We parked the SUV beside a beat-up sedan that I’d purchased in cash only two days before. I quickly loaded Zoey into the beater, strapping her into the used booster seat. I opened up our beautiful new suitcases, which were in the back of the SUV. I transferred half the clothes and toiletries from our overly full bags into empty thrift store bags I’d stashed in the trunk of the sedan.
Then I left our nice luggage in the back of the SUV, left Zoey’s booster chair right where it always was, strapped in behind the passenger seat, and turned her iPad completely off. I tossed the device underneath the driver’s seat of the SUV, so no one would see it from outside the car and break in just to steal the iPad. In a couple days, the battery on the tablet would be dead, and there would be no way to pick up a signal or trace it. By the time Jerry realized we weren’t in Denver and we weren’t coming home, our abandoned car, half-empty luggage, and dead tablet would be all he had left.
But that meant Zoey had to give up her beloved iPad. I’d told her I’d accidentally forgotten it in the SUV and that I’d get her a new one as soon as I could. That was a lie, but it was the only way I could separate her from another device Jerry might use to track our location.
That was the second lie I’d ever told my daughter.
I hope it’s the last.
Zoey seems content with the music, and I flick on a turn signal and roll the windows completely closed so I can crank the AC. Based on the notes I made and the map, we are less than an hour’s drive from Daytona Beach. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a small, safe motel. Whether they’ll be able to take my fucked-up debit card or not is another worry.
I used a computer at the library to open a new bank account online using a PO box I paid for with cash.
I timed everything just right—I wasn’t leaving anything to luck. The debit card arrived just a few days before Zoey’s spring break was scheduled to start.
There would be no way Jerry could trace that account to me, but now I can see all that planning might not have stopped me from making a big mistake. Opening the account using some virtual bank that doesn’t have real ATMs means the little money I do have is only accessible through a debit card that apparently isn’t working.
I’ll add that to the unexpected shit I’ll need to sort out when we make it to Daytona.
At least with Morris’s money, I should be able to find a cheap place to stay that I can pay for with cash, even if it’s only for a night or two.
Two hundred bucks won’t go far, but if the motel has internet, I should be able to contact the online bank and see if I can get at what little additional cash I have.
Hopefully in a couple days, I can find a job. Get Zoey into school.
To be honest, I didn’t plan much past getting away. So much effort went into making sure we had at least a couple days’ lead time while Jerry thought we were in Denver with my sister… But I’m going to have to figure out what happens next fast.
As the sun raises the temperature in the car, I watch little Zoey’s eyes drift closed. The traffic ahead is heavy, but nothing I can’t navigate. I am just feeling my shoulders relax, my hands light on the steering wheel, when my phone starts buzzing. An immediate, panicked sweat breaks out on my lip.
That ringtone. It’s Jerry.
How?! Why is he calling me? I pick up the phone and stare at it. Based on the time, we should be on a flight to Denver right now.
Why the hell would Jerry be calling?
No, no, no, fuck!
I nearly slam my foot on the brake and pull the car over, but I know I can’t answer that call. I fight the instinct to respond to him immediately and will myself to think. Maybe he is calling to leave a message, reminding me to check in as soon as I land.
Anything could have happened, or nothing could have happened. That’s how it is with Jerry. I can never predict when he’ll ignore me for an entire day or get a bug up his butt and want to hear from me every hour on the hour. Calls, texts, insisting that I be in nearly constant contact. I’ll know soon enough which this is, but right now, I need to get moving.
I put the pedal to the metal and start driving faster on the highway. My heart rate is just starting to slow about ten minutes later, when a horrible thumping starts coming from under the hood of the car. It sounds like something broke loose and is rattling free in there, but before I can think what to do, the temperature gauge starts going wild on the dash, the small orange dial waving frantically to get my attention.
I try not to go into a full, losing-my-shit panic.
“Mommy? What’s that?” Zoey is wide awake now, her hands over her ears to block out the noise.
“Don’t worry, baby. It’s just the car. It’s acting up a bit.”
The knocking noise gets worse until, finally, the entire car starts shaking in this back-and-forth, jerking motion that I can’t drive through.
“Goddammit,” I mutter.
I flip on my signal and lurch onto the shoulder just as the car sputters and dies.
And then it’s official.
I can’t help it. I go into a full-blown panic.
I try to turn the engine over, start the car again, but every time I turn the key in the ignition, I hear a click-click-click, and then nothing.
Dead.
The only means of escape I have is dead. Just like I’m going to be.
It’s blazing hot outside, and we’re pulled over on the left-hand side of the road, cars in the fast lane speeding past us at over seventy miles an hour. I feel like a sitting duck, and I’m stranded with a helpless little duckling.
I race to think of options, but my phone is lighting up again, Jerry’s fucking number on the caller ID.
“Mommy?” Zoey asks in a small voice from the back seat. “What is it?”
I open my purse and tear through my wallet, wishing I had everything I had back home. Roadside assistance. A reliable SUV. Credit cards with high credit limits. But none of those things were mine. Everything in my world belonged to Jerry Cruz. My, for now, husband. Everything except this shitty sedan, some used luggage, and my baby girl.
I swallow hard and rub my eyes before turning to reassure Zoey. But before I can even twist in my seat, a heart-wrenching cry tears from the back seat.
“Mama!” Zoey cries, fat tears rolling down her face. “Mama, I’m sorry!”
I frantically scan the back seat, braced for blood or vomit or worse. Thankfully, it’s not worse. But it’s not great. Zoey is holding an empty plastic bottle of apple juice in her hand. The entire contents of the bottle have spilled down the front of her baby-blue princess dress.
“I’m not a baby. It was an accident,” she says, coughing through her tears. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry!”
Her overreaction to a small but inconvenient spill tears at my heart. No little girl should feel full-body shame over fucking apple juice and a wet dress.
Fuck this. Fuck Jerry. This reaction is all him. This is what years of living with Jerry have done to my daughter. To me.
I am stranded on the side of a six-lane road in a junk-ass car with two hundred dollars in cash from a stranger.
This is not how my life was supposed to go.
“Zoey,” I say in a firm voice, facing my daughter. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” I try to hold my voice steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is okay.”