BooksBarbecue
Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

She turned into him, eyes closed, suddenly wanting his touch, startled at the hot rush of her desire. Was this how he felt, all the time? Why he couldn’t leave her alone? It was as though she’d stepped into his skin, just for a moment. Had she ever been truly awake before right now?

Footsteps ran down the hall. “Roy, stop fucking around.” Hollywood was breathing hard. “Work first, then play, remember? Your rules.”

Roy’s hand slipped away and she stood trembling. He backed toward the stairs. “Go find yourself something nice,” he said. “Maybe some fancy underwear.”

Even under the skull-faced ski mask, she could tell he was smiling.

And she was smiling back.

Who the hell was she?

Fifteen minutes later, while the screech of a power tool filtered up from the lower level, she stood naked in a closet that was bigger than her whole trailer. She had a lacy white nightgown in both hands, ready to pull it over her head, when she glanced out the window and saw a small blue SUV roll up the driveway and come to a stop behind Hollywood’s gray truck.

“Oh, no.” She dropped the nightgown and reached for her underwear. “No, no, no.”

A woman got out of the car and looked up at the house. She wore black pants and tennis shoes and an open blue windbreaker. She wore something dark on the side of her belt under the jacket.

“Roy.” Helene ducked away from the window and fumbled for her jeans. “Roy!” She pulled on her T-shirt, then grabbed her sweater and Walmart sneakers and ran for the stairs. “Roy, where the hell are you?”

24

Helene found the men on the lowest level, inside a large, windowless room with a wrecked metal door. The door and its metal jamb had ragged, burned-looking cuts on the edge.

Frank and Hollywood were transferring guns from a wall full of gleaming glass display cases into plastic storage bins. There were open shelves with boxes of ammunition and canned food and a whole bunch of camping gear. Roy and the wide man in the black T-shirt—Pony Boy, Roy had called him—stood looking at a big metal cabinet with thick lever handles and a keypad. A safe. An orange machine like an oversized chain saw, but with a circular cutting blade, idled at their feet.

“Roy, someone’s here.” She was still in her socks with her sneakers in one hand and her sweater in the other, breathing hard from the run.

He stepped toward her. “Say again?” The orange machine wasn’t quiet. The air smelled of engine exhaust and burned metal.

Helene raised her voice and spoke into the side of his mask. “Someone’s here. A woman. In the driveway.”