She disconnected, staring at a drawing Hannah had done at age ten. A watercolor on white construction paper. A unicorn, its coat the spectrum of a rainbow.
This musing lasted only seconds. The past had arrived. She would now make sure she and her daughter had a future.
Parker shoved the door open and walked into the hallway, gripping the bag and backpack firmly.
The girl was sitting on her bed, beside a half-filled gym bag. Inside were only her computer and a few articles of clothing. She was texting.
“No, no.”
The girl glanced her way.
In a low voice, as steady as her hands were now, Parker said, “Phone away. Finish. I fucking mean it.”
“Language!”
“I don’t have time for that. Pack.”
The girl shot an exasperated look her mother’s way, then rose, slipped her phone into her right rear pocket. She started sifting through drawers. Parker stepped quickly into Hannah’s room and filled her bag and backpack with random clothes and toiletries.
“Wait. I want to take—”
“No.” This word was a growl.
Parker hurried into the kitchen and looked out into the backyard, half expecting her ex to come charging out of the bushes, holding a baseball bat or axe.
She loaded the electronics into a Whole Foods reusable bag—phone and computer chargers and cords, her Dell laptop, a seventeen-inch model, a Wi-Fi router, battery packs.
“Where are we going?” the girl whined. “You said I could go to the mall!”
“Your bags. Now. We’re leaving.”
She reluctantly picked them up. “So Dad’s out of jail? So what?”
Of course he does...
They had just walked out the front door when the girl stopped and ran back into the house.
“Hannah!” Parker called. “No!”
“I can’t,” came the girl’s voice.
“What?”
“My iPad. I’m not going anywhere without it!”
16
In the backyard of his ex-wife’s house on Maple View, Jon Merritt was making his way through the brush toward the back door.
He tensed and crouched as he heard an engine roar.
His ex’s SUV raced over the curb and skidded around the corner onto Cross County Highway, heading west.
Goddamn.
He began sprinting back to his truck, which he’d parked three blocks away, just to be safe. As he ran, he pressed his hand against the grip of the pistol so it didn’t fly from his belt. In the garbage-decorated alley behind the Ferrington City Diner, Ryan’s man had, yes, conducted a vigorous frisk for wires. Unnecessarily rough, but Merritt was more offended that a battered two-hundred-dollar gun was priced at seven, no negotiation.
Supply and demand...