have any shortage of worries. What do I do now? Do we drive all the way back to Pennsylvania in this car?
No, that much time in one confined space with my mother I cannot withstand. I already took one long trip across country and the last thing I want is to do another one.
So, what then?
An hour later, I pull over to get some gas and see a sign for the Ontario airport.
What if we were to fly home?
“Do you have any ID?” I ask.
I don't expect her to say yes, but much to my surprise, she nods.
I go on my phone and use the credit card to book two tickets to Pittsburgh leaving three hours from now.
Now the only thing to do is to figure out what to do with this car.
23
Tyler
When I wake up the following morning, my body aches. I haven't slept in such a confined space in a very long time.
I open the door, slide out of the driver's seat, and force myself to stretch. The sun is peeking in through the enormous pines and it feels warm on my face.
I stretch from one side to another and do a number of sun salutations to get the blood flowing through my body. After getting some of the cricks out of my muscles, I let out a deep sigh of relief.
I get back into the car and drive to the closest gas station and ask them for the location of the nearest Walmart or big-box store. Luckily, it's not too far away.
I buy a new phone. It’s disposable, untraceable, but smart, with Internet access and a data plan.
When I get back to the car, I find a piece of paper where I wrote down Isabelle's number and debate whether I should call her. I'm safe now.
She doesn't know my number. She doesn't know the type of car I drive. She doesn't even know where I am.
Even if the cops are with her, I would still be able to hear her voice.
I press the first few numbers, but then I stop. Actually, I have to physically force myself to stop.
She betrayed me.
She took the money and even if she is not working with the police, she stole my lifeline.
What happens if she's working with the cops or the FBI or the federal marshals?
Whatever she says, I'll never be able to trust her. I don't know who she's with or what she's doing. If she's working with the authorities, then they will want to put me at ease about everything. They're going to want me to trust her again and eventually they’re going to want me to meet up with her again.
That can’t happen.
This is my only chance to start my life again. She may not be working with the authorities, but she has already betrayed me by taking the money and that is enough.
I’m not an idiot. I want to be. I want to call her.
I want to hear her say that she loves me, but I can't let myself do that. Those words, that feeling that life makes sense, and knowing that there is someone out there who loves you unconditionally, that feeling is not worth all this pain.
It's not worth years in prison. It's not worth any of that.
I finish the cup of coffee that I bought inside and open my phone once again. I know that I will probably be tempted to call her again, but for now, the pep talk that I just gave myself seems to have worked.
I have done some of the research on how to get a new identity, but now it's time to get down to the nitty-gritty.
I search and I read until I figure out a way to get onto the dark web and onto the forums where all of these bank accounts and identities are sold.
Even though there are cheaper ones available, I spend $1,700 on a complete set: new driver’s license, bank account number, United States passport, and a credit history.
The identity doesn't come with a specific career option, but I could buy a college degree for an additional $500. Luckily, the credit card companies don't check actual pay stubs but rely on your statements of what your job and your salary is.
I put in a modest amount of eighty-eight thousand dollars, something that won’t draw too much attention one way or another. The credit history isn't particularly extensive, but with that salary, it's enough to get the credit card with a $10,000 limit across three cards