Cassandra wasn’t sure if the thought was directed at herself for entertaining a fantasy of Jack Hardy taking her roughly, or if it was something she wanted to say to the imaginary fugitive in her head. She gave herself a shake. Either way, you have to stop thinking that way. This is not the time for a fantasy tryst with a man who got convicted of murder.
Cassandra sensed Hardy’s gaze on her from behind; she could almost feel the heat of his eyes boring into the back of her skull through the headrest. She wondered if he somehow knew the direction her thoughts had gone in.
“I’m going to change the music,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. Her throat felt tight, and her heart hammered away in her chest.
“Go ahead,” Hardy said from the back seat.
Her hand shook slightly on the steering wheel as she picked up her phone with the other, carefully dividing her attention between the road in front and the device in her hand as she scrolled through her music library. She chose Muse’s Origin of Symmetry and tried to force her breathing to slow into a steady pattern as the twisting, circular melody of the first track filled her ears.
Cassandra glanced at her speedometer, feeling another stab of paranoia. She didn’t want to get caught with Hardy, didn’t want to attract attention to herself. If some cop tries to pull you over, how do you know he won’t just kill you then and there? How much worse could his situation really be with another murder to his name?
Up ahead, the sky was steadily lightening, and Cassandra realized that the strange “visit” to Jack Hardy’s friend was the first time in months that she had seen the purple-pink breaking of the predawn light on the horizon. Even when she had stayed up all night on assignments, she had been inside, staring at a computer screen; there hadn’t been any opportunity to appreciate the slow, gradual build of dawn.
A flicker of light in the bottom corner of her vision interrupted Cassandra’s thoughts and she looked down at the console. The orange blob next to the “E” on her gas gauge had flicked on; she could drive maybe a few more miles before she was in serious danger of being totally out of gas, and then they would be stranded on the highway.
Chapter Six
“Uh…”
“What is it? Is someone following us?” Cassandra saw Hardy’s head pop up as he glanced over the back of his seat.
“No,” she said quickly. “But I’m going to be out of gas in fifteen, twenty minutes tops. My light just came on.”
“Oh.” Hardy settled once more across the back seat. “How far away are we from an exit?”
Cassandra looked up through the windshield, scanning the road ahead of them for the next sign.
“Three miles,” she said when she saw the sign bearing the next five exits on it. A moment later, another sign indicated that the exit had three gas stations—one open twenty-four hours—along with a hotel and a few fast food restaurants.
“I can make it. It’ll be close, but there’s a twenty-four hour gas station.”
“Get off there then,” Hardy said, sounding more relaxed than Cassandra would have expected for a man on the run. She shrugged, shifting out of the left lane, gradually working her way to the right, as the car moved closer to the exit.
Cassandra coasted to a stop at the end of the exit ramp, trying to remember what she’d read about the best ways to conserve gas. She followed the signs that told her the station was another mile away from the Interstate. She thought the car would just make it, with maybe some fumes left over.
A couple of minutes later, the brightly lit sign of the gas station came into view. Cassandra pulled in, shivering at a brief chill that came over her. In the back seat, Hardy sat up just a little. She drove up to one of the pumps and sighed with relief at the fact that everything seemed to be functioning and she would be able to fill up.
“It looks like everything’s SOP,” she said, shifting the car into park.
Hardy lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked around, his gaze falling onto Cassandra. She felt another chill work through her spine as he stared intently into her eyes, almost as if he could peer beyond them and into her brain.
“Okay,” he said finally, breaking the lingering silence between them. “I’m going to tell you exactly how this is going to go, and you’re going to tell me if you understand. Got it?”
“Sure,” Cassandra said; she would have agreed to almost any proposition at that point.
“You’re going to go inside and pay, and use the bathroom, if you must.”
“I should probably get something to drink, and some more cigarettes, since you’re smoking half of mine.”
“Okay,” Hardy said. “What you are not going to do is decide that this is your chance to call the cops. Understand?”
“I hear you,” Cassandra said, feeling insulted by his domineering tone.
“Neither are you going to tell the clerk inside to call the cops, right?”
“Well there goes that plan,” Cassandra joked weakly.
Hardy’s eyes hardened. “I’m serious, Cassandra.”
Cassandra twitched; she couldn’t remember if Hardy had used her name to address her at any point so far. Obviously, he would have had to have known it, in order to find her apartment. He would have read her articles on his case, or at least known about her from the help she had given the police in connecting him with Laura Granger’s murder. The sound of her name on his lips was much more appealing than Cassandra would ever have thought possible.
“Don’t fuck this up. Go in there, buy whatever snacks you need, go pee, and pay for the gas. Then you come right back here. If the clerk makes eye contact with you, look back at him. Smile, if you think you can do that without looking like a hijacking victim.” Hardy’s lips twitched into a sly grin. “Act like a normal human being who’s out at a weird hour for whatever reason you want to invent.”
“I understand,” Cassandra said levelly. “I’m not going to try and screw this up.” She took a deep breath.
“If you try to run…” Hardy licked his lips and looked away for an instant. “I can get another prison tattoo, with your name on it. And you can bet your sweet little ass that if I can break out once, I can get out again. Do you understand?”
“I already told you I do,” Cassandra said, setting her jaw. “Can I go now?”
“Go,” Hardy said, tilting his head towards the convenience store.
Cassandra reached for her purse, checking to make sure that, of all the things that could have gone wrong, she hadn’t forgotten her wallet. Hardy sank down into the darkness of the back seat, lapsing once more into silence.
She shivered as she stepped out of the car; it couldn’t be that cold, could it? She walked slowly across the parking lot, thinking about what she needed to buy. She wanted more water, and something to keep her awake. Maybe Hardy will be easier to deal with if I grab him something to eat and drink, too.
She paused, frowning, a few feet away from the doors. Why the hell am I trying to make him comfortable? He’s a fugitive, for God’s sake!
Cassandra shook her head at herself, but deep down, she knew why she wouldn’t take the opportunity to plead for help from the gas station attendant.
It had less to do with the threats Hardy had made, or her fear at what he was capable of, and more to do with the curious streak that had led to her career in the news in the first place. She was genuinely interested in the story behind Hardy’s late-night errand—assuming it wasn’t all a scam to get her somewhere so that he could kill her without arousing suspicion. Of course, everyone who reads the story will ask why I didn’t take my chance to get away, she thought, as she opened the door of the convenience store. A chime sounded from somewhere, and the teenager manning the cash register looked up from his phone.
Cassandra nodded to him as she walked quickly, but not too quickly, towards the restrooms in the back of the store. She locked the door behind her and used the facilities, taking a little longer than usual to wash her hands. She splashed her face a few times w
ith the not-quite-cold water from the sink.
A glance in the mirror showed Cassandra a woman with darkening circles under her steel-blue eyes—no strange thing, considering it was five in the morning. Her lips looked slightly chapped, and whatever makeup might have been clinging to her face when she’d first arrived at her apartment was long gone. On the plus side, she looked relatively neat in her work clothes, and her dark hair was mostly tamed, only a few stray hairs sprung from the braid she had put it into that morning.
Cassandra took a deep breath and left the restroom. She made a beeline for the drink coolers, where she plucked items out of the rows in one rapid decision after another: two bottles of water, a can of espresso, a sports drink, and a can of tea. Cradling the drinks in her arms, she moved towards the register, grabbing a package of beef jerky, a bag of snack mix, and a box of potato chips as she approached the clerk.
“Whoa,” the teenager said, eyeing her purchases in surprise. “That all for you?”
Cassandra smiled, shrugging. In the back of her mind, a tiny voice asked why she didn’t take that as her cue to explain that there was an escaped convict sitting in the back seat of her car. Because if I do that, I’ll never find out if he’s telling the truth.
“Long road trip,” she said simply. “Can I also get a pack of Pall Mall Lights? And another of…Marlboro Reds?” Cassandra smiled again, hoping she didn’t look nervous. “My old man’s waiting out in the car. He drove us this far and now it’s my turn to take over for a few hours. Oh, and I also need thirty on pump five,” Cassandra added, gesturing to her car.
“Sure thing,” the teenager said without any concern. He scanned her purchases and did something on the register before turning to the wall of cigarettes behind him.
Cassandra’s sense of self-preservation raised its voice inside of her head once more, and she looked around quickly. There, in front of the register, she saw a discount bin marked Final Clearance. Among the few odds and ends inside it, her gaze landed on a screwdriver.
She glanced up to see the teenager still struggling to find the two cigarette brands. Acting on impulse, she reached down and grabbed the screwdriver, slipping it into her purse. Part of her felt guilty at the theft; but the price marked was fifty cents—she wasn’t stealing anything that the gas station would really miss.
The teenager turned around and Cassandra watched as he rang up the two packs of cigarettes. This has already cost me over fifty dollars, she thought with a sigh. If it worked out—if she got out with her life, and managed to get a story out of it—she would at least be able to submit receipts for reimbursement, Cassandra thought sardonically.
Walking back out of the store, Cassandra reached into her purse and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the screwdriver she had stolen. If the worst happened, and she needed to use it to defend herself against Hardy, Cassandra thought that it would at least do some damage.
Cassandra unlocked the car and let the bag of snacks and drinks fall into the passenger seat. She peeked in the back and saw Hardy lying perfectly still. All she could make out clearly were his bright eyes, peering at her through the darkness.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” she said before closing the door once more.
Keeping her purse handy, she went to work, unscrewing the cap on her tank and selecting the standard unleaded grade fuel from the pump. She shivered in the slight morning chill as she held the pump handle in place, watching the numbers tick by on the digital screen. Cassandra took a deep breath as the last of the gas flowed into the tank. She shook the nozzle slightly to make sure she got every drop, replaced the pump handle, and screwed the cap back onto her tank before climbing back into her car.
“I got some snacks,” she said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a bottle of water and the pack of Pall Malls before handing the bag to Hardy. “Don’t drink both cans of espresso, unless you want me falling asleep at the wheel.”
Hardy chuckled from the back seat, and Cassandra turned the key in the ignition. She had to admit that part of her was a little thrilled at the adventure, even if it would prove to be a sham later on. It would be a hell of a story, she kept telling herself. As long as she kept the screwdriver in easy reach, and as long as she prepared herself for the possibility that she might have to use it, she could—she hoped—get out of almost any situation intact.
She made for the highway, pushing the bottle of water between her still-warm thighs and freeing one hand from the steering wheel to crack the seal on the cap. She had no idea how much longer they would have to drive to make it to their destination, but Cassandra was intrigued by what she might discover once they reached Riley’s house. Escaped Convict Leads Journalist on Wild Goose Chase, she thought, visualizing potential headlines in her mind. Murderer Attempts to Clear His Name. Journalist Kidnapped in Revenge Scheme by Escaped Felon.
Whatever the article ended up being about, Cassandra was going to insist that she be allowed to get some sleep before she wrote it. Keep your mind on the present, girl, she told herself firmly. Looking ahead too soon might end up being the thing gets you killed.
Chapter Seven
By the time Hardy directed her to take the next exit, dawn had just started to the east. Cassandra had reached the level of fatigue where everything felt vaguely unreal. She shifted over to the exit ramp lane and again felt Hardy’s intense gaze on the back of her head. Was he worried that she would stop obeying him at that point? If he is, then he’s an idiot. The time to cut and run was at the gas station. Or in my own damn apartment.
“Turn right at the light,” Hardy said behind her, his voice oddly quiet.
Cassandra did as she was told, pausing to make sure there was no oncoming traffic before she completed the right turn. She had done her research on Jack Hardy when the murder charge had first come up; she knew he came from Upstate New York, from one of those tiny townships that people could never name unless they’d lived in the area.
As the car pressed forward, leaving the highway behind and moving into the suburban neighborhoods, Cassandra was surprised at how picturesque and normal everything looked. Houses flashed past the window: green lawns, low picket fences, fresh paint jobs. Lot of house-proud people in this neck of the woods, she thought absently, listening for Hardy’s instructions as she followed the main street of the town.
“Turn left up here,” he said brusquely.
Cassandra had expected Hardy’s childhood hometown to be somewhere bleak—something like the parts of upstate New York where kids were cautioned against playing in the streets, or one of the hole-in-the-ground, almost-deserted places where the factory that formed the economic pulse of the city had died; something like a smaller version of the Bronx or old Brooklyn.
In fact, the neighborhoods she drove through looked almost frighteningly normal. She imagined that the people here probably all had grills in their back yards, that the people in the houses of Hardy’s hometown would throw block parties, the men working the keg until it was tapped out and then breaking the party up. In the winter, the kids would go caroming down the graded hills on folded-up boxes, tires or sleds.
“This place looks so normal,” Cassandra said, barely aware that she was speaking out loud.
“Did you think I’d come from some wasteland?”
Cassandra shifted in the driver’s seat, shrugging defensively.
“Kind of,” she said. “At least, I expected it would be more…”
“Bleak?” There was amusement in Hardy’s voice.
“Well, yeah.” Cassandra straightened. “I mean…” she shrugged.
“How does a guy who grew up in one of these neighborhoods end up accused of murder?” Hardy interjected.
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.” Cassandra felt her cheeks burning.
“He gets framed,” Hardy said firmly.
Cassandra couldn’t think of a counter for that particular comment.
“Turn right at the second light from here.”
They wound their way
through the streets as the dawn started to develop, lightening the horizon and painting streaks of orange and red along the tree line.
Cassandra looked around, taking in the quiet, calm residential streets. The question still tugged at her mind: how had a beautiful, peaceful place like this spawned a murderer? If it wasn’t Hardy, then it could have been his friend Riley—but he had come from this same place. It didn’t add up to her.
Plenty of serial killers lived in perfectly normal suburban neighborhoods. It’s not the place, it’s the person.
“We’re almost there,” Hardy said.
Cassandra shook herself out of her abstracted thoughts and looked at her kidnapper in the rearview mirror.
“This is the street. See the blue and white house up there?”
“I see it,” Cassandra said.
“Park in the driveway there.”
Cassandra’s heart beat faster as she approached the house. She pulled into the driveway and shifted the car into park, looking around. The garden in front of the house was a little straggly and sparse, but well maintained. There were a couple of toys scattered in the yard, rain-faded but obviously well loved.
“So what happens now?”
Cassandra turned around in the seat and looked at Hardy fully for the first time in a few hours. There was a look in his eyes like that of a caged animal, peering between bars.
“You’re going to go and knock at the door,” Hardy told her. “I’ll be behind you. Once we see who answers, I’ll take it from there.”
Cassandra thought about the screwdriver in her purse but was careful not to look at it.
“You’re sure you want to do this? We could still…I could drive you out of state or something. You could still get out of the country.” She already knew the answer, that he was way too invested in his mission to turn back; she just wanted to hear him say it.
“I have to do this,” Hardy said firmly. “I have to know who framed me.” He held her gaze for a long moment and Cassandra pressed her lips together, taking a slow, steadying breath.
Steal The CEO's Daughter - A Carny Bad Boy Romance Page 15
