Chapter 31

I give the truck more gas. The needle on the speedometer slides up to seventy-five. The sheriff’s SUV keeps pace.

“Randall?” I realize I’m whispering, as if the sheriff can hear. “Randall!”

His head snaps upright, and he blinks at me. “How long was I out?”

“Don’t know,” I say. “Look behind us.”

He twists in his seat, then swears.

We’re going eighty now, and the sheriff’s SUV turns on its siren. I clamp my hands on the steering wheel and glance at Randall.

“Pull over,” he says.

“What the hell! Why? We can’t just turn our—”

“We’re not as fast as them.”

“Oh.”

I grit my teeth and ease up on the acceleration. We coast down to seventy.

“Brock. Pull over.”

“Shit fuck fire.”

I stomp on the brake, and the truck fishtails. Randall yanks on the steering wheel, and we skid to a halt on the side of the highway. The SUV stops behind us, its red and blue lights whirling, blinding in the rearview mirror. A police officer shuffles through papers on a clipboard, slowly, taking his goddamn time.

“Oh, Jesus,” I say. “He’s not Royle.”

Randall looks like he’d enjoy skinning me. “What the hell did you think?”

Just some random sheriff who saw me speeding. And I could have gotten away.

“What are we going to do?” I say.

He looks at me, his eyes black, and shrugs. He’s given up, hasn’t he?

The police officer exits the SUV and strides up to my window. He shines a flashlight straight into my eyes, and it’s all I can do not to bare my teeth. He taps on the window. Squinting, I roll it down.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I say.

It’s so dumb that he squints right back at me. “Excuse me?”

I say nothing.

“Can I see a driver’s license and vehicle registration?”

Of course, I don’t have a license on me. I stare blankly at the officer.

“Sir,” Randall says, “he hasn’t got one.”

The officer moves the flashlight beam onto his face. “Explain.”

“He doesn’t have his license yet,” Randall says.

“Yeah.” I force a laugh. “Keep failing that test.”

“Let’s see a learner’s permit, then,” the officer says.

My face heats. “See, I kind of left that at home, and—”

“Step out of the car,” the officer says. “Both of you.”

I clench the steering wheel even tighter, claws breaking from my fingernails. My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

Slowly, Randall unbuckles his seat belt. He meets my eyes, and nods.

“What?” I hiss.

He just nods again. What the fucking hell is that supposed to mean? Shit, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.

The police officer’s radio crackles on, and he glances down.

I slam my foot onto the gas. The truck’s engine roars, but we aren’t going anywhere. Randall slams down the parking brake—I must have set it out of habit—and the truck leaps onto the road as if kicked severely in the rear.

Behind us, the police officer scrambles toward his SUV, trips, and climbs to his feet.

“Car!” Randall yanks the steering wheel to the right.

We swerve back into our lane, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a little blue sedan. I press the gas pedal to the floor and grip the wheel, the muscles in my arms cording. My teeth itch as they lengthen into fangs.

Okay. Calm down. Now is not the time to turn into a wolf.

Sirens pursue us, growing louder and louder. The SUV looks way too big in the rearview mirror. A green sign promises an exit ahead. I yank the wheel and we whip onto the off-ramp, roaring along the curve at full speed. Thank God it’s empty. The SUV skids after us, scraping the guardrail with a shower of sparks.

“Asshole!” I shout. “Get off our tail!”

Randall stares at me, his eyebrows sky-high. “Brock. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting us the fuck out of here.”

At the end of the off-ramp, a sign forbids U-turns. Good idea. I twist the wheel and spin the truck 180 degrees. The tires skid and bounce across the asphalt. Behind us, I hear the screech of the SUV’s brakes. Nose in the right direction, I gun the engine again, run a red light, and swerve right onto a side road, then left onto another. I’m sweating hard, terrified I’ll hear sirens again, but we drive deeper into silence.

I blow out my breath and slow to the speed limit. “Okay. We’re cool.”

“We are not cool,” Randall growls. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?” I’m grinning now, turbocharged on adrenaline. “It’s not like we made anything worse than it already was.”

“Speak for yourself. And we’re running on empty.”

I groan. Then, a tiny old gas station appears like a miracle on the horizon. I don’t want to stop, but of course we can’t keep going without gas. I glance at Randall, who nods, then pull into the station and kill the engine.

“I’ve got to make a phone call.” Randall hands me a wad of cash. “You pay.”

“Right.”

Still buzzed and jumpy, I walk into the store, feeling like a movie guy on an important mission. A skinny guy stands behind the counter, leaning over some trashy magazine and chewing on a wad of minty gum.

“Hey,” I say, “I need some gas.”

“Sure.” The guy doesn’t glance up.

Maybe it’s the gum, or his laziness, or the fact that we’re running from the cops, but I instantly hate him. I slap the cash on the counter, loud enough that there’s no way he can’t hear. He grabs it and starts riffling through the bills.

“How much?” he says, cracking his gum.

I flex my fingers and try not to growl. “Put it all on pump number two.”

“Sure…” The guy squints at a twenty-dollar bill as if not believing it’s real. “Hey, is this one of those new ones?”

I glance out the window and see Randall across the street, pacing beneath the red-and-white sign of a Grocery Mart. He’s still talking on the phone, probably to Winema. I wonder how pissed she is right now.

“Okay…” says the guy behind the counter. “That’s sixty-two dollars.”

“Sure,” I say. “Go for it.”

I glance back again. This time, I see a police cruiser driving nearer.

I sprint out the store, past the pickup truck, and across the street. “Randall!”

He frowns at me. “What?”

“They’re coming.”