and the worse for wear, but still sealed. When she opened the first one, it was practically all crumbs, but she ate it anyhow, then ate the second one as well, washing them down with water from the tap in the bathroom, hoping that they’d be enough to satisfy her hunger and keep her from feeling so faint.
Then she took a shower, which made her feel a little better, if she didn’t count the exhaustion and her still queasy stomach.
Dressed in the only clothes she had, she lay down on the bed and turned on the TV, hoping to relax by watching a mindless sitcom for a while. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, according to the bedside clock. She groaned. It had been twenty-two hours since she’d witnessed Billy Joe’s murder and run for her life. During that time, she hadn’t closed her eyes, except for that fitful nap she’d taken early that morning.
She flipped channels until she recognized an episode of Friends. She leaned back against the pillows and tried to concentrate on the jokes Chandler was making. Four episodes later, she groaned and shifted position. She scrolled through the other channels on the old TV, but there was nothing interesting on. She reached for her paper cup of water, but it was empty, so she dragged herself up from the bed and went into the tiny bathroom to refill it. The next thing she knew, she’d dropped the cup and splashed water all over her legs and the floor. She’d fallen asleep standing up and dropped the cup.
She tossed a towel down and dried the water, but when she straightened, she started feeling queasy again. And now the edges of her vision were turning black and sparkly, which told her she’d faint if she didn’t lie down.
She lay down on the bed. Was all this caused by her exhaustion and hunger? She’d eaten and rested—a little. She didn’t have to consider for long to figure out that the nausea and light-headedness were the result of all the stress she’d been under added to hunger and weariness. Within the past forty-eight hours, her mother had been abducted from her house, her life and her mother’s had been threatened and she’d witnessed the kidnapper—the only person who knew where her mother was—murdered in cold blood.
Then, panicked and thinking only of staying alive, Hannah had fled.
Breathing shallowly, Hannah waited for the nausea and light-headedness to pass. She closed her eyes and tried her best to relax and clear her mind. But Mack Griffin’s slow, knowing smile rose before her closed lids.
During those first few seconds after he’d opened the door, she’d had the odd notion that her mother had sent her to Kathleen Griffin’s home for this very reason. Because her own personal knight in shining armor had opened the door, ready and waiting to charge into battle for her, to rescue her mother and sweep them both away from harsh reality, pain and heartache.
But as soon as he’d fixed those hazel eyes on her, it had been immediately obvious that he had no idea who she was, nor did he care.
She should have turned and run sooner than she had, but at the time, she hadn’t realized that with each passing second she’d become more mesmerized by his greenish-gold eyes and his large, capable hands and more dismayed that she was so affected by a perfect stranger. Still, in that first fairy-tale moment, something in his eyes behind the cynical smile and the worldly attitude had made her think he really could rescue her, even though she knew nothing about him except that he apparently was Kathleen Griffin’s son.
He might look honorable and trustworthy and knight-like, but Hannah reminded herself of what she had learned at her mother’s knee—men were never trustworthy. As big and strong and protective as they seemed, the reality was that men were always liars, bullies and cheaters.
But somewhere along the line her mother had gotten it wrong, because Stephanie also believed that women were weak. All they could do to protect themselves was pretend there was nothing wrong, lie when questioned and trust the untrustworthy men, since they had no other choice.
Well, not Hannah. She’d decided a long time ago that she would only trust herself. She hadn’t met a man yet who could take care of her as well as she took care of herself and her mother. She lay down and tried to relax. She’d sleep for a couple of hours, then check out and get the car filled up so she could—
The car.
Her eyes flew open. Oh, dear Lord, the car. How had she forgotten about the car? Billy Joe’s voice, filled with naive pride, came back to her. My car. That’s where the drugs are. They’re hidden in the trunk lining.
She sat up, her heart thumping wildly. She’d driven for eight hours in a car filled with drugs. A stolen car, as she’d discovered when she’d gone through the glove box and found that it was registered to a Nelson Vance, of Paris, Texas.
She couldn’t drive the Toyota back to Dowdie. She couldn’t drive it one more foot. She needed to abandon it and leave the motel. Now.
She closed her aching eyes as tears of exhaustion, frustration and hopelessness welled up. That meant she had to wipe down the car, inside and out, to get rid of her fingerprints, and take a cab to another depressing motel, then make arrangements to find another car or ride the bus back to Dowdie. And she had to start right now. She couldn’t afford to sleep until she’d put miles between her and the Toyota.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, wishing she dared to set her phone’s alarm and sleep—if only for a half hour.
As if prompted by her thoughts, her phone rang. Hannah’s heart jumped into her throat and every muscle in her body went on full fight-or-flight alert. It was him again. The man with the red tattoo. The man who’d killed Billy Joe. She sat up straight, wringing her hands. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. She was afraid to answer and afraid not to. Cringing with dread, she pressed the answer button and put the phone to her ear.
“Hey, Hannah Martin,” the dreadful menacing voice said.
Terror arrowed through her. She wanted to drop the phone and smash it, but her fingers clutched it tightly and she pressed her other hand against her chest as she waited to hear what he said. She shouldn’t have answered. She should have let it go to voice mail so she’d have a record of what he said.
“Not talking? That’s okay,” the voice said conversationally. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be seeing you soon. Very soon. You’ve got something that Billy Joe promised us.”
She didn’t speak, wasn’t sure she could. She pulled the phone away from her ear. She needed to record him if she could just find the record button.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” she rasped, hoping to keep him talking. Where was the stupid button? She pressed Menu, Settings, every button she could think of. Then finally, there it was. Memo Record. She jabbed it.
“You know what I’m talking about,” the man was saying. “You ran off with Billy Joe’s car and we need to get it. Why don’t we meet and I’ll trade you my brand-new car for that beat-up Toyota. Oh, and I can pick up that other little item, too, that Billy Joe gave you. I’ve got to say, Hannah, it’ll be good to see you.” The voice was barely audible, but Hannah heard every word. There was no mistaking the implied threat. “Now, remind me where you’re staying.”
“I don’t know who you are and I don’t have anything. Billy Joe didn’t give me anything!” she cried. “Leave me alone!”
“Don’t act all innocent, Hannah. Billy Joe was fighting for his life. Why would he lie? But you were there. You know what he said. He said you stole Mr. Ficone’s money. He said you’re the key to the missing money.” He paused, but she didn’t take the
