Page 2 of Grim’s Angel

I cannot hand my name, my body, and a year of my life to a stranger because Alan gambled away something that never belonged to him.

I open the family group chat.

I am sorry. I changed my mind.

My thumb hovers over the Send button while anxiety rushes in late and begins listing the consequences. The house. My mother’s tears. My father’s silence. Alan telling anyone who listens that his selfish little sister ruined them.

Then I remember the auction listing.

Curvy. Educated. Healthy. Virgin.

Four words that reduced my life to desirable features.

I press send.

My bravery has arrived without money, shelter, or a return ticket, but I decide to welcome her anyway.

The bus pulls up beside a low brick station at the edge of town. I retrieve my suitcase from the rack and wrestle it down the steps into the rain. One wheel catches in a crack and jerks me backward. I recover with a hop that nearly takes out an elderly man, then straighten as if the entire maneuver was a little-known form of travel yoga.

The driver leans toward the open door.

“Someone meeting you?”

I look across the deserted parking lot. The clock above the recessed station entrance reads four twelve. According to my instructions, a car will collect me at four fifteen.

“That was the plan.”

“Was?”

“I have withdrawn my support for the plan.”

His gaze moves from my damaged suitcase to the rain. “Next bus heading east leaves at nine tomorrow morning. Motel’s two blocks north.”

“So I only need a room, a return ticket, and a personality capable of planning ahead.”

“You might want to start with the room.”

“That does sound easier.”

If you have money.

The folding door closes between us. A moment later, the bus pulls away and takes my simplest escape route with it.

My phone rings.

Mom’s name fills the screen.

I silence it and slide the phone into my coat pocket before guilt persuades me to answer.

A black sedan turns into the lot at exactly four fifteen.

The car is sleek, expensive, and completely wrong for the tired little station. Its dark windows reflect the rain, and the headlights cast two pale paths across the pavement.

Two men step out.

The taller one holds a glossy page bearing my photograph above a block of printed information. He compares it to my face before allowing his attention to travel down my body.

My skin draws tight.