“We are.” He points to the bed of the truck. “See, there’s a tent, two sleeping bags, a cooler, a camping stove, a hand-powered blender, camping chairs, food, and other miscellaneous supplies. But there’s no room for two large suitcases, a duffel bag filled with dog supplies, and a dog bed.”

“You think I’m going to sleep in a tent? In a sleeping bag?”

Jake gives my dad a polite smile. I’m sure behind it he’s choking on his words, but why would he offer to give us a ride if he didn’t have room?

“Avery, how would you feel about us shipping one of your suitcases to your apartment?” Deedy asks.

“I have stuff I need in both suitcases. I’d have to repack both of them, and I can’t guarantee I can get everything I might need for the trip into just one of them.”

Jake grumbles as he hops into the bed of the truck, reshuffling everything. After a few minutes, he retrieves ties from under the backseats, heaves my two suitcases onto the pile of camping supplies, and secures everything with the straps.

My dad whistles for Swarley to get in the backseat, then he and Deedy thank Jake for his generosity, which is crazy because how well do any of us know this tattooed, muscle-bound serial killer?

Deedy hugs me and whispers in my ear, “I’ll take care of him.”

I start to refute her assumption that my dad needs someone to take care of him, but I choke on my stupid emotions that are a culmination of my hand, Anthony, Swarley, my joblessness, the death of my vehicle, and the fact that I’m leaving on a long road trip with a man who feels a bit cold toward me—oh, and we’re camping with a tent. A. TENT!

“And this too will pass.” My dad gives me an encouraging smile before hugging me. “Be grateful and God will bless you, Avery. I love you.”

The lump in my throat feels like it could asphyxiate me, so all I manage to get out is, “You too.”

Jake opens my door for me. I’m sure it’s just for show. Something tells me by our next stop, I’ll be chasing the vehicle so he doesn’t leave me—unless I’m dead. He’s going to kill me.

Startling me with his close proximity—the warmth of his body and his clean, woodsy scent—he helps me fasten my seat belt so I don’t fumble it with my injured hand. After it clicks, our gazes lock, his face a breath away from mine. I squeak out the words that I’ve been dying to say. “Make my death quick, and please don’t tie me up. I’m claustrophobic.”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes and disregard my request as preposterous, but he doesn’t.