Chapter 153
Chapter 153
By the time Beck pulled off at a roadside diner, the sky had turned to the color of dirty wool.
They’d been driving for hours, the air inside the truck growing stale and heavy, and Izzy’s head throbbed with every mile. She hadn’t said more than a handful of words since the gas station. Neither had Beck. Silence had started to feel like the only language they had left.
The diner sat off the highway—a squat little building with chipped red paint, a flickering sign that read EAT HERE in letters half burned out. A single car was parked near the entrance. Beck parked at the far end of the lot.
“Don’t want to risk it,” he said quietly. “You stay here. I’ll bring something out.”
Izzy rubbed her palms against her jeans, restless. “Beck, I can’t sit in this truck forever. I need air. Please.”
He hesitated. “Hood up. Keep your head down. In and out.”
“I know.”
He gave a quick nod, the kind that said I hate this but I trust you anyway, and stepped out. Izzy followed, the gravel crunching beneath her boots. The smell of coffee and fried food drifted through the cold air as they pushed open the diner door.
A bell jingled. The inside smelled like bacon grease and lemon cleaner. Old linoleum, red vinyl booths, faded photographs of moose and fishermen along the walls. The kind of place where people knew each other by name—and where strangers stuck out.
A waitress looked up from behind the counter, her hair in a messy bun streaked with gray. “Sit anywhere you like, hon.”
Izzy forced a smile, keeping her chin tucked low beneath her hood. Beck slid into a booth near the back, angled so he could see the door. His eyes scanned the room—reflexive, guarded. Always scanning now.
Izzy sat across from him, picking at the frayed sleeve of her sweatshirt. She could feel the other patrons’ glances—just curious, probably—but it made her skin prickle all the same.
The waitress returned with menus and two glasses of water. “You folks passing through?”
“Heading west,” Beck said smoothly. “Looking for work.”
“Lot of that lately,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “Roads are rough this time of year.”
“Yeah,” Beck murmured. “We noticed.”
The woman nodded, jotting something on her pad before walking away.
Izzy finally looked up—and froze.
Behind the counter, taped to the wall beside a corkboard of classifieds and missing cat flyers, was her face again.
Same photo. Same reward. Same lies.
Her pulse went wild. Her hands started to shake.
Beck followed her gaze and went rigid. “Don’t look,” he whispered. But it was too late. The woman at the register—a teenager chewing gum and half-watching the local news on the mounted TV—had turned to glance at them.
On the screen above the counter, a news crawl scrolled beneath the anchor’s face:
Search continues for missing heiress-to-be Isabella Clarke… fiancé Richard Dane offers heartfelt plea for her safe return…
Izzy’s stomach turned over. The volume was low, but she heard enough.
Dick’s voice came through faintly over the clatter of dishes and the hiss of the fryer:
“Isabella isn’t well. She’s vulnerable. If anyone sees her, please… help bring her home safely.”
Home.
That single word again—so sweet, so poisoned.
The teenage cashier was staring now. Beck reached across the table, gripping Izzy’s hand under the Formica. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Right here. Don’t panic.”
Her vision blurred. “She’s staring.”
“She doesn’t know you. She’s just curious.”
But the tremor in his jaw said otherwise. He pulled a few crumpled bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table. “We’re leaving.”
“Beck—”
“Now, Izzy.”
They slid out of the booth. The cashier was already reaching for the phone.
Izzy’s heart jumped into her throat. “She’s calling—”
Beck didn’t wait. He grabbed her hand and pushed through the door, the bell above it jingling too loud, too bright, like an alarm. The waitress shouted something behind them—maybe Hey!—but Izzy couldn’t hear it over the pounding in her ears.
They ran across the lot. Gravel scattered under their boots. The truck’s engine roared to life before Izzy even shut her door. Beck slammed the accelerator, tires squealing against the wet asphalt.
As they pulled back onto the highway, she looked out the back window. A man was stepping out of the diner, pointing in their direction, a phone pressed to his ear.
Her breath hitched. “They’re calling the cops.”
“Let ’em,” Beck growled, gripping the wheel. “We’ll be gone before they get close.”
Izzy leaned her head against the cold glass. The diner faded into the fog, swallowed by distance, but her pulse didn’t slow. Her face—the smile from that cursed photo—kept flashing behind her eyes. She felt like the whole world knew it now. Like the air itself could recognize her.
“Beck?” Her voice trembled. “What if we can’t outrun him?”
He glanced at her, eyes dark and sure. “Then we don’t outrun him. We face him.”
She stared at him. “You can’t mean—”
“I mean whatever it takes,” he said. “I lost you once. Not again.”
The words hit her like a punch—raw, aching, full of something too real to name.
But before she could answer, flashing lights appeared in the mirror—far behind, but gaining.
Red. Blue. Red.
Izzy’s breath caught. “Oh God. Beck—”
“I see them.”
He floored the gas, engine growling. The truck surged forward, the road stretching out ahead like a narrow lifeline through the mist.
Somewhere behind, a siren wailed.
Somewhere ahead, Izzy realized, there really was nowhere left to stop.
Beck’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel. The red and blue lights glowed brighter in the rearview mirror, flashing across his face in sharp bursts of color. Izzy’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“Beck,” she whispered, “what do we do?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked between the mirror and the stretch of empty road ahead. “If we run, they’ll think we’re hiding something.”
“We are hiding something.”
“Exactly,” he said, voice low. “So we play it calm.”
The siren blipped once, quick and sharp — a command.
Beck exhaled through his nose, flicked on the turn signal, and eased the truck onto the gravel shoulder. Izzy’s heart was racing so hard she could feel it in her throat. She clutched her coat tighter, sinking into the seat, tugging the brim of her hat low enough to shadow her face.
“What if they have my photo?”
“Then we pray they’re not looking too close,” Beck said. “Let me talk.”
The patrol car pulled up behind them, headlights glaring. Izzy could make out the shape of the officer stepping out — a man, tall, broad shoulders, flashlight in hand. The crunch of boots on gravel sounded far too loud in the quiet.
“License and registration,” the officer said as he approached, voice neutral, maybe a touch tired.
Beck handed it over without hesitation. “Evening, officer. Something wrong?”
The beam of the flashlight cut through the cab, glinting off the windshield. Izzy ducked her head further, pretending to rummage in the glove compartment. Her palms were slick with sweat.
The light lingered on her for a second too long. Her chest went tight. Then it moved away.
“Tail light’s out,” the officer said. “You aware?”
Beck blinked, like he hadn’t expected something that mundane. “Ah—no, sir. Guess I didn’t notice. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”
The officer nodded. “Where you two headed?”
“West,” Beck said smoothly. “Just passing through.”
“Motel over in Millinocket’s probably got vacancies. You’ll want to stop soon. Roads get slick this time of night.”
“Appreciate it.”
The officer handed the papers back, stepping away from the window. He hesitated, his flashlight swinging back toward Izzy. “Ma’am? You all right? You look pale.”
Izzy forced a small, strained smile. “Just car sick, sir.”
He nodded, almost kindly. “Get some rest, then.”
As he turned back toward his car, Beck exhaled hard enough that his shoulders dropped. They waited until the cruiser’s headlights pulled away and disappeared down the road before either of them moved.
Izzy finally breathed again, pressing a trembling hand to her chest. “I thought—”
“I know.” Beck’s voice came out rough, shaky with adrenaline. “Me too.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The night felt impossibly still.
Then Izzy laughed — a small, broken sound — half relief, half disbelief. “A tail light,” she whispered. “After all that, it was just a damn tail light.”
Beck managed a faint, exhausted smile. “We got lucky.”
She turned to look at him. His face was pale in the glow of the dashboard lights — eyes dark, jaw tight, but there was a tremor in his hand where it rested on the gearshift. He’d been scared too.
The reality of how close they’d come hit her all at once. Her throat burned. “If he’d recognized me…”
Beck reached over, brushed his fingers against hers. “He didn’t.”
“He could’ve.”
“But he didn’t,” he repeated, his voice steadier now, firm and grounding. “We’re okay, Iz. We’re still okay.”
For the first time all night, she let herself believe it.
The rain started again — a soft, steady drizzle tapping against the windshield, washing away the last traces of blue and red light.
Beck turned the key, and the engine rumbled back to life. “Let’s put a few more miles between us and here.”
Izzy nodded. She leaned her head against the window, watching the trees blur past in the dark. Her reflection looked ghostly in the glass — pale and tired, but alive. Still moving.
Still free.
For now.