Runaway Read online

She didn't protest, which I took as a good sign. Instead, when I turned around, she'd become engrossed in a picture of me, JJ, and Lizbeth on the wall. JJ had his arm around both of us. While he and I laughed, Lizbeth stared up at him with utter adoration, red hair glimmering in the summer sunshine. Lizbeth had tacked it onto the wall as soon as she'd printed it, and it had been there since the spring. With them gone, I couldn't bring myself to take it down.

  “JJ?” she asked, still studying the photo as she gripped one foot behind her in a stretch.

  “Yep.”

  “You're not identical, then?”

  “Not even a little.”

  With a little tender care, the fire flared back up around the small kindling and my driest logs. I abandoned it to grow slowly and grab a drink of water, then tossed her a cup to help herself. She did, and I was relieved. I wanted a friend, not someone to take care of. She seemed perfectly happy to do it herself.

  “You plan to shower?” I asked, leaning on the back of a chair.

  She nodded.

  “Great. We'll both shower, then I'll fix dinner. Once I'm done, we're watching a movie.”

  An eyebrow arched. “Are we?”

  Taking command was natural in some aspects of my life. Work. Travel. Lifting. Mom had always said I was born a natural leader, while JJ assumed I just couldn't help myself. But dating was my fuzzy realm. The place of uncertainty. The place where my dreams went to die because some women didn’t like male leadership. Or maybe I came on too strong. Maybe that was why everything failed me.

  “You don't have to,” I countered. “But you'll regret it if you don't. I'm just about to start a James Bond marathon and that's one stud muffin you don't want to miss.”

  I held out my hands as if to say just saying.

  Her gaze tapered. “Which Bond?”

  I scoffed. “Don't insult me. We start at the beginning and we watch from Sean Connery to Niven to Lazenby to Dalton to—”

  “You forgot Moore.”

  A hint of color brightened her cheeks when I grinned, a hand pressed to my chest. “You know your James Bond actors?”

  She scoffed. “Don't insult me.”

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart. You passed test number one. Get that stinky smell off you, my friend. We have grilled cheese sandwiches, potato chips, and Twinkies to destroy while we watch the world's greatest superhero in action.”

  To my relief, Stella Marie gave no peep of annoyance at the old video or my junk food. We sat on opposite sides of the couch, gazes fixated on the TV mounted on the wall while the studly Mr. Connery flashed onto the screen.

  “He's my favorite one,” she whispered.

  My curiosity was piqued. First of all, she might be the only woman I'd ever known to be able to name all the 007 actors. The ones that knew anything about James Bond almost exclusively knew Craig—sometimes Brosnan.

  “Not Daniel Craig?” I asked, scandalized.

  She shrugged. “Meh.”

  “Why?”

  “It's the drawl.” She dropped her voice in a poor imitation of the famous Bond . . . James Bond line, and ended up laughing at herself.

  “You must live like ten secret lives,” I said in shock. “Where has all of this truth been hiding all these years? You're a closet Bondie. We should have been best friends years ago.”

  She smirked and had another bite of greasy—but delicious—grilled cheese. I’d already wolfed down my third. “Somewhere beneath reconciliation charts and spreadsheets?” And I thought I heard her mumble, “with the rest of my life.”

  “Fair.”

  We fell into a relaxed back-and-forth, with the movie absorbing most of our attention. Or, at least, appearing too. I had a hell of a time keeping my gaze forward, and she remained mostly quiet. Every now and then a tidbit would arise. A question. A snarky comment about a love of bouffants. But unlike the pressured dates I was used to, this almost felt like a movie with JJ or Megan. Maybe I was too tense and ready to impress on dates. Maybe I should run ten miles before every date, just like this one.

  A voice in my head couldn't help but wonder if I was too wound up. People said it too much all the time. Be patient. Or wait it out a bit. Or calm down, Mark. Maybe I should have had more dates out in the middle of the wilderness.

  Now there was an idea.

  My thoughts narrowed in the familiar churn that meant I was onto something. Dating in the wilderness? No. Too unsafe for women. But there was a sense of escapism in the mountains. Some people might want to escape out here. Some people—the right people, like Stella—might pay to . . .

  With a shake of my head, I flicked those thoughts away to focus on the movie. Tonight, I could just enjoy the fact that I didn't watch this movie alone.

  Halfway through, Stella grabbed her twinkie, broke it in half, and sucked the cream out of the middle. It must have gone straight to her windpipe because she started to hack. I reached for her water and handed it over. Flushed, she accepted, and the coughing spasm quieted.

  Trying to hide my laugh, but failing miserably, I said, “Twinkies fight back, Stell.”

  Lips pressed, she nodded. The high color in her cheeks had nothing to do with the blazing fire on the other side of the room. Wet strands of hair rested around her ears, still drying after her shower, and the light scent of something floral wafted by every now and then. Under the easy ambiance, I relaxed.

  Eventually, she did too.

  And the flickering lights pushed the dark, cold night into the back of my mind. I didn't think of Adventura slipping away from me. From my supposed failures. From anything like that.

  At least for one night, I wasn't all by myself.

  For the next four days, we acted like movie night hadn't happened.

  I delivered her nightly hot chocolate. She answered the door after I'd already left. One day, I returned from stalking the stupid mountain lion to find lunch—tomato soup and a delicious turkey breast with swiss cheese sandwich—left in tinfoil on my table. When she disappeared in her car for a few hours, I restocked her firewood and de-iced her path.

  Like we wanted to live around each other for a while but not be with each other.

  On a random Thursday that shivered with sleet, I shoved a hand through my hair and groaned into my phone. “Justin, just bring your dog back. I don't care if you move in with Megan, I just want Atticus.”

  His rolling voice laughed. “I'm glad to know where we stand.”

  “Don't act like you thought you ranked above your dog.”

  “Never.”

  “The stupid mountain lion is back and growing bolder. I need another animal around. I wouldn't care as much if it were just me, but I have a . . . friend staying here now.”

  Interest piqued his voice. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I have friends outside of you ugly buggers.”

  He laughed again. “Good to know. With such a rosy personality, I'm not surprised. How close has the big kitty gotten?”

  I frowned and glanced out the window. Leaves scuttled by on the dry ground, stirred up by a brief vortex of wind.

  “Prowled outside the kitchen for a while, but no claw marks on the door. The tracks are pretty clear until they disappear back toward the lake. It seems curious, not hungry, but I don't want it to get used to this place. I can't bring campers here when there's a giant cat prowling around.”

  With a shudder, I recalled last summer, Adventura's first year open, when Atticus had gone missing. My little sister, Megan, found him up the canyon with slash marks on his ribs. She carried him back on her shoulders and saved his life. Justin always joked that that’s when he’d fallen in love with her. I'd always assumed Atticus had chased off a black bear and gotten in a fight, but now I wasn't so certain.

  “Silly kitten,” Justin murmured. “We're coming back soon, I promise. Watch close at dusk, keep the garbage tight.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course I'm doing all that. The garbage is all inside. I need slashing, angry dog teeth.”


  “Good. We'll be back soon.”

  A knock sounded on the door when I ended the call a few minutes after getting updates on my sister—who never called now that she had Justin but thought it was acceptable to update me on her life through him. That would never be acceptable and Megan and I would have words over it.

  Stella pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside.

  “Mark?”

  “Come in.”

  Her hair was pulled away from her face. She wore a pair of jeans and a black pullover that brightened the light streaks of blond behind her ears.

  “I need to run to the store.” She jerked a thumb outside. “Need anything?”

  I held up my hand where my keys dangled from my finger. “Just leaving myself. Ride with me? We can go in together. There's a winter storm warning for tomorrow night. A little snow, but mostly ice in the canyon. I need to stock up on a few things in case we lose power.”

  She blinked. “Is losing power here a thing?”

  I nodded. “Oh yeah.”

  She hesitated for a moment, eyed her car, then mine, and finally nodded with a shrug that suggested she thought she went to her death. I'd be offended if I didn't get it. My truck would give a person tetanus if they just looked at it.

  Still, it was a dependable old tanker.

  “Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

  The Zombie Mobile rumbled as I steered it down the dirt road toward the highway. It wasn't quite 11:00, which gave us time to get supplies before the rush of Pineville citizens got off work. We’d grab something for lunch on the way home.

  With nothing to talk about, we said little. While I might miss having people around—mostly JJ and Lizbeth, ‘cause they were special—that didn't mean I wanted small talk. Stella didn't seem inclined either, and the companionable silence took us all the way into Pineville.

  Once we rumbled down Main Street, which was the largest of three roads in Pineville, I pointed out the very few landmarks. “Grocery store on the left,” I said. “The Frolicking Moose on the right. Great coffee. But they're finalizing renovations after a fire last winter and will hopefully open soon. The Diner is our main restaurant and the bar is just down the road. The pizza place is total crap.”

  A sign that said Under Construction hung across the porch of the Frolicking Moose as we passed. Inside, a few bodies bustled around.

  While we walked through the grocery store parking lot, Stella spun around, looking all around her. The reservoir that drew people into Pineville in the summer, and ice fishermen in the winter, hadn't iced over yet. Dark waters and mountains decorated the background behind us. Seemingly satisfied, she faced forward again with a sheepish little smile.

  “Bank?” she asked.

  I tilted my head across the road as we stepped inside the grocery store. “Just over there. Want to share a cart?”

  “Sure.”

  The wheels on the cart issued high-pitched squeals as I pushed it around the produce, tossing bananas, apples, and salad into bags and slinging them into the cart. She followed behind, carefully inspected each piece of fruit—grapes, avocado, and organic blueberries—before setting them inside.

  When I reached for the instant hot chocolate box down another aisle, she put out a hand to stop me. “That is utter trash,” she said. “It's not that hard to make. I'll get the ingredients.”

  “You'll own my heart.”

  She snorted.

  While she gathered powdered milk, cocoa powder, creamer, and sugar, I tossed some protein bars and BBQ potato chips inside.

  “See?” She gestured to the ingredients as if I was born in a barn. “It's not that hard. But those chips will probably give you a heart attack.”

  Before I could quip something snarky, her phone buzzed. I steered us toward the toilet paper—that was one disaster I'd never let happen again—while she poked at her phone. When she didn't catch up with me, I glanced back to find her standing in the middle of the aisle, frowning.

  “Stella?” I sang.

  She startled, looked up, and her face cleared. She started to walk again as she tucked her phone into her back pocket with a confused expression.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.

  “Fine.”

  But the lines remained in her forehead as I grabbed eggs and milk and too much bacon. Her phone must have buzzed again, because she pulled it back out of her pocket, frowned, and pushed her lips to one side as if putting together a mental puzzle.

  “Do you need to make a call? You might have to go outside. The reception in here kind of sucks.”

  As if in a daze, she looked at the cart. “No,” she said slowly. “I just have two more things to get. I—”

  Her phone vibrated in her hand. The dark expression on her face deepened. For some reason, it reminded me of Hearts on Fire and how I hadn't logged in today.

  “Stell?”

  “Tampons,” she murmured as she tapped away on her screen. “I just need tampons and girly pain relievers. Then I'm done.”

  “Regular or super?”

  That totally should have been a weird question, but wasn't. Either her distraction was too great to be embarrassed, or Megan had trained me way too well.

  “Regular.”

  “Long-lasting girly pain relievers or regular?”

  “Long-lasting.”

  She bit her bottom lip as the phone buzzed again. Something definitely was up. “Go make your call,” I said. “I'll grab your lady things and meet you outside.”

  She spun and headed down the aisle without taking her gaze off her phone. She must have been distracted or else I had a feeling she would have protested me paying for her organic blueberries.

  Not to mention her tampons.

  7

  Stella Marie

  My heart pounded as I sped walked to the front of the store, vaguely aware of mumbling something to Mark before disappearing. The incoming text message occupied most of my brainpower.

  Unknown Number: How long is your retreat? I just heard from HR that you submitted resignation papers. That's not a retreat, my love.

  My heart sped up. No, this couldn't be Joshua. How would he have found my number? I'd only been gone twelve days. At first, I'd lied to him, said I went to Canada on a big retreat with a friend. A few days after I’d gotten the apartment off my hands and left, I’d submitted my official resignation.

  My stomach felt cold as I stopped near a cracker display and typed out a response.

  Stella Marie: Sorry, you have the wrong number.

  His response came seconds later.

  Unknown Number: We both know that I don't. What's going on, Stella love?

  My stomach twisted as if a knife had entered it.

  I tried to remember Joshua. To picture him outside the small world I knew. To me, Joshua had been a supervisor. Surrounded by cubicles, people, and stress. Maybe not entirely trusted by most of us, but extremely good at what he did. Tall, charismatic, and perfectly aware of the power of his smile. He'd inspired more uncertainty than awe in me from the beginning, unlike other accountants in the firm who adored him, but even that hadn't been enough to keep me safe from his natural lure.

  There was something drawing about him.

  Until there wasn't.

  It didn't seem entirely unreasonable that he'd be upset with me once I left and he realized I wasn't coming back. Didn't seem unreasonable that he'd be furious and try to reach out. To my old number, maybe.

  But how did he get my new number?

  For a moment, the world seemed to swirl around me as all the implications settled down. Did he know where I was? Was I safe? Was Mark safe?

  Just in case, I turned my phone on silent and closed my eyes. Now, the store felt too warm, smelled too much like slush and dirt and metallic carts. By the time I hurried outside, I was afraid I'd crash. But I didn't. I stepped into the cool air and drew in a deep lungful. It centered me. Calmed my racing heart. My vision cleared.

  This is part of the plan, and t
hat's good, I thought. If grandma taught me anything, it was that belief was power. Whatever I told myself would probably come true. So always tell yourself good things, Stella Marie, came her chiding, loving tone.

  My breath puffed out in front of me while I headed back to the Zombie Mobile to get my bearings. While my mind raced, my body had calmed. Several things worked to my advantage here. Anonymity, for one. I was Stella here. No, Mark had been calling me Stella Marie. I'd go to just Stella. Sacrilege in Grandma’s eyes, but this situation called for what she'd jokingly call extreme measures.

  Second, Joshua had friends in high places. He may have pulled some strings at a phone company or something. I wouldn't put it beyond him. But that didn't mean he knew I was here, in the middle of the mountains.

  Just when I'd gotten ahold of my thoughts and realized I'd actually asked Mark to grab tampons, my phone buzzed again. Frustrated, I glanced back down to see a different name this time.

  Tatum: Some guy named Joshua called me this morning—didn't know it was your birthday! Happy birthday!

  I had to read the message four times before my brain comprehended it. Tatum was my oldest client. He ran a used bookstore on the other side of the country and always struggled with moving inventory. My birthday? Just as I moved to reply, a second message came from a different number.

  Antoine: Is everything okay? Just got a message from a guy named Joshua. He claimed to be your assistant. Had some weird questions for me, so I wanted to check in before I answered any of them.

  My hands shook now, and not from the cool autumn air. Somewhere in the distance, a truck roared by, splashing slush onto the sidewalk in front of the store. Two teenagers emerged from the grocery store, laughing. Their hilarity sounded oddly hollow in my ears.

  Joshua wasn't my assistant.

  It wasn't my birthday.

  Which meant something very ugly was just about to happen.