He’s out of the car before I finish the question.
“Get me a Coke and some chips. BBQ flavor,” he says just before I step inside the store.
I walk down the snack aisle, grabbing a couple of different bags of chips and a package of peanut butter M&Ms, and I spot Devon filling up a cup at the fountain machine. I pull the folded-up paper from my back pocket and slide it under the Twinkies. While I’m checking out at the register, he has moved to the snack aisle to retrieve the handwritten letter that will catch him up on what happened yesterday and give the details of the plan I came up with. It’s not the best form of communication, but it’s old-school enough that I know it can’t be hacked. If everything goes the way it should, I will see him in person soon.
When I get back to the car, I slide into the passenger seat.
Ryan looks at me through the open driver’s-side window, where he’s still pumping gas. “I’m guessing you want me to drive now?”
“Yes, please,” I answer before taking a swig of my Diet Dr Pepper.
“You’ll have to tell me where we’re going if I’m driving,” he says once he’s back in the car.
“Get on the interstate and head east.”
We drive for a while without a word between us. The car is quiet. No music playing. No conversation. Only directions when needed.
The land flattens out as we head into the Mississippi Delta, where there’s nothing but row crops for miles and miles. We’re off the main interstate now, bumping along the back roads through the small towns that pop up every hour or so. The kind of towns where the speed limit drops from fifty-five to thirty-five with little warning, so the driver isn’t prepared for the speed traps that generate the revenue that supports them.
We stop for gas again, and Ryan insists on paying for it. I insist he do it with cash. He pulls out a bulging wallet filled with twenties as if he is more prepared for this trip than I gave him credit for, and I remind myself that he’s as shady as I am.
“I’m sorry you’ll miss James’s funeral,” I say once we’re back on the road.
He lets out a deep sigh. “Me too.” I don’t think he’s going to say anything else until he adds, “I spent years helping James . . . saving James. I gave him money, clothes, a place to stay. Put him in rehab more than once. I was a crutch for him. He knew I’d be there. He knew I’d save him. So why bother getting your shit together if there’s always someone saving you?”
A few minutes pass before I say, “I don’t need saving.”
His head jerks in my direction. He looks at me while I stare straight ahead, then his attention focuses back on the road. “I know that. There are things you may need, but saving isn’t one of them.”
This makes me want to ask questions. So many questions. But he made it clear—he’d show me his but I have to show mine first. So instead of questions, I say, “In two miles, you need to take a left.”
Alias: Wendy Wallace—Six Years Ago
I love this little town. In another life, I would have graduated from high school and headed straight here for college. I would have gone to every sporting event and play and art showing. Breaks between classes would have been spent in the quad, where I’d complain with fellow students on the unfairness of how our professor graded our last exam.
But I’m not living that life.
I was only in that airport hotel in Raleigh for a day before there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a guy in a UPS uniform standing on the other side. But upon closer inspection, I realized it was the same guy who delivered my last set of instructions from Matt.
“You’re George,” I said.
He looked confused. “I’m sorry, who?” he asked.
I pointed to the space on my tee where a name tag would be if I had one. “George. It was the name on your uniform at the hotel in Hilton Head.” He seemed surprised I would remember that. “But I’m guessing that’s not your real name.”
He handed me a plain brown package without any address or shipping label and said, “No, it’s not.” I’m sure he’s not supposed to be talking to me, just delivering things.
“Are you going to tell me your real name or do I just keep calling you George?”
He shrugged. “George works, I guess.”
“Okay, George it is.” He started to step away, but he stopped when I asked, “You coming to Florida with me? Or do you have other deliveries to make?”
Another shrug. “You’ll have to wait and see.” And then he was gone.