“Scary, isn’t it? Granted my algorithm was in a league of its own, but there are programs, like Social Mapper and FindFace, that can search through a billion photos from a normal computer in less than a second. Those two programs are much more basic and limited than what I created, but they do exist.”
Something cold and painful lodges in my throat, like I’d just swallowed an ice cube. “That’s why you were hired to find my mom, because of that program.”
He nods. “I did gain a certain level of notoriety after that, but part of the deal I made with the FBI involved turning over my algorithm and everything else I had, with the understanding that I wouldn’t get a second chance if I put on a black hat ever again.”
“But you did.”
He lifts one shoulder. “I had interest from a bunch of tech security companies when I graduated from high school, but my gran wanted me to go to college. And I wanted to prove to her that she could raise a good man. I ended up at Penn State in order to be close to her when she got sick. And when she got sicker, I took an offer that would pay me enough to take care of her.”
We’re both quiet after that.
After a few minutes, I open my door and throw my makeshift knife as far as I can into the tree line.
“Is that your way of telling me you want to be friends now?”
“No.” I pull my door shut. “It just means I don’t believe you’re the bad guy anymore.”
I don’t sleep, but Malcolm dozes on and off while we wait for dawn. When he’s awake, we talk. Hearing his story and deciding to relinquish my weapon caused a shift between us. Despite my frequent attempts to get him to break down exactly what we’ll be doing in order to get to my grandfather undetected, he keeps redirecting the conversation. He has no problem telling me things about him, though, and slowly I find myself opening up in return. I tell him about Mom’s paranoia and strict parenting, along with the mostly successful ways I’ve gotten around her rules.
I even tell him about Aiden.
“You can’t call him. You get that, right?”
I nod, but it doesn’t make the thought of him hating me for disappearing on him any easier. I’d been telling myself to end it with Aiden for weeks, but I kept finding reasons—excuses, really—to hold off. Maybe he liked me more than I liked him, but it wouldn’t have been hard to let myself go there.
And now…
“Maybe when this is all over, you can…” Malcolm doesn’t finish. He needs my mom to be guilty, and either way, it’s what he believes. If she’s innocent, then he gets nothing. Worse than nothing, since he’s already lost so much.
And if she’s guilty and he can somehow convince me of that, then I’m supposed to…what, have a hand in sending her to jail?
Whatever happens, I’ll never go back to our home in Bridgeton. But I hope I’ll get to say goodbye to my friends and Aiden. To tell him…that he made me happy.
I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze, to push back against the ache rising in my chest, and that’s when I notice that I can see the trees edged with reddish-gold light.
The sun is rising.
* * *
This early, traffic is practically nonexistent, so we’re the only car at the next gas station we pull into. I tie Malcolm’s hoodie around my waist to cover my hip, and request the bathroom key from the attendant inside. He gives me a concerned look, and I can feel his eyes on me as I go back out to where Malcolm is waiting. The two of us walk around the corner to the bathroom and squeeze inside.
As far as gas station bathrooms go…it’s not the worst one I’ve seen, but I still have to breathe through my mouth. There’s a toilet, a small sink, and one of those warped reflective metal domes that’s supposed to act as a mirror.
With our backs to each other, we start stripping off our dirty and bloody clothes. I hiss when I have to peel the denim down my injured thigh. It’s good that I saw Malcolm’s torso the night before; the perspective allows me to examine my own scrapes and bruises somewhat detachedly. The cut on my hip doesn’t look too hot. In a perfect world, I’d have gotten stitches; instead, I clean everything as best I can, then settle for a butterfly bandage and some gauze before carefully pulling on my new jeans.
I leave my old shirt on for the next part: dyeing my hair. Turning to grab the box, I notice that Malcolm is still trying to get out of his T-shirt, breathing slowly through his nose.
It’s not going to happen. The best bet is to cut it off. I grab the scissors and slice straight up the back before pushing the ruined shirt off his shoulders.
“It looks better,” I say. Better, in this case, means yellow and green streaks on his torso now, and the bluish and purple spots are smaller than before. And he’s standing straighter, not leaning slightly to his left anymore. I’ll make myself sick if I think about what he must have looked like on that first day.
“Yeah.” He reaches for a wet paper towel. “Not sleeping in a trunk, five out of five doctors recommend it.”
I pretend to search for something in his bag while he washes off the sweat, grime, and dried blood that clings to his skin. He’s visibly annoyed at needing my help when I face him again. I take the new T-shirt from his hand, bunch it up around the collar, and hold it up for his head to go through. I have to rise to my toes, because his injured ribs keep him from ducking. I think he tries to scowl at me, but it’s a weak attempt.
Before helping him with the sleeves, I make another inspection of his ribs. I have no idea what visually distinguishes cracked ribs from broken ones, other than the fact that there are no obvious protrusions. I gently pass my fingers over his blotchy and bruised side.
He pulls back. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to tell if anything is broken.”
“Since when are you a doctor?”
I drop my arms. “Since never, but if something is broken, then you’d probably need to go to a hospital.”
“And where was your concern when you made me drive over here?”
“Waiting for an opportunity. This is it. Now turn sideways.”
He stares me down for a good ten seconds before obeying. I try to be as gentle as possible, tracing each rib. His skin is hot under my fingers, and I’m not at all used to having my hands on a guy’s bare chest. Even Aiden and I kissed only a handful of times.
That realization has me snatching my hands back, heat creeping up my cheeks.
I finish checking him quickly after that. Everything feels fine, so far as I can discern. I think the most telling evidence is that Malcolm doesn’t flinch away, though he does twitch a few times.
“What? I’m ticklish. Now if you’re done groping me…” He tugs the T-shirt hanging from his neck.
When it’s on, I toss his jeans at him. “You are doing your own pants.”
That makes him smile.
Leaving him to that job, I pick up the scissors again and stare at the distorted reflection of myself in the metal above the sink.
Then I bend down to fish the photo of Mom and me from my backpack. In the picture, my auburn hair hangs long and loose, parted down the middle and rippling from the braids I’d slept in the night before. That’s what I need my hair to not look like.
Lifting the scissors, I grab a section from over my shoulder and pull it taut between two fingers. It’s the only way I’ve ever seen my hair: long, straight, and reddish brown.
I inhale and cut off a good eight inches.
Funny it doesn’t hurt. It seems like it should. I take courage from that realization and chop off a new section, and then another, working my way around my head as best I can. I try not to look at the growing pile of hair at my feet as chunk after chunk falls to the floor. I take my time, not wanting it to look like I hacked away at my hair in moment of self-induced panic, even if that is close to the truth. The last thing I do is comb the front of my hair forward,
over my face, and cut straight across at eye level. I hear the metal-glancing-over-metal rasp of the scissors, and I feel it in my teeth. I have no choice but to watch these new strands float down.
Malcolm slips the scissors from my hands and steps up behind me to even out the back. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I’m very aware of how close we are. Even if I shut my eyes, I’d be able to feel the heat from his body. I shiver and grab the box of dark-brown hair dye I bought.
Apart from those spray-in colors at Halloween, I’ve never dyed my hair before. I read the directions three times before I slip the plastic gloves on and mix the dye. Then I close my eyes, lift the bottle to my hair, and squeeze.
The smell is a cross between rotten eggs and rotten eggs that have mated with the contents of a summer-ripe dumpster. The cut on my forehead, which trails back into my hairline, burns like I’m pouring acid on it, but I grit my teeth and keep going. The color looks much darker than it does on the box once it’s all in: almost black. It would be upsetting if I were dyeing my hair for appearance’s sake instead of camouflage.
Malcolm shaves while I wait, and I use the concealer we bought to cover his bruises. He looks younger than nineteen, and somehow more innocent, when we’re done. When I first saw him tumbling out of the trunk, he’d been caked in blood and sweat, with several days’ worth of stubble. He looked…culpable. Now he looks like a college student, not a criminal. He looks like someone who prints out selfies with his grandmother, because he wants to have actual photos in his wallet.
Because that’s who he is.
I think back to how I treated him and I want to apologize, but the words get stuck and then it’s time to rinse my hair. Malcolm helps with this too, running his fingers up the base of my skull and using an empty water bottle to reach where the stubby faucet can’t.
The dark rivulets that slither down the drain make my heart skitter, and I squeeze my eyes shut, scrubbing my hair until I’m sure the excess dye is gone. Every time I run my hands through the short strands, vertigo whirls through me.
My heart nearly stops for good when I catch my reflection for the first time, with hair that swishes at my shoulders instead of swinging beyond my lower back. The dark color makes my normally olive skin look wan and pale, and my eyes larger somehow. Peering through my new blunt bangs, I’m wary of the girl staring back at me. I look like I’m hiding. Or maybe that’s just how I feel.
The bangs are too long to stay out of my eyes and too short to tuck behind my ears. They’ll be constantly in my face, obscuring my features.
Okay. Okay. That’s good. That’s what I want.
Instead of fleeing outside, I confront my new appearance, getting as close to the mirror as the sink will allow. It’s me, but not the me I’ve seen my entire life.
Malcolm half nods. “It looks good.”
“I don’t even recognize myself,” I say, turning away from him while I change into my new shirt and jacket. “I guess that’s the point, though.”
He lowers his head, maybe to give me a semblance of privacy but maybe because he’s the reason I can’t afford to look like me anymore. I don’t relish making him feel bad, the way I did just yesterday, but it’s a good reminder all the same. He’s not helping me out of the kindness of his heart; he’s helping me because I forced his hand.
And we’re hoping for radically different outcomes.
Eyes still cast down, Malcolm says, “I need to tell you something. That night you and your mom ran, I—”
Boom, boom, boom! A pounding fist. “Police. Open the door. Now!”
Malcolm and I both jump, and I’m dimly aware of the way he shifts to place himself between the door and me.
“Just a minute!” I call. My adrenaline spikes as I throw myself to the floor and grab fistfuls of cut hair to toss in the toilet. Malcolm is right beside me, shoving our bloody clothes into our bags. I’m twisting around the small space, searching for anything we might have missed.
I know they’ll hear the toilet flush and rightfully assume we’re trying to hide something, but it can’t be helped. More pounding on the door and issued commands, and my heart lurches painfully with each one; I can feel it trying to break free of my ribs. I place a hand on my chest. I have to calm down. I have to calm down.
Most of the hair is gone from the floor, and what’s left could blend in with the general filth. Malcolm and I are dressed in clean clothes, and we’ve covered the worst of the bruises on his face.
Whatever this is, we’ll talk our way out of it, just like with the motel manager.
I fling the door open and instantly squint at the sunlight that slaps me in the face.
“Step out of the bathroom.”
I follow the officer’s command, and I take Malcolm’s hand to keep him by my side. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I think I see the officer’s demeanor soften at the sight.
“Is there a problem?” I force my eyes open, and the bright sun makes them water. The officer is of average height but well above average weight, and I have the insane thought to just run. I don’t think he’d be able to catch me. But could Malcolm run fast enough with his cracked ribs?
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I nod quickly and tighten my hold on Malcolm’s hand.
After staring at Malcolm for a long hard moment, the officer says, “The attendant told me he saw a man with a bloodstained sweatshirt enter the bathroom after you about forty-five minutes ago.” His glance flicks to my wet hair before returning to Malcolm and the crisp white T-shirt he’s wearing under an equally crisp hoodie. The officer’s eyes snag at something where our hands are joined, and sweat prickles my neck as I spot a tag we forgot to remove.
“I’m sorry if we made someone wait.” I shift forward to draw the officer’s gaze back to me. “I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to be by myself in case I got faint.” In the same movement, I push my new bangs to the side and rip the scab off my forehead to reveal what looks like a fresh cut. “We were in a car accident earlier, and I was worried I might have a concussion.”
There’s no indication from the officer that he believes me, and my hand in Malcolm’s is growing slick.
“Where’s your car?” the officer asks.
Automatically, I start to answer, my gaze sliding in the direction of where we parked down the street, but Malcolm beats me to it.
“We had it towed to a friend’s house. The alignment was messed-up.”
“And your friend didn’t have a bathroom you could use?”
“He’s not that good of a friend.”
I swallow the flood of saliva filling my mouth as I watch Malcolm and the officer square off.
“But he lives close by? You wouldn’t have made your girlfriend walk far if she has a concussion.”
“He dropped us off,” I say. “And anyway, I was overreacting. I’m feeling much better. We won’t keep you.” I start to pull Malcolm along, but the officer’s words cut us off.
“I’d like to see some ID.”
My fingers spasm around Malcolm’s. “We don’t have any on us.”
“Do you have anything illegal in your bag?”
“No,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“I’m going to need you to open your bags.”
“Legally, we don’t have to do that without a warrant,” Malcolm says.
I turn toward him, surprised and more than a little impressed with the calm, even tone he’s using.
The officer’s eyes narrow, but a call comes through on the radio at his shoulder before he can answer. “You both stay right there.” He retreats half a dozen steps and responds to the call.
“Is that true?” I whisper.
“Yes. My dad would have been arrested a lot sooner if he’d submitted to every search request he got. Without probable cause, the cops can’t look in our bags.
”
“What about what the clerk saw? Doesn’t that count?”
Malcolm doesn’t answer right away, and I notice sweat beading on his upper lip.
“If he sees our bloody clothes…”
That would be bad, like questions-we-can’t-answer bad, maybe handcuff-us-and-arrest-us bad. They’d find out who we are and who my mom is. No, no, no. That can’t happen. I turn to Malcolm and pretend I’m leaning into him like a girlfriend. “Can you run?”
He keeps his gaze on the officer. “He’s between us and the car.”
Smiling like I don’t have a care in the world, I drop my head on Malcolm’s shoulder and add my free hand to the one already holding his. “I know.”
He nods once, then again. “Leave the bags and start backing up.”
Everything I have from home is stuffed in that backpack, but it’ll slow me down if I try and keep it with me. I still have my dad’s ring around my neck, and I brush it through the fabric of my jacket before lowering the bag to the ground. Malcolm does the same with the bag holding our supplies.
We take slow steps, shuffles really, and make it a few feet before the officer yells at us to stop.
Then we run.
Malcolm is fast.
Fast like he must be lightning when he’s not hurt. It takes everything I have to keep up with him, and though he constantly glances over—or back—to make sure I’m with him, he doesn’t slow down until we’re blocks and blocks from the police officer in pursuit.
We dart past cars, through parking lots and alleys, around dumpsters, and finally up and over a chain-link fence that Malcolm has to help me scale. I know when we jump down and he stumbles that his body is going to make him stop soon no matter how desperately his mind wants him to keep running.
The same impulse is still driving me: escape. But no one is chasing us, and Malcolm needs to stop. We’re in a neighborhood now, and not running exactly, because neither of us wants to draw attention from anyone who might be looking out his or her window, but still moving quickly. I come alongside him and offer him my shoulder to lean on. We pass a detached garage with one of those swing-open doors, the kind that look like they belong on a barn, a simple lift latch at the base is all that’s keeping it shut. I know it’s technically illegal when I steer us toward it and we go inside, but we just ran from a cop, so it hardly seems to matter, especially since Malcolm is leaning more and more of his weight on me with each step.
Girl on the Run Page 8
