Chapter 152
Chapter 152
The static cut through the silence like a saw blade.
Beck had turned on the truck’s radio for the weather report. Just the weather, he’d said. He wanted to know which roads might be flooded, which direction the storm was tracking. But static gave way to a crisp newscaster’s voice, and Izzy’s heart stuttered before the words even formed.
“—and in other news, the search continues for Isabella Clarke, the missing fiancée of philanthropist and businessman Richard Dane.”
She froze.
Her name hit the cab like a gunshot. Beck’s hand reached for the dial, but she stopped him. She needed to hear.
“Dane spoke earlier today from his estate in Bar Harbor, urging anyone with information to come forward. Authorities believe Clarke may be suffering from pregnancy-related complications and mental distress.”
The reporter’s tone softened, pitying, and Izzy felt something cold spread through her chest.
“Mr. Dane has offered a five-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any credible lead to her whereabouts.”
The recording switched to Dick’s voice.
Calm. Measured. The same voice that had once told her she was perfect. That had whispered promises in the dark.
“Isabella, if you can hear this, please know you’re not in trouble. You’re loved. You’re not well right now, sweetheart. Please, come home.”
The last word—home—felt like a blade sliding under her skin.
Beck shut off the radio. The silence afterward roared.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wipers scraping across the glass, pushing aside streaks of rain. The road stretched ahead, dark and endless, lined with bare trees and faded road signs that all seemed to point nowhere.
Izzy swallowed hard. “He made it sound like I’m crazy.”
Beck’s jaw flexed. “That’s what men like him do.”
Her hands trembled in her lap. “He’s turning me into a missing person story. A sad little headline.”
Beck said nothing. He just reached over, covering her shaking hands with his own. His skin was warm, rough, grounding. “We’ll find somewhere he can’t reach.”
She stared out the window at the blur of trees. Her reflection looked ghostly, her eyes wide, hollow. “He’s everywhere, Beck. His money stretches across the whole damn country. The police, the reporters—they’ll all listen to him.”
“He doesn’t own us.”
“He thinks he does,” she whispered. “He always did.”
The truck jolted as Beck swerved around a fallen branch. He muttered something under his breath—something sharp, frustrated—and Izzy caught the faint tremor in his voice. He was angry, but beneath that anger was fear.
“Turn on the heat,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ve never been fine, Izzy. Not since the day I met you.”
Her throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “It’s honest.”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted back to the window, to the blur of gray sky and rain that made the world look half-erased. Somewhere out there, Dick was probably watching another news segment, maybe smiling at how the narrative had turned in his favor. A wealthy, grieving fiancé. A missing, unstable woman. Perfect optics.
Izzy pressed a hand to her belly without thinking. The baby. Her secret that was no longer hers. She’d once imagined telling the world with joy. Now it felt like another weapon Dick could use.
Beck caught the movement and looked away, as if afraid she’d read too much into his eyes. “We’ll find a way out,” he said finally. “We’ll head west if we have to.”
She forced a shaky smile. “And then what? We live off gas station coffee and motel waffles until the baby’s born?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
The earnestness in his voice hit her hard. She looked at him—really looked—and saw the exhaustion etched into his face, the dark circles, the lines deepened by months of fear and sleepless nights. He was doing this for her. For them.
And she realized she didn’t know how to thank him without breaking.
Lightning flashed in the distance, turning the rain silver for a heartbeat. Then came the thunder—slow, rolling, heavy.
Izzy spoke first, voice barely audible. “He’s never going to stop, is he?”
Beck’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “No,” he said. “But neither am I.”
They drove in silence for another hour. The rain softened, but the tension didn’t. It hung between them like fog, thick and unshakable.
As they passed a roadside diner, Izzy caught sight of a small TV glowing in the window. For a split second, she saw her own face reflected back—her photo from the Lodge, smiling, radiant, happy. Then the image disappeared behind a truck’s headlights.
Her stomach turned. “Beck,” she whispered. “I think they just showed me again.”
He glanced over, his eyes dark. “Then we don’t stop.”
The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Beck pulled into a run-down gas station off Route 11.
The place looked half-abandoned—flickering fluorescent lights, one working pump, a hand-painted sign that said CASH ONLY.
Izzy sat in the passenger seat, fingers fidgeting with the frayed strap of her coat. Her stomach twisted, a mix of nausea and nerves. Beck shut off the engine and looked over at her.
“Want anything? Coffee, maybe?”
She shook her head. “No. Just… hurry, okay?”
He hesitated, studying her for a beat longer than necessary. “You sure?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.
Beck gave a short nod, grabbed his wallet, and stepped out into the misty gray morning.
Izzy watched him disappear into the small store, his shoulders hunched, his hat pulled low. The world outside looked colorless—ashen, quiet, waiting.
A delivery truck rumbled past, splashing through a puddle, and Izzy jumped at the sound.
She pressed her hand against her chest, trying to will her pulse to slow. You’re fine, Izzy. You’re fine.
But even thinking it felt like lying.
Through the glass of the windshield, she could see the old TV mounted behind the gas station counter. The picture flickered, but she caught enough—her heart stopped cold.
Her face.
Her smiling face.
ISABELLA CLARKE – MISSING FIANCÉE OF PHILANTHROPIST RICHARD DANE.
Her hand shot up to her mouth. The clerk behind the counter turned slightly, glancing toward the screen, and then toward the door—where Beck stood waiting for his change.
Izzy sank lower in the seat, barely breathing.
She could hear the anchor’s voice through the cracked window, tinny and calm.
“…believed to be in her second trimester. Authorities say she may be confused and in need of medical assistance. Mr. Dane remains hopeful she will return home safely…”
Home.
That word again. The word that had once meant warmth and comfort. Now it made her skin crawl.
The clerk said something to Beck—something Izzy couldn’t catch—but Beck’s posture changed.
He gave a tight smile, mumbled thanks, and backed toward the door. The bell above it jingled as he pushed out into the rain, clutching two steaming cups.
The second he was in the truck, Izzy hissed, “They showed me again.”
“I saw.” His jaw was rigid. He passed her a cup. “Keep your head down. Don’t look out the window.”
“What did the clerk say?”
“Asked if I’d seen that poor girl on the news. Said her fiancé’s putting up half a million for info.”
He glanced at her. “Said she looked familiar.”
Izzy felt her throat close. “You think he—?”
“I told him we’re from Vermont. That we’re heading north to see family.”
Beck started the truck. “We’re not stopping again for a while.”
She stared down at the coffee in her hands, her fingers trembling. “Half a million,” she whispered. “Someone’s going to recognize me for that kind of money.”
Beck’s voice was quiet but sharp. “Then they’ll have to catch us first.”
The wipers squeaked across the windshield as they pulled back onto the road.
Izzy kept her gaze locked on the blurred horizon. The world outside moved slow and wet and endless. Every time a car passed, her heart jumped. Every pair of headlights felt like a trap waiting to close.
They drove for miles in silence before she finally spoke. “He’s winning.”
Beck’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “No, he’s lying.”
“People believe him. That’s the same thing.”
He didn’t answer right away. His knuckles were white against the leather. “You think I don’t know what that’s like? Everyone at that damn lodge thought I was crazy half the time. The only person who ever saw me was you.”
She turned her head toward him. “And look where that got us.”
He flinched like she’d hit him. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m tired, Beck.” Her voice cracked. “I’m tired of running, of hiding, of being scared to breathe. I want a normal life again. I want—” She stopped herself. “I want to stop looking over my shoulder.”
His voice softened. “We’ll get there. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
She looked away, blinking back tears. The radio was still off, but she could almost hear Dick’s voice anyway, low and coaxing, dripping through her thoughts like poison.
You’re not well, sweetheart. Come home.
A car passed in the opposite lane—a dark SUV with tinted windows. It slowed as it went by.
Izzy’s breath hitched. “Beck.”
“I see it,” he murmured, checking the mirror.
The SUV lingered in the reflection too long before speeding up again.
Izzy exhaled shakily. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“Maybe,” Beck said, but his tone didn’t sound convinced.
The SUV vanished into the fog ahead. Still, neither of them relaxed.
Izzy sat back against the seat, clutching the paper cup so tightly it crumpled in her hands.
Somewhere behind them, she imagined Dick sitting in one of his tailored suits, sipping his coffee, smiling as his men scoured every road between Maine and the border.
He’d always said he liked the chase.