He snapped his fingers. “We should stop at the gas station. You filled up at the Gas N Go but this thing only gets thirty-five miles to the gallon. That means there are about one-point-five gallons left. Which might get us another forty miles, maybe forty-five if you keep it under the speed limit. But definitely not far enough to get us there, and I didn’t bring a gas can.”
“Should I check your math on a calculator?” I was joking. Sorta.
“Why? I’m right.”
I cut him a look. “I think you missed your calling as an accountant.”
Morgan wrinkled his nose. “Why would you say that?”
“You just calculated a bunch of numbers in your head that would have taken me at least a minute with a pencil and paper, that’s why.”
“Grant.” Morgan shook his head.
“What?”
“I didn’t calculate the numbers, I read them off the dash.”
Damn. There it was, right in front of me. Miles we’d gone subtracted from the estimated mileage we could go compared to the amount of gas left in the tank. Not to mention the actual miles-per-gallon we were getting.
Morgan tsked me. “You really should read the operating manual on a vehicle you’re unfamiliar with.”
“Did you?” If so, I needed to know when.
“Of course not.”
“Then why should I?”
“Because you’re the one driving.”
I opened my mouth to argue but knew better. I’d lose. I always did.
We exited the highway.
The road cutting in front of the massive gas station shrank to two lanes, and those lanes moved molasses-in-winter-slow thanks to the line of RVs and family cars and the lines at the pump. Luckily the place had a truck entrance and a parking area for passenger cars. Semis lined the back lot, some with their running lights on, others next to gas pumps with nozzles shoved in their tanks and the drivers standing at the bumper, talking.
No wonder the damn line was so long.
I pulled in behind a Dually with a bed large enough for a compact car, to wait for the pump to free up.
“I’m going to walk Dog.” Morgan opened his door. His feet hit the ground and his shoulders pulled tight.
A car honked, and a bunch of teenagers spilled out of an SUV topped with surfboards in a cackling heard of bright-colored beachwear.
Morgan ducked his head. His wayward hand clenched and unclenched close to his temple.
“Sweetheart, I can walk—”
He slammed the door shut.
“Dog.”
The side door opened, and Dog got out and followed Morgan as he walked across the parking lot, taking the long way around where there weren’t many people.
Dog didn’t even so much as stop and sniff. He only had eyes for Morgan.
Still, I really needed to get Dog a leash. Although I doubted dynamite would have separated Dog from Morgan’s heels.
Dog.
How could that be better than Buddy, Boy, Bubba, whatever?
Morgan stopped at the green space between the tractor-trailer lot and convenience store. Dog circled a light pole. Morgan rocked back and forth while staring at the ground. A couple walked to their car parked near the air pump. They both paused to watch Morgan. The man took his female companion by the elbow and ushered her to the car.
The truck in front of me pulled away, and I dug out my credit card.
When I first arrived at Durstrand, I’d never intended to stay. And even though I wasn’t trying to hide—after all, innocent people had no reason to, right?—I’d avoided things like credit cards and local banks. There was less chance the FBI would be able to tie me to any of the offshore accounts I held.
When I decided to stay, I had to give up a lot of that wealth because remaining in the US and not escaping to my beachfront paradise meant the potential for transactions to be monitored.
While Jeff had assured me any and all investigations against me had been dropped, I didn’t want to take a chance. Number one rule I learned early was never trust the ones who can put you in a concrete box.
Because that concrete box could be a burial vault as easily as it could be a jail cell.
In my new law-abiding life, my money came from investments and a trust fund in monthly payouts handled by my lawyer. So a credit card came in handy.
Morgan made a small lap, and Dog did his business in the shrubs.
A leash and baggies. That would practically make him a city dog. If I wasn’t careful, Dog would wind up in an argyle sweater and hats.
Sad thing is, he’d probably look good in them.
I filled up the van and returned the nozzle to the pump.
“Hey, Mor—” The green space was empty.
Cars in the lot, people going in and out, parking, testing air pressure in their tires, and filling up coolers with ice. The hazy image of a yellow lab wavered beyond the foyer of the store.
I locked the van and trotted to the building. Morgan stood at the drink dispenser, filling a large cup with ice. A skinny guy wearing a company vest hovered behind him. He probably would have been at his back, except Dog used his body to create a wall.
“…did you hear me? Are you deaf?”
Morgan filled his cup with soda.
“Hey,” I said. “There a problem?”
“He with you?”
“Yes, he’s with me.”
“Well, no dogs are allowed in here.”
Morgan put a lid on his drink, took it off, put it back on, and ran his fingers over the edge over and over.
“Sorry about that. We’ll be out of your way in just a minute.”
“Yeah. You do that.” He eyed Morgan while he picked through the straws and backed away.
A couple of teens huddled at the edge of the coolers, watching Morgan and laughing.
Morgan selected the straw he wanted and peeled the wrapper.
I did my best not to hover. I’d be a liar to say people looking at him that way didn’t bother me. Not for the reason it would have almost a year ago, but because I knew Morgan, loved him, and these people had no idea how outwitted, outsmarted, and out humored they were.
Morgan carried his drink to the counter, I stayed out of the way. Last thing I wanted was to tread on his independence.
“That will be a dollar ninety-five.”
“Do you have any chips?” Morgan tapped his fingers against his temple. “I looked on the first aisle, there were cookies, crackers, and doughnuts, but no chips.”
The lady running the register glanced at the skinny guy, then she said, “Yeah, honey, they’re on the endcap facing the beer cooler.”
“That means the shelf on the end,” Morgan said. “That’s why it’s called an endcap.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Morgan nodded. “Do you have salt and vinegar?”
“I’m sure we do.”
The guy standing behind Morgan shifted the twelve-pack he carried to his other hand.
“Kettle chips or regular?” Morgan said.
“I’m not sure.”
“If I get chips.” Morgan counted out his money. “How much are they with the drink.” She gave him the total. Morgan added pennies to the quarters and dimes.
She scraped the money into hand.
Morgan still hadn’t moved.
“Do you need someone to help you find them?”
“No. Just had to tell Dog where to go and which ones I wanted.”