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I raise the gun and aim at him. My chest heaving, my thoughts swirling, fear and desperation and fury, because I did nothing to deserve any of this, my children did nothing to deserve any of this, not one single thing —
“You won’t do it,” he says, wincing. “You don’t have the stones, kid.”
“No?” I say, my voice surprisingly even and cold. My finger curls around the trigger.
“Marcie! Marcie!”
I blink and snap out of the trance, feel a shudder run through me.
“Marcie! Listen to me, Marcie!”
I turn. The phone. Silas’s phone, resting on the pavement. Sounds like Blair wants a word with me.
But first, I give one more swift kick to Silas, somewhere no man wants to be kicked.
Then I pick up the phone to incessant protests, desperate shouts of my name, and move away from Silas down the alley.
The back door to the café pops open. “What happened?” someone shouts.
“That man needs medical attention!” I shout, my back turned, walking away. “Call an ambulance! No, call the police! Call the police now!”
I get some distance, then bring the phone to my ear. “Blair,” I say.
“Marcie, listen to me. We can work this out.”
No, we can’t. If I didn’t know that before, I do now. We are past working it out. It’s all about the money. They won’t stop until they get their money.
And once they get it, they can’t let me live.
“You’ve got nowhere to run, Marcie.”
He’s right about that. But neither does he.
“Just listen to me, okay?”
“No, you listen to me, Blair,” I say. “You want the money? Come get it.”
I drop the phone and leave the alley.
ONE HUNDRED
I’M READY NOW, READY for this to end.
Ready to retrieve my kids and get as far away from Hemingway Grove as possible.
My heart pounding but my mind clear and focused, I jump in my rented Dodge SUV. I return to the park where I rested after first fleeing the bank, the gazebo where I left the duffel bags. This time, I park in a lot close by and run over to the gazebo. I’m back in the car in less than a minute with the bags.
Then I drive west toward the interstate, checking David’s phone for directions. Keeping a lookout for Blair or evidence of law enforcement — a helicopter overhead, a police checkpoint barricading access to the highway. But finding nothing. As if I didn’t already know — Blair isn’t law enforcement, not today. He has no team behind him. He never did. It’s just Silas and him.
I take the ramp onto the interstate, heading north to Hemingway Grove. I mind the speed limit. No reason todraw attention to myself, though the only contraband in this car is the gun I took off Silas.
Did Silas get away? Or is he busy explaining himself to Champaign cops right now? One fingerprint off that guy, and he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.
I remember the store from when I was driving down here earlier today. A superstore, a recognizable one, with a tall sign peeking high in the air for visibility from the highway. I see you. I’m coming.
I pull off the highway and into the parking lot of the superstore. I park between two other SUVs, just one extra layer of concealment. As far as I know, Blair doesn’t know what car I’m driving, and I haven’t turned on my phone, which I know he’s tracking, so I can’t imagine how he could locate me here. But you never know.
A greeter, an old man, smiles and waves to me when I walk in. “Hope you’re having a great day, now!”
