Page 2 of Claimed By The Tracker

I gave her the smile I'd perfected years ago.

Bright. Warm. Harmless.

"I will be."

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Well, wherever you're headed, drive safe."

"Thanks."

She moved on.

I watched her go.

Wherever you're headed.

If only I knew where that was.

The diner smelled like burnt grease and freedom.

I wasn't sure which one was making me nauseous.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A cook worked behind the counter. Two truckers hunched over plates of rubbery eggs in the far corner.

Nobody knew who I was.

Nobody cared.

For the moment, I was nowhere.

Anonymous.

Maybe safe.

I found the exits without meaning to.

Front door. Kitchen. Side door by the bathrooms.

The habit was older than the wedding. Older than the contract I'd found. Older than the secret I'd spent twelve years making sure my father never discovered.

My magic.

Gold heat stirred beneath my skin.

I pressed my palms harder against the cold ceramic.

I'd changed in Delaney's backseat around mile forty.

Jeans. Oversized flannel. Sneakers from the emergency bag I'd kept hidden beneath my bed for four months. Apparently some part of me had known I'd eventually need it.

My hair was still half-pinned from the stylist. Loose waves fell around my shoulders, bobby pins digging into my scalp.

Every time I moved, I felt the ghost of the wedding dress against my skin.

The weight of something I'd refused to carry through a door.

I let myself shake.