . . . Until when? Until forever. She’s too professional to talk about herself, and I’ve been too self-absorbed to ask about her personal life. I’m sure she has a spouse and children. She would never dessert her family for us. We’re just another case for her. She will return to her ordinary life and soon forget about us.
Rod shifts in his seat to face me, his beady black eyes creeping me out. “We’re on a tight schedule, which means you need to suck it up and pee in the cup,” he says, tossing the cup back to me.
I crush the Styrofoam cup and drop it on the floor. “I assume tight schedule means you’re getting a bonus if you deliver us to our destination early.”
His cheeks redden, letting me know I’d hit on the truth.
We pass a road sign announcing multiple convenience stores at the next exit. I tap Eleanor’s shoulder. “Look! There are several options for restrooms at the next exit.”
“I’m on it. We need gas anyway,” she says and speeds across two lanes of traffic to the exit.
“Whatever. But make it quick,” Rod says, turning back to face the front.
I glare at the back of his head, my dislike for this guy swelling inside of me.
Eleanor drives to the convenience store farthest from the highway, pulls up to a gas pump, and hands Rod a credit card. “Fill her up.”
Inside the store, she leads us to the restrooms at the back, making certain the ladies’ room is empty and locking the door behind us. I search for Eleanor’s reflection in the mirror as I’m washing my hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving us?”
She looks at me over the top of her blue eyeglass frames. “By now, you should be fully aware that I operate on a strict need-to-know basis.”
“I’m aware.” I dig a wet thumb into my chest. “But I need to know if Mr. Personality is capable of protecting us.”
“Of course. Rod worked for the Secret Service for ten years, the last three on the vice president’s detail.”
