Vendetta Page 17

  And a calm washes over me. And it's like Seth is here all over again—still taking care of me from wherever he is. And for a moment I believe I could turn around and find him here. In the back seat. Waiting for me.

  Carter flirts with the speed limit of his neighborhood. We race by the massive homes, the sprawling lawns, leaving it all behind.

  "Thank you, Carter," I say.

  He glances over at me, a warm smile lighting his eyes. "No problem. I mean, I'm always up for a good road trip. This could be fun."

  A feeble laugh wells inside, but it never breaks the surface.

  Carter takes back roads through town. He grips the steering wheel, anxious, checking his rearview mirror, eyeing the speedometer. The homes and trees blur as we pass. We whip onto a street running parallel to the ocean. It's lined with bungalows, cars parked on either side. I reach for the handle above the door, and, at every intersection, see the ocean. The black heavens and inky water. The sliver of moon hanging in the sky.

  I know that, just ahead, the warehouse is still burning. An orange glow hovers above the houses, trees. An acrid smoke seeps through the vents.

  We pull back on The Strip, and, a few miles later, reach the city limits.

  A blue sign: You Are Leaving South Marshall.

  Maybe, I think, watching it as we pass. But I'm coming back.

  The traffic thins, and, as we fly down the country highway, I have to remind myself to breathe.

  We see it at the same time, up ahead, just as we reach the county line. "Shit," Carter mutters.

  He presses the brakes, slowing.

  A barricade. Orange and white barrels blocking all but one lane going out of town. There are police cars, their flashing blue lights piercing the night sky, blinding us. And a military humvee. A line of cars waiting to pass through.

  Carter rolls down the windows, letting the balmy, late summer air into the cab.

  "We can turn around," I say. "Take another way out."

  "It'll look suspicious. They'll come after us in a second."

  "What do we do?"

  "Relax. It's summer. We're heading out of town for the weekend. People do it all the time."

  I sit in the passenger's side of Carter's SUV, restless as we wait. I wipe my palms across my jeans, damp from fear and the Southern, summer humidity.

  Every few minutes we inch forward. They're letting people pass. It's not a road block. We can still get out. But my hands begin to tremble as the line grows shorter and shorter. A few cars left. One car in front of us. Then it's our turn.

  "It's fine," Carter says. "Relax."

  How can I possibly . . . ?

  We roll to a stop, and a policeman shines a light in the cab.

  "How are you this evening?" he asks.

  "Fine, Officer," Carter replies. "Is everything okay?"

  "Just a precaution," he says. "You from this area?"

  "Yeah, we live here, actually."

  "So you know there's been some random violence, lately."

  Some not so random violence.

  Carter laughs. "Yeah. It's crazy around here. Heard those guys were called in," he says, nodding toward the military vehicles. The Guardsmen in their fatigues and burgundy berets. M16s ready. "My girlfriend and I are headed to the mountains for the weekend."

  "Do you know anything about the explosion at the warehouse tonight?"

  "Saw something on the news about it when I was packing. That's it," Carter replies, shrugging.

  The officer turns to me. "You?"

  "No. Sorry."

  "Have you seen anything suspicious? Heard anyone talking? Know of anyone who might be able to pull something like this?"

  "I don't," Carter says.

  "Me neither."

  The officer remains expressionless. "Can I see your license?"

  Carter lifts off the seat, digging in his pants pocket.

  "Yours too," he says to me.

  I swallow hard.

  "You didn't bring yours, did you?" Carter asks.

  Is that a hint?

  "Um . . ."

  "I can't let you through without some form of identification," the officer says. "We're under strict orders."

  "No, I have my purse, it's just. . . ." I point to the back. I reach behind the seat, feeling for it. I pull it into my lap, fingers trembling, then open my wallet. I pass our licenses through the window. The officer steps away, shining a light on them. I glance at Carter, and our eyes meet.

  My description.

  They'll know I colored my hair. They'll run the license through their computer and know what kind of car I drive. That they're looking for me.

  Relax, Carter mouths.

  But my worst fears are confirmed when the officer returns. "Please step out of the car, miss."

  "Is something wrong?"

  No answer. I reach for the door handle, my entire body shaking on the inside, and step onto the warm pavement.

  "Is there a problem, Officer?" I ask again, forcing my voice not to waver.

  The National Guardsmen move about the barricades. The policeman nods one over. "Check the back."

  "It's just our stuff. For the weekend," I explain.

  The Guardsman pulls open the back door. He unzips my bag and begins rooting around.

  "Where were you this evening?" the officer asks.

  "Packing. Why?" I try not to sound defensive.

  His walkie-talkie buzzes to life. "What's the description?" A voice asks.

  He turns away from me, muttering into the receiver. "Medium Height. Probably five-eight. Thin. Curly black hair. Tattoo on her left arm."

  "You packed a lot for just a weekend," the Guardsman says.

  I hear the knives clanking inside, and I can tell he's struggling. It's probably the worst pack job he's ever seen. Loose bottles everywhere, crammed to the brim with clothes.

  "It's the mountains. I've never been. How am I supposed to know what to pack?"

  The officer turns to me, eyeing me carefully. The soldier finishes checking Carter's bag and shuts the door.

  "Anything?" the police officer asks.

  "Nothing out of the ordinary." He watches me as he says this, the hint of a smile on his lips. I blink a few times, unsure what he means by this.

  "All right." He passes the licenses to Carter and holds the door open for me.

  "Thanks," I mutter, climbing in.

  "Enjoy your weekend."

  Carter is already in drive, easing forward. He presses lightly on the gas as we move around the barricades, another Guardsman waving us through.

  "You never updated your license photo," he says, passing it back to me.

  "What?" I examine the picture. Me. Taken approximately a year ago. It's me . . . but it's not. Not really. Bleach blonde hair, dyed black from the tips to my nose. Eyebrow ring. Heavy makeup.

  "And your tattoo. It looks like it's been there forever."

  I study the photo a moment longer, noting how little there is to connect me to the person seen at the warehouse tonight. As far as the police are concerned, I'm just some girl who can't make up her mind.

  Carter's eyes drift to the rearview mirror and I turn around in my seat, watching. Behind us, a string of headlights. I suck in a breath and hold it, waiting for them to realize who we are. Who I am. What I've done. At any moment, I just know those flashing blue lights will catch up to us.

  And then it dawns on me: "Carter. The back."

  "What?"

  "The trash bag. You put it in the very back! It's still back there!"

  A wave of realization washes over his face. The trash bag. With what's left of my hair. The dye boxes. Towels stained gray. Evidence that we're nothing like we're pretending to be.

  "Shit," he mutters, running his fingers through his hair, exhaling, emptying all the air from his lungs.

  I turn around in my seat, facing forward. The Guardsman checked our bags, but not the rear of the SUV.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  My back stiffen
s, heart beating manically, palms sweating. A heavy quiet drifts between Carter and me.

  This is it. The hard part is over. We're out.

  But deep inside I know: this isn't the end. There might not even be such a thing.

  I run my fingers up and down my arm, touching the vines, caressing the green leaves. I flip my arm over, and there, marked just below the palm of my hand: a lifeline.

  A pair of wings extends across my wrist. The kiss of an angel where I thought there was none.

  I squeeze the inner corner of my eyes, swallowing back the tears jamming my throat, and face the endless stretch of dark, empty road looming ahead.

  About the Author

  Katie Klein is a diehard romantic with a penchant for protagonists who kick butt. Her YA contemporary romance, Cross My Heart, is an Amazon Teen Top 100 Bestseller. She currently resides on the East Coast and is hard at work on her next YA novel. Visit her on the web at www.katiekleinbooks.com.