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EMMA
I’m compiling a comprehensive mental list of all the things you shouldn’t do when you’re on the run from a violent mob boss. Note that these rules are especially important when you have three kids in tow, including an impatient six-year-old and herveryloud five-year-old sister, all while looking like an Egyptian mummy because you’re wrapped from head to toe in gauze to cover up the thousand and one bleeding cuts you got when your deadbeat brother-in-law pushed you through a glass coffee table.
Rule number one: don’t tell the five-year-old you’re leaving town on an adventure. Because shewilltell every single person she makes eye contact with.
Rule number two: don’t call your best friend and admit to all the secrets you’ve been keeping from her for the last six months. Because shewillfreak the hell out and threaten to call the cops.
Rule number three: don’t bring all three kids to Walmart to buy the emergency supplies you need to tide you over on this great escape. Kids have no sense of what constitutes an emergency and theywilltry to buy unicorn Snuggies, light-up Slinkies, and their bodyweight’s worth of Pop-Tarts.
So far, I’ve broken all three rules. This little “adventure” is off to a great start.
“Caro, Rae, for the last time, you can’t buy—”
“Excuse me, hon?” someone says. I jerk around, totally rattled by the unfamiliar hand on my shoulder. He flinches off me. “Whoa there. Just sayin’ hello, darling. No need to fret.”
I squint at the man standing next to my loaded cart. I may have gone a little overboard with the supplies. It’s stuffed to the brim with toiletries, sleeping bags, canned foods, extra clothes for each of the kids, a flashlight and a backup flashlight…
I just wanted to be prepared. Then again, can you ever be prepared to uproot your entire life? Your kids’ lives?
“Uh, yeah, hi, hello,” I say distractedly. I scan the surrounding area. I’m currently standing in the dried foods aisle, but two of my three wards are nowhere to be found. “Josh! Where are your sisters?”
My eight-year-old points towards the next aisle. “Over there. I’ll get them.”
Before I can tell him to stay put, he’s gone, too.
Great.
Now, I’ve lost all three.
And apparently, I have an audience. The man who startled me is still there, standing by my cart, looking shamelessly at its contents. “Looks like you’ve got half the store in there,” he chuckles, scratching at his thin brown beard.
I force a smile. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He puts his hand on the handle of my cart. “Miss, do you need some help?”
My heartbeat kicks up a notch. What if this guy works for Ruslan? Does he look like mafia or Bratva or whatever the hell Ruslan calls himself? Is he dangerous?
He’s certainly large enough to do some damage. And he’s got those sharp eyes.Dangerouseyes. Although, come to think of it, I didn’t exactly listen to my better instincts last time I came into contact with a certain pair of dangerous amber eyes.
It’s kinda how I got in this whole mess to begin with.
“I don’t need any help. But thank you for asking.” I try to push my cart down the aisle but he doesn’t remove his hand and the wheels squeal in protest.
I turn to him warily but he gives me only a sympathetic smile. “It’s just that I would never forgive myself if I didn’t help someone in your position.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you. But it’s really not necessary.”
He leans in a little closer and the scent of tuna hits me like a truck in the night.Oh, yuck. My eyes start watering.
“You really shouldn’t be out in your condition. With three kids, no less.”Speaking of—where the hell are they?“You should be at home with your feet up while someone else does all the heavy lifting.”
“Trust me: if I had someone else, I would absolutely be home with my feet up.”
Or if I had a home to do that at.
The man’s eyebrows rise. He’s got bushy ones to match his mustache. “So no husband? A boyfriend, maybe? A gal-friend?”
