“Zoey.” His bark was so sudden and so loud, Zoey flinched as though she’d been hit. She looked down at the new powder-blue tennis shoes we’d bought to wear on our special spring break trip. They matched the princess dress and baseball cap.

  I swallowed hard, and Zoey stifled any sounds. She hung her head, and I could see the defeat sagging her shoulders.

  At six, she already knew what it meant to be controlled. To give in. To bend her natural instincts to the will of someone stronger and more powerful. But all that was about to end.

  “We need to load up the car!” I reminded her, putting on my most cheerful voice. Jerry still held my arm in a vise-like grip. I turned to him and gave him a sweet, sultry smile. “She’s not behaving because of all the excitement. She’s really excited to go on a plane, Jerry. I’ll talk to her,” I promised.

  He looked at me with disgust. “I wonder if canceling the trip would teach her a lesson,” he said.

  Although my heart raced so hard I was sure Jerry could feel my pulse through my arm, I composed my face to stay calm.

  He couldn’t.

  We couldn’t cancel.

  This was our only way out. Months of planning would be down the drain.

  “I’ll deal with it, sweetheart,” I said, the endearment tasting like shit on my tongue. “Let’s not cause a stir with my sister or anyone outside the family.” While Jerry normally didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought about what he did, he did know that canceling on my sister—whom I hadn’t seen but two times since Jerry and I were married—would cause some concerns.

  Maybe prompt her to visit us here in Florida. And he definitely did not want that.

  “We’ll check in with you in a few hours, and we’ll be back before you know it,” I reassured him.

  He released my arm but put a hand behind my neck and pulled me roughly to his face. The kiss he gave me wasn’t one of love or lust. Jerry was the only man I’d ever met who could convey hatred with his lips.

  “Mom!”

  I jerk my head and meet Zoey’s eyes in the rearview mirror, my memories of the morning shattering with the sound of the voice that gives my life purpose. “What, baby? What is it?”

  She raises her cute little eyebrows at me. “You said I could pick the music.”

  I huff a sigh of relief.

  Right. That.

  I flick on the radio and fiddle with the stations until we find a pop station that will hopefully have mostly kid-friendly music. It’s been so long since I played any music other than a custom streaming playlist, I have no idea what to expect from music on the radio.

  After we said our goodbyes to Jerry and packed up the SUV, we drove to long-term parking at the airport, while Jerry headed off to work.

  We parked the SUV beside a beat-up sedan that I’d purchased in cash only two days before. I quickly loaded Zoey into the beater, strapping her into the used booster seat. I opened up our beautiful new suitcases, which were in the back of the SUV. I transferred half the clothes and toiletries from our overly full bags into empty thrift store bags I’d stashed in the trunk of the sedan.

  Then I left our nice luggage in the back of the SUV, left Zoey’s booster chair right where it always was, strapped in behind the passenger seat, and turned her iPad completely off. I tossed the device underneath the driver’s seat of the SUV, so no one would see it from outside the car and break in just to steal the iPad. In a couple days, the battery on the tablet would be dead, and there would be no way to pick up a signal or trace it. By the time Jerry realized we weren’t in Denver and we weren’t coming home, our abandoned car, half-empty luggage, and dead tablet would be all he had left.

  But that meant Zoey had to give up her beloved iPad. I’d told her I’d accidentally forgotten it in the SUV and that I’d get her a new one as soon as I could. That was a lie, but it was the only way I could separate her from another device Jerry might use to track our location.

  That was the second lie I’d ever told my daughter.

  I hope it’s the last.

  Zoey seems content with the music, and I flick on a turn signal and roll the windows completely closed so I can crank the AC. Based on the notes I made and the map, we are less than an hour’s drive from Daytona Beach. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a small, safe motel. Whether they’ll be able to take my fucked-up debit card or not is another worry.

  I used a computer at the library to open a new bank account online using a PO box I paid for with cash.

  I timed everything just right—I wasn’t leaving anything to luck. The debit card arrived just a few days before Zoey’s spring break was scheduled to start.

  There would be no way Jerry could trace that account to me, but now I can see all that planning might not have stopped me from making a big mistake. Opening the account using some virtual bank that doesn’t have real ATMs means the little money I do have is only accessible through a debit card that apparently isn’t working.

  I’ll add that to the unexpected shit I’ll need to sort out when we make it to Daytona.

  At least with Morris’s money, I should be able to find a cheap place to stay that I can pay for with cash, even if it’s only for a night or two.

  Two hundred bucks won’t go far, but if the motel has internet, I should be able to contact the online bank and see if I can get at what little additional cash I have.

  Hopefully in a couple days, I can find a job. Get Zoey into school.

  To be honest, I didn’t plan much past getting away. So much effort went into making sure we had at least a couple days’ lead time while Jerry thought we were in Denver with my sister… But I’m going to have to figure out what happens next fast.

  As the sun raises the temperature in the car, I watch little Zoey’s eyes drift closed. The traffic ahead is heavy, but nothing I can’t navigate. I am just feeling my shoulders relax, my hands light on the steering wheel, when my phone starts buzzing. An immediate, panicked sweat breaks out on my lip.

  That ringtone. It’s Jerry.

  How?! Why is he calling me? I pick up the phone and stare at it. Based on the time, we should be on a flight to Denver right now.

  Why the hell would Jerry be calling?

  No, no, no, fuck!

  I nearly slam my foot on the brake and pull the car over, but I know I can’t answer that call. I fight the instinct to respond to him immediately and will myself to think. Maybe he is calling to leave a message, reminding me to check in as soon as I land.

  Anything could have happened, or nothing could have happened. That’s how it is with Jerry. I can never predict when he’ll ignore me for an entire day or get a bug up his butt and want to hear from me every hour on the hour. Calls, texts, insisting that I be in nearly constant contact. I’ll know soon enough which this is, but right now, I need to get moving.

  I put the pedal to the metal and start driving faster on the highway. My heart rate is just starting to slow about ten minutes later, when a horrible thumping starts coming from under the hood of the car. It sounds like something broke loose and is rattling free in there, but before I can think what to do, the temperature gauge starts going wild on the dash, the small orange dial waving frantically to get my attention.

  I try not to go into a full, losing-my-shit panic.

  “Mommy? What’s that?” Zoey is wide awake now, her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

  “Don’t worry, baby. It’s just the car. It’s acting up a bit.”

  The knocking noise gets worse until, finally, the entire car starts shaking in this back-and-forth, jerking motion that I can’t drive through.

  “Goddammit,” I mutter.

  I flip on my signal and lurch onto the shoulder just as the car sputters and dies.

  And then it’s official.

  I can’t help it. I go into a full-blown panic.

  I try to turn the engine over, start the car again, but every time I turn the key in the ignition, I hear a click-click-click, and then nothing.

  Dead.

  The only means of escape I have is dead. Just like I’m going to be.

  It’s blazing hot outside, and we’re pulled over on the left-hand side of the road, cars in the fast lane speeding past us at over seventy miles an hour. I feel like a sitting duck, and I’m stranded with a helpless little duckling.

  I race to think of options, but my phone is lighting up again, Jerry’s fucking number on the caller ID.

  “Mommy?” Zoey asks in a small voice from the back seat. “What is it?”

  I open my purse and tear through my wallet, wishing I had everything I had back home. Roadside assistance. A reliable SUV. Credit cards with high credit limits. But none of those things were mine. Everything in my world belonged to Jerry Cruz. My, for now, husband. Everything except this shitty sedan, some used luggage, and my baby girl.

  I swallow hard and rub my eyes before turning to reassure Zoey. But before I can even twist in my seat, a heart-wrenching cry tears from the back seat.

  “Mama!” Zoey cries, fat tears rolling down her face. “Mama, I’m sorry!”

  I frantically scan the back seat, braced for blood or vomit or worse. Thankfully, it’s not worse. But it’s not great. Zoey is holding an empty plastic bottle of apple juice in her hand. The entire contents of the bottle have spilled down the front of her baby-blue princess dress.

  “I’m not a baby. It was an accident,” she says, coughing through her tears. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry!”

  Her overreaction to a small but inconvenient spill tears at my heart. No little girl should feel full-body shame over fucking apple juice and a wet dress.

  Fuck this. Fuck Jerry. This reaction is all him. This is what years of living with Jerry have done to my daughter. To me.

  I am stranded on the side of a six-lane road in a junk-ass car with two hundred dollars in cash from a stranger.

  This is not how my life was supposed to go.

  “Zoey,” I say in a firm voice, facing my daughter. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” I try to hold my voice steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is okay.”

  But even as I say the words, something inside me shrivels. I just told my daughter lie three.

  Everything is not okay.

  3

  I roll up to the property and park my bike out front. There is a paved parking lot, but it’s in atrocious condition. The pockmarks in the concrete are so deep it looks like a hoard of wild boars wearing steel spikes on their feet stampeded through, not once but twice. The fractures in the walkways are large enough to trip a person and cause some serious injuries.

  This place is a total piece of shit, but it’s ours.

  There are at least four separate storefronts that I can count, but every one of them is completely boarded up. There’s minimal graffiti on the plywood, which is good.

  Means I won’t have to fight local shitheads to keep them off the property. But securing the place while we rebuild is going to be an issue.

  As I walk up to one of the shops and peer in the windows, I guess that anything of value has long been looted. Probably by the former owner, but still.

  From what I can see through the small gaps between the plywood planks, the interiors have been stripped bare. The roof looks as if a family of raccoons has built a compound up there. What grounds there are haven’t been mowed or weeded in… Shit. The nearly two acres as far as the eye can see is basically feral.

  “Fuuuuuck.”

  I should have driven my truck here today. I don’t have tools with me, and without breaking down some of what’s boarded up, I’m going to have to bust a window or door to access the building.

  The bank agent handed me a single key at closing. A single key. Even figuring out which door that key opens—because there’s no way that one key unlocks all these shops—is going to take some time.

  I peer in the windows and try every door handle with the key, but they are all a no-go. Since it looks like I’m not getting in clean, I may as well go dirty.

  I scan the ground for a brick, a rock, or any concrete debris I can use to bust my way into a window or pry off a bit of plywood, when I hear the sound of an engine turning over or trying to.

  The noise is coming from behind the building. I haven’t even gone back there yet, but there are no neighbors or other businesses, so whoever is back there…is probably fucking stealing.

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter.

  I head around the side of the building and keep my steps quiet. My fists have gotten me into and out of trouble more times than I can count, but if whoever is on the other side of this building is packing, it sure as fuck won’t be a fair fight.

  Once I’m on the side of the building, I can see a huge extended cab black pickup with a small flatbed trailer hitched on the back. There is an antique, beat-to-shit yellow Ford Bronco half-cab parked near the flatbed.

  I’m assuming the piece-of-shit truck doesn’t run because there is somebody behind the wheel of the classic truck who looks focused on trying to get the engine to turn over.

  I come up quietly around the Bronco from behind. The windows on the half-cab are either broken or rolled down, but I have a clear reach in if I’m quick.

  I scan the pickup, the trailer, and the entire scene. There’s only this one guy as far as I can tell, but I’m not taking any chances. I see my shot and rush the truck.

  “Hey, asshole!” I pound on the driver’s side door once with my fist, then reach through the open window and grab the shirt of the guy inside.

  “What the fuck!” The kid puts his hands up like he’s surrounded by the cops, which is actually what I want. No gun or other weapon that I can see, so for the moment, I’ve got the upper hand.

  I yank open the driver’s side door, tighten my fist around the guy’s work shirt, and physically drag his ass out of the truck. Not willing to take any chances, I release the guy only long enough to make a fist and aim for his gut. I land a single punch that knocks him to the ground, where he rolls around, gripping his stomach and sputtering a cough.

  “Fuck!” he groans, settling over on his side and panting.

  “You packin’?” I demand, standing over him, my steel-toe boot lined up to his balls. I like a fair fight, but I’m not above kicking a man when he’s down if it means not getting my face blown off. “You got a weapon? Anybody else here?”

  The kid tries to stand, but he gives up and rolls over onto his back, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus, fuck,” he sputters. He coughs weakly, but I know he’s gonna be fine in a couple seconds.

  “Unless you want this—” I nudge the tip of my boot into the broken asphalt. “I’d start talking if I were you.”

  The kid holds his hands up and looks me in the eye. He can’t be more than twenty-five, if that. He’s wearing a work shirt and jeans. “I’m alone,” he assures me. “I don’t even own a gun. I got nothing. Jesus!”

  I watch him closely as, one hand still up, his eyes never leaving mine, he struggles to stand. He holds his gut and bends slightly, huffing a breath, but before I know what’s coming, he tackles me to the ground and starts pummeling the shit out of my face.

  “You punk-ass motherfucker!”

  Goddamn this kid.

  We tussle on the ground, but it’s not long before I’ve got my full weight on him.

  “Who are you?” I ask calmly, giving us both a chance to catch our breath. Getting into a fight in the midmorning sun is the last thing I wanted to do this morning. “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “Leo,” he grunts. “Leo Hawk.”

  “And why the fuck are you stealing, Leo?”

  “Come on, man,” he says. “Let me up. I can explain.”

  “I can hear you just fine,” I say. “Go ’head. Why are you trying to steal my shit?”

  Leo jerks his body, trying to free himself. But that ain’t happening. I’m 265 pounds of solid muscle, and despite the more than twenty years I probably have on this kid in age, I’m on top of this situation…literally.

  I use my left hand to grab the back of his collar and give him another shake, making sure the asphalt pebbles on the ground give his face a couple of contact kisses.

  “Fuck!” he yells.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” I scold. “I’ve had hickeys that left deeper marks than that. Now, why don’t you stop crying and start talking? I might just let you leave my property with most of your face intact.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I feel his body relax a little.

  It’s resignation. Maybe defeat.

  “Hawk Enterprises,” he explains. “That was my brother.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  “He owned this whole strip. And then fucking lost it. He’s an addict. He shot all the profits into his arm or spent it on strippers. Jesus, I don’t know.”

  The kid sounds miserable, broken enough that I want to believe him. Liars don’t usually sound so shredded.

  “You’re the one who looted the property?”

  “I wouldn’t say looted, man,” Leo says. “This building was all we had. Our parents are dead. It’s just me and Tim. He’s older. Always been handy. We both are. There’s nothing mechanical we can’t fix. I’ve worked with him here in the restoration bays doing auto repair since I was eighteen. Last seven years of my life. I didn’t know my brother wasn’t paying the mortgage. I found out the bank put the place up for sale when I came to work one day and the sheriff had pasted a notice on the door. Everything we’ve worked for, everything we know. Fuckin’ gone.”

  “And the truck?”

  Leo jerks his head to the side to try to meet my eyes. “That’s mine, man. All mine. You can check the title. My grandfather left that truck to me when he passed. 1968 Ford Bronco half-cab.” Leo cracks a small smile, pride evident in his tone. “Gramps always said my momma was made in that truck. Not cool, telling a teenage boy his mom was conceived in a classic half-cab, but it sure brought me some kind of luck when I drove it.”

  I have to laugh at that.

  “I’ve been clearing out the building since the auction,” he explained. “Little by little, I moved out the shit we’d accumulated in here. Tools and equipment. Anything I needed to try to survive once we lost this place. I moved all of it to my gramps’ house. I live there now, and I thought at least I could try to start over on my own. Do some repairs out of my house, something.”