This Much is True - Tia Louise Page 0,4

falls quiet, but I’m not waiting for a response. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Disconnecting, I toss the phone on the passenger’s seat and push the pedal closer to the floor.

This is a hell of a car. I’ve been hitting almost 90 the whole way, keeping an eye out for cops, but the interstates are deserted.

It’s weird, like an apocalypse or something. It’s perfect for what I need.

Reaching out, I switch on the radio. It’s got that satellite service, and somebody left it on a 1970s station. I’m not picky, so I let it go. My mind is a million miles away—or 2,500 miles away to be exact.

Last night, I plotted our route from LA to Charleston. It’s a straight line across seven states, from the east coast to the west coast.

Under normal conditions it would be a 36-hour drive. Of course, we’ll have to stop, but we should beat that time with no traffic, no construction, no state troopers.

I look out at the sunrise tipping the desert scenery in gold. The windows are down, and the warm, dry air swirls around me. I’m so fucking glad to be out of San Francisco and the cold, damp fog.

Passing a hand over the beard on my cheeks, I think of the other thing driving me across the continent. My little boy Jesse had just turned three when I left that morning. He was on my back holding a football in the air, and we were laughing, pretending like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

I still see his cotton top, his blue eyes, and Iron Man pajamas. He was just big enough to understand the concept of I’ll be right back.

Only, I didn’t come right back.

I wanted to see him, but the prosecutor called me a flight risk. They set my bail so high, I couldn’t go anywhere. I have no idea what my ex-wife Becky told him happened to me. She never even sent me pictures. He’ll be five now, starting kindergarten.

My throat aches, and I clear away the thickness.

What Becky did send was a fucking “Dear John” letter three months into my sentence. She wrote how her whole world had changed, how she didn’t sign up to be the wife of a felon.

She didn’t even question my conviction.

She had the divorce papers served up ready to go in my cell with all our shit neatly divided, like she’d gotten started on it the minute the judge banged the gavel.

My fists flex as betrayal tightens my stomach. I push harder on the gas, when a soft voice behind my shoulder startles the shit out of me.

“Where am I?” A pale ghost of a girl with messy, light-blonde hair rises in the backseat, and I jerk the wheel so hard, the car swerves like we might flip.

She goes flying across the backseat, and I pull the wheel straight, getting us back in the right lane.

“What the fuck?” I shout, but she dives to the open window and hangs out the side.

Her body shudders, and I’m pretty sure she’s throwing up.

That does it. I hit the brakes and drive the car onto the shoulder. Whatever’s happening right now is about to end real quick.

I’ve had enough bullshit to last me a lifetime.

Hope

The air has changed.

It whips throughout the car, hot and stinging, and I’m lying on the backseat, rocking side to side like I’m on a speed boat in open water. Blinking against the bright sunlight, I try to get my bearings, but it’s like struggling through a fog.

One thing is certain: I am not in San Francisco.

I’m in pain.

My head throbs, and I’m still wearing my thin, flowered sundress from yesterday with my plush, beige coat on top. My feet are bare. Sand is stuck to my toes, and my mouth is so dry…

I must’ve fallen asleep in Metallicar. Now I’m racing down the highway with The Eagles playing in the background, “Doolin Dalton,” and a strange man is driving.

Blinking hard, I try to focus on him. Who is this guy?

His profile is chiseled. He has a perfectly straight nose and square jaw covered in a short, dark-brown beard. His hair is dark, but shiny with caramel highlights. It’s shaggy like he hasn’t had a haircut in a while—but who has these days?

He seems angry. His dark brow is lowered, and the muscle in the side of his jaw moves back and forth like he’s deep in thought. His heavy, light blue shirt reminds me of a uniform with the long sleeves