“—to let all our listeners know that that chill that they’re feeling in the air is about to become a whole lot worse. Yep, we’ve got a real blizzard on the way, sweeping in from the northeast, and by nine or so tonight, you’re going to see a thick blanket of snow settling down over this whole area. We’re talking low visibility and high winds, too, so no late nights tonight. Just get home, put your feet up, and light a fire, because—”
Cooper was going to get a snow day, then. He knew the standard procedure whenever prisoner transport had to be interrupted for sev
ere weather. They wouldn’t risk waiting until the storm started. Gretchen and Keith would drop him off at the nearest jail that would have him, and then they’d resume the trip to Bergen once the roads were clear. Since they were currently in the ultra-rural middle of nowhere, Cooper would probably be cooling his heels in a small town drunk tank.
If he was right about that, he was about to have the most relaxed security of the whole trip. He wouldn’t have two US Marshals to contend with, just one officer who was low enough on the totem pole to be stuck babysitting a prisoner through a blizzard. An officer who, for that matter, probably wouldn’t want to be there and wouldn’t be too invested. Guys alone on the job had even been known to doze off before in circumstances like that.
That would be his chance. If he could get his griffin to resurface, he could bust his way out of the cell. Then all that would be left was flying through a blizzard, and he could do that if he had to.
Probably. Admittedly, he’d never actually tried. But if it was down to life or death, he was willing to bet everything on what would probably be his last, best chance.
Give me liberty or give me death, right? Or at least give me answers or give me death. I want to know who painted a target on my back—who killed Phil, who set me up, and who put a shiv in Ferret Face’s hand and sent him after me.
Everything else that he wanted...
He tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind.
It was one thing to think that Gretchen Miller was gorgeous and incredible, to think that everything could have been different if they’d met under other circumstances.
It was another thing entirely to dwell on that and let it stop him from doing what he needed to do. He couldn’t be with Gretchen. He couldn’t even be a friend to her right now. She was a US Marshal, and he was a prisoner and a convicted murderer. Even if his plan went right, he would still be a convicted murderer—and then he’d also be a fugitive, a man on the run she would be duty-bound to hunt down and bring in. If he wanted to stay free, he would have to spend the rest of his life avoiding her.
For there to be anything between them... it was impossible.
When he thought about it like that, his chest tightened up so much it was hard to breathe.
Something flitted across his mind: I’d have an easier time giving up the sky.
But he had to ignore that, didn’t he? Indulging his feelings right now would lead to him being trapped in a bottle for the rest of his life.
And then he still wouldn’t have a life that included Gretchen Miller.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Gretchen said, like she’d heard his thoughts and was agreeing with him.
Cooper looked up reflexively and then realized she was talking to Keith. They were talking about the storm.
I’m much more interesting than Keith, said a voice in his head. It sounded a little like his griffin, but Cooper couldn’t get any more of a response out of it than that.
“I’ll find the nearest town,” Keith said. He started tapping the GPS.
“Make sure you can find a police station listed there,” Gretchen said. “Some of these towns are basically just a wide patch in the road and a handful of houses, with no courthouse or jail until you get to the county seat. We can backtrack if we have to.”
To Cooper’s surprise, her eyes flitted to the rearview mirror and met his.
She said, “Did you ever get hit by a storm on this drive?” Her voice was friendly, conversational: like they were just two coworkers making small talk.
That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The illusion, at least for a little while, that they were just three Marshals in a car together? That the thick plastic barrier between the front and back seats wasn’t really there? It was a nice fantasy.
But at the same time, something in her tone made him uneasy. It sounded like she was trying too hard.
Like she was doing what he was doing. Big, messy emotions underneath? Ignore them. Plaster over them with a solid plan of action and go from there. He knew that slightly false note that was ringing in her voice—knew it from the inside-out.
He didn’t like how often he’d sounded that way, and he liked it even less with her. She deserved to feel completely self-assured.
Instead, something was still bothering her. Whatever had happened at the gas station had left a mark on her, no matter what she’d said about it or how convincingly she’d said it. She’d been acting off then, and she was acting off now. More to the point, she’d been acting then, and she was acting now.
All he wanted to do was ask her to please tell him what was wrong. Maybe he could fix it somehow.
But that wasn’t supposed to be his business. And what could he do from the back of a car, in handcuffs and leg shackles?