phone off and handed it back to Mrs. Blakely.
“Is everything all right? You got directions?” The woman craned herneck and turned a skeptical eye to the information on the notepad.
Maggie whisked the paper into her palm. “Yes, I got it.” She was in deep now and had no idea how she was going to get out of this.
“What street do your friends live on?”
Maggie opened her palm and stared at the scribbled R on the page. “Remington,” she plucked out of thin air. “Fifteen eighty-seven Remington.”
“Did your friend say how to get there from here? I didn’t hear you tell her where we were.”
“She said it’s just off of Main Street.” Did Kansas City even have a Main Street? She didn’t know, but she was on trial now. Mrs. Blakely’s pinched face made that clear. Somehow she had to extricate herself from her lies before Mr. Blakely got back to the car.
She reached for the door handle. “I’m going to go use the rest room. I’ll be right back.” She climbed out of the car before the woman could protest.
When Maggie reached the door, Mr. Blakely was coming out with three steaming coffees in a cardboard drink tray. He smiled, oblivious to her charade. But Maggie knew he’d get an earful as soon as he got back to the car.
“I’ll pull up in front of the door for you,” he said. “I got us a little something to tide us over.” He pointed to several granola bars clustered in the fourth compartment of the drink holder.
“Oh . . . great.” She forced a lightness to her tone. “Thanks. That was very kind of you.”
Which made what she was about to do even worse.
She located the rest room in the back corner, thankful it was a single stall. She locked the door behind her. Her hands were trembling as she stared into the soap-splattered mirror. What had she done? These people had been kind enough to help her, and she was treating them like dirt. Worse, she’d probably made them late getting to their daughter’s house.
But she’d dug her own grave. She couldn’t go back out there. For all she knew, the Blakelys were calling the police right now to report the psycho girl they’d hauled cross-country in their backseat.
She inspected her reflection in the dingy, pitted mirror. Her hair had worked itself out of the braid and hung in limp strings around her face. Desperation sharpened her bloodshot eyes and turned the blue of her irises to a dim gray. She glanced back at the door, her heart thudding in dull rhythm, her thoughts scrambled like so many eggs.
If she didn’t hurry, they’d come looking for her. They’d be knocking on the door, wondering if she had fainted or something. And how would she get out of her predicament then?
She had to leave now. There had to be a back entrance to the store—the one the delivery trucks used. It wouldn’t be locked from the inside. She went through the motions of flushing the toilet and washing her hands, in case anyone was listening outside the door. Then she turned the handle, opened the door a crack, and looked outside.
Two teenage girls waited in line, but she didn’t see either of the Blakelys. She couldn’t see through the plate-glass windows in front to tell if their car was there, but she couldn’t risk going out to check.
She made a dash, sidestepping the two girls and turning the opposite way she’d come in. She walked through a break room where a petite, older woman was mopping the floor. Behind the woman was the back door, an emergency bar crossing the front to discourage use. It appeared to be the kind that set off an alarm if it was pushed. She’d have to risk it.
She strode toward it as if she knew what she was doing.
“Hey! You can’t use that d—” The woman lofted her mop, but in vain.
Maggie pushed through the heavy door and broke into a run. She raced across the side parking lot and made a beeline for the auto body shop next door. There were no alarms going off behind her, butthe janitor probably thought she’d
“Is everything all right? You got directions?” The woman craned herneck and turned a skeptical eye to the information on the notepad.
Maggie whisked the paper into her palm. “Yes, I got it.” She was in deep now and had no idea how she was going to get out of this.
“What street do your friends live on?”
Maggie opened her palm and stared at the scribbled R on the page. “Remington,” she plucked out of thin air. “Fifteen eighty-seven Remington.”
“Did your friend say how to get there from here? I didn’t hear you tell her where we were.”
“She said it’s just off of Main Street.” Did Kansas City even have a Main Street? She didn’t know, but she was on trial now. Mrs. Blakely’s pinched face made that clear. Somehow she had to extricate herself from her lies before Mr. Blakely got back to the car.
She reached for the door handle. “I’m going to go use the rest room. I’ll be right back.” She climbed out of the car before the woman could protest.
When Maggie reached the door, Mr. Blakely was coming out with three steaming coffees in a cardboard drink tray. He smiled, oblivious to her charade. But Maggie knew he’d get an earful as soon as he got back to the car.
“I’ll pull up in front of the door for you,” he said. “I got us a little something to tide us over.” He pointed to several granola bars clustered in the fourth compartment of the drink holder.
“Oh . . . great.” She forced a lightness to her tone. “Thanks. That was very kind of you.”
Which made what she was about to do even worse.
She located the rest room in the back corner, thankful it was a single stall. She locked the door behind her. Her hands were trembling as she stared into the soap-splattered mirror. What had she done? These people had been kind enough to help her, and she was treating them like dirt. Worse, she’d probably made them late getting to their daughter’s house.
But she’d dug her own grave. She couldn’t go back out there. For all she knew, the Blakelys were calling the police right now to report the psycho girl they’d hauled cross-country in their backseat.
She inspected her reflection in the dingy, pitted mirror. Her hair had worked itself out of the braid and hung in limp strings around her face. Desperation sharpened her bloodshot eyes and turned the blue of her irises to a dim gray. She glanced back at the door, her heart thudding in dull rhythm, her thoughts scrambled like so many eggs.
If she didn’t hurry, they’d come looking for her. They’d be knocking on the door, wondering if she had fainted or something. And how would she get out of her predicament then?
She had to leave now. There had to be a back entrance to the store—the one the delivery trucks used. It wouldn’t be locked from the inside. She went through the motions of flushing the toilet and washing her hands, in case anyone was listening outside the door. Then she turned the handle, opened the door a crack, and looked outside.
Two teenage girls waited in line, but she didn’t see either of the Blakelys. She couldn’t see through the plate-glass windows in front to tell if their car was there, but she couldn’t risk going out to check.
She made a dash, sidestepping the two girls and turning the opposite way she’d come in. She walked through a break room where a petite, older woman was mopping the floor. Behind the woman was the back door, an emergency bar crossing the front to discourage use. It appeared to be the kind that set off an alarm if it was pushed. She’d have to risk it.
She strode toward it as if she knew what she was doing.
“Hey! You can’t use that d—” The woman lofted her mop, but in vain.
Maggie pushed through the heavy door and broke into a run. She raced across the side parking lot and made a beeline for the auto body shop next door. There were no alarms going off behind her, butthe janitor probably thought she’d
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