“Mommy. That dog is brown,” some small person pipes up in the booth behind me. I look out the window, and sure enough, there is a brown dog going through the trash. Kid has good observational skills.
The waitress brings me my waffles. I usually stay away from carbs but right now, fuck it. Putting on a few pounds would only help my situation. There’s no disguise like weight. I dig into the stack, chewing delicious buttery syrup-loaded waffles like they’re my salvation.
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a breaking news alert,” a formal news-y voice cuts into the game. Several of the truckers at the counter grunt and swear at the interruption. “Chloe Parker-Baskerville, inheritor of the Parker-Baskerville estate, is missing. Any sightings of this young woman should be reported to law enforcement immediately.”
My picture is on the screen, my face blown up on that fly- and dirt-speckled television. I stop chewing and stare, feeling sick to my stomach.
“Yeah, like we give a shit about some rich bitch,” a trucker cusses. “Get back to the game!”
“There is a reward for any information leading to her recovery,” the announcer continues. “A five million dollar amount will go to the person or persons who provide reliable information which leads to her return.”
Holy. Shit. Darko just put a fucking bounty on my head. He just turned me into a fugitive from all society. Every pair of eyes is now going to be dangerous for me. Fuck. Fucking. Fuck.
I chew angrily as the game comes back on. The truckers don’t seem to care about the score anymore. They’re talking about what they’d do with five million dollars. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
It’s time to get out of here. I leave my waffles half-finished, push a twenty under the plate and stand up to leave. As I do, one of the kids running around grabs me by the leg.
“I found the lady! Gimme the monies!”
“Timmy, let the lady go!” his mother shrieks. “You can’t touch people. We talked about touching people, didn’t we, Timmy?”
A few eyes swing in my direction, but none of the adults see what the kid did, if the kid recognized me at all.
I leave the rest stop shaken up and very much un-rested. The Order is bringing their pawns into play. First cops on the highway, now there’s rewards for my capture. I have no doubt that there will be private bounty hunters looking to make a buck now too.
Getting into my car, I try to think. I try to fucking breathe, but I can’t. I’m so damn angry and scared. I feel as though a net is closing in on me. I feel hunted. Cornered. No matter where I go, they’re going to be following me. And when they find me? They might very well kill me. Just like they killed my father. This news alert could go one of two ways. Either I’m found, and I become Darko’s captive again, or I’m not found and they declare me dead. I can’t show my face in the boardroom. I can’t trust cops. They have rendered me so powerless that to all intents and purposes, they’ve already killed me off. They just don’t have the body to show for it yet.
Losing hope is a strange thing. I thought I’d lost it when my father died, but that was just grief. This is something far deeper and more powerful. This feels like a complete absence of self. I am hollow to the core. And I know what must be done.
I start the engine, pull out of the rest stop. And I turn back toward Los Angeles.
Chapter Ten
Chloe
I remember the building I landed on. I remember how careful and scared I was taking the stairs down from the roof, hoping I wasn’t found by any of the Order. It didn’t occur to me at the time that they had made their biggest mistake yet by landing there. It’s a residential building. It has a penthouse suite, and there is a non-zero chance that this isn’t where one of the men whose helicopter I just hitched a ride on lives.
I drive my shitbox car right up to that building and park beneath it. I get in the elevator and I ride it as high as it will go without personal entry keys and that sort of thing. Then I get out and take the fire stairs to the penthouse, where I knock on the front door.
It opens. Some low level servant gives me one look. “I don’t think so, ma’am,” he drawls, making some bullshit judgement just because I’m dressed like trash.
He starts to shut the door again. I have to put my foot in it to stop it from closing completely.
“Tell your boss Chloe Parker-Baskerville is here to see him.”
That name, my name, is like a talisman. The door opens immediately. Suspicious eyes settle on my face.