On the Run
Synopsis
When Gwen picks up a pretty hitchhiker on the side of a lonely Texas highway, she has little reason to suspect that her entire life is about to change.
Annie has just broken out of prison, and she needs more than a ride—she needs Gwen’s help to recover the money she stole.
With other more dangerous criminals trying to stop them and the police on their tail, Gwen and Annie will have to decide what’s more important: the money or each other.
Praise for Charlotte Greene
Legacy
“Greene does a good job of building suspense as the story unfolds. Strange things happen one by one in increasingly spooky fashion. Background information is revealed a little bit at a time and makes you want to try and solve the mystery…I recommend this to those who like to read about hauntings, nature, history, DIY home maintenance, violent husbands, scary things in the woods, and water.”—Bookvark
“The characters are well developed, and Greene hit just the right amount of tension between them…I rarely like every character in a book, but I loved the whole group. The creepiness never let up, the tension built steadily, and…things escalated rapidly. The ending was very satisfying! Horror is definitely Greene’s forte.”—Bookish Sort
“This is a wonderfully scary paranormal novel. The setting is perfect and well described. The characters are well-drawn and likable. The romance between Jo and Andy is especially charming and fits perfectly into the tale. This is just a wonderful story, and I’m so glad I read it, even in the middle of the night. If you love a good scary story, I believe you will love it too.”—Rainbow Reflections
“Greene likes to take her time to work up the suspense, starting with smaller and seemingly inconsequential things that build up a suitably creepy atmosphere. Placing the characters in an isolated setting ratchets things up. This isn’t a gore-fest nor is it relying on jump-scares to set the atmosphere—instead it’s a well paced ghost story with strongly developed characters…”—C-Spot Reviews
“Greene does a great job of establishing a creepy atmosphere by setting a rather slow (but not overly so) pace, taking the necessary time to describe the woods, the uncared-for cabin, the ominous well from the cover, the sounds, the smells, the weather and temperatures…”—Jude in the Stars
“Very fun horror story that just touches on the creep factor without going full blown scary. There’s a lot of really good elements to the book, from the menacing spook, to the mystery, and even the relationship…Great work!”—Colleen Corgel, Librarian, Queens Public Library
Pride and Porters
“Have you ever wondered how Pride and Prejudice would work if it were two women falling in love with a brewery as a backdrop? Well, wonder no more!…All in all, I would say this is up near the top on my list of favorite Pride and Prejudice adaptations.”—Amanda Brill, Librarian, Rowan Public Library (North Carolina)
“Greene’s charming retelling of Pride and Prejudice transplants the Bennets into the world of Colorado craft beer…The story beats are comfortingly familiar, with the unusual backdrop of brewing and beer competitions, modern setting, and twists on the characters providing enough divergence to keep the reader engaged…Feminism, lesbianism, and class are all touched on in this refreshing update on a classic. (Starred review)”—Publishers Weekly
Gnarled Hollow
“Greene has done an outstanding job of weaving in all sorts of layers: mysterious patterns in the gardens, missing rooms, odd disappearances, blandly boring journals, unknown artwork, and each mystery is eventually revealed as part of the horrific whole. Combined with intensely emotional descriptions of the fear the characters experience as they are targeted by the tortured spirit and this book is genuinely a page turner…not only could I not sleep after reading it, I didn’t want to put it down.”—Lesbian Reading Room
“Gnarled Hollow by Charlotte Greene is an awesome supernatural thriller that will terrify and entertain you for hours on end.”—The Lesbian Review
“Gnarled Hollow is a creepy mystery story that had me gripped from the start. There was layer upon layer of mystery and plenty that I didn’t see coming at all.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Review Blog
“Scared myself to death, but hauntingly beautiful! Had my heart beating at rapid speeds and my mind working overtime with this thought provoking story. Piecing together the mystery of Gnarled Hollow was both fascinating and scary as hell. It takes talent to put that much suspense and thrill into words that build the picture so vividly, painting descriptions that you can imagine perfectly and see as you read.”—LESBIreviewed
“I really enjoyed this. This is the fifth book I have read by Greene and by far my favorite. It had some good twists and kept me in suspense until the end. In fact, I was a little sad when it ended. This would be a perfect book to read around Halloween time…I would absolutely recommend this to paranormal-crime/mystery fans. I really hope Greene takes the opportunity to write more books in similar genres. I would love to read them if she does. 5 stars.”—Lez Review Books
A Palette for Love
“The relationship really works between the main characters, and the sex is steamy but not over the top.”—Amanda’s Reviews
On the Run
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On the Run
© 2020 By Charlotte Greene. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-683-4
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: March 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Shelley Thrasher
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
By the Author
A Palette for Love
Love in Disaster
Canvas for Love
Pride and Porters
Gnarled Hollow
Legacy
On the Run
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as always, to my lovely and supportive wife and family, and to my wonderful and dedicated editor, Shelley. I couldn’t do any of this without all of you.
This is for my Grandma Lois, who always liked a good thriller.
Chapter One
The heat, more than oppressive, was almost heavy on her skin. It had been bad enough inside the car, the weak air-conditioning going full-blast, but now, outside, the weight of the hot air almost hurt, pulling on her. The sunshine was also too much, even for her sunglasses—the bright, almost white light nearly blinding.
“Jesus Christ,” Gwen whispered to herself. Why would anyone live here? Why would any human with the ability to leave submit themselves to this?
She was surprised to see that she could pay at the pump—she thought only cities had that kind of thing. She moved toward the back of the car, realizing as she did that she’d neglected to pop the little gas hatch from inside. At least I remembered to check which side it was on, she thought. The idea of having to move the car now was almost too much to imagine.
After she finally got the gas going,
the little dial on the pump turned so slowly at first that she wasn’t sure it was on. A few pennies finally appeared on the total line, then a few more. She put her ear near the pump and could hear something moving inside, almost groaning.
“I feel ya,” she told it.
She sighed. Should she wait inside the little store? She knew it would have dusty, unappealing local snacks, a pruney old-timer with too much time on his hands, and a toilet in need of cleaning. She dreaded the old-timer the most, the kind of questions he’d ask and the comments he’d make. She’d heard them before.
She waited another thirty seconds before realizing that if she stood out here much longer, she would fall over dead or catch on fire. Sleigh bells jangled as she opened the flimsy door, and she had to stop entirely to let her eyes adjust to the dim, almost murky light. It was cooler in here, but only a little—no air-conditioning in evidence.
“Hot enough for ya?” the old man asked.
She made herself chuckle and slid off her sunglasses. “It’s a scorcher, all right.”
“Sorry about the slow pump out there. Always acts up in the heat.”
“No problem.” Was it always acting up?
“Ladies’ is in the back,” he said, gesturing. “Though it’s also the men’s.” He seemed to find this remark funny, and she forced a smile.
Still nearly blind, she almost walked into a stand of some local jerky, then staggered to the back of the little store between shelves of things she would never buy, even in her wildest, hungriest desperation.
The toilet, at least, wasn’t what she’d expected. It was small, yes, smelly, yes, but the bowl had clearly been cleaned recently with a bottle of bleach sitting next to it, and she spotted a bonus: toilet paper.
“Jackpot.”
Years on the job had trained her bladder to wait for hours and hours. She hadn’t planned on going, so she had to sit there for a while before her body recognized what she was doing. This was good, she thought, washing her hands. Since she’d gone now, she wouldn’t have to stop again anytime soon. And despite her terrible morning, she felt good, fresh. She might even make it until eight or nine tonight, if the gas held out that long. She checked her watch. Just after eleven, so maybe not. This tank had lasted only a little more than four hours.
Back in the store, eyes adjusted, she spent a few minutes surveying the saleable goods, putting off the inevitable small talk as long as she could to give the gas pump time to finish its job. She didn’t recognize most of the brands on the shelves—odd, cheap knock-offs with strange, punny names. Not that she would have bought any of it, brand-recognition or not. She didn’t eat crap like this. Still, she needed to waste some more time, so she picked up a bag of bright-orange Cheese Grenades as if interested in purchasing them. The sell-by date was February 1, 1997—more than four months ago. She set them down as if changing her mind and surreptitiously wiped the dust off on her jeans.
The lone cooler was shuddering and loud, by all evidence on its last leg, and when she opened the door for the only appealing beverage inside—generic water—the air that escaped was barely cool. Knowing she could dawdle no longer, she carried a bottle up to the front counter, digging her wallet out of her back pocket.
“That all you need?” he asked.
“That’s it,” she said. If I needed anything else, I’d have it, she thought. She took her change, bracing herself for what would come next.
“Those are some interesting tattoos.” His expression—suspicion, maybe disgust—suggested he thought they were anything but.
“Thanks.”
“You have those done all at once or—”
“Over the years.”
Luckily, he left it at that, but he couldn’t seem to keep himself from talking, moving on to her next dreaded topic almost at once.
“So where you headed?”
“Phoenix,” she lied.
He whistled. “Got a piece to go, then, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You from there?”
She knew from his tone and from the careful, squinty way he was staring at her what he meant. The implication was the same no matter what city she said or who asked: she didn’t look like she was from there. Some of this maybe wasn’t his fault. Friends over the years had told her, gently or not, that with her mixed heritage, she didn’t seem Asian or Hispanic, and not really a blend, either. She was something else, something unfamiliar. New people, especially older ones like this guy, always stared at her a beat too long, assessing her, trying to figure her out. Still, she wondered, not for the first time, where people like this man thought she was from.
“Yes,” she said, once again bracing herself for the next question.
“Where are you really from? I mean, where were you born?”
“Phoenix.”
“Really?”
She had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She was lying, yes, and she’d been in some version of this conversation so many times in her life she knew she shouldn’t let it bother her, but it always did. It didn’t matter where she was, whether at home or on the road, or who she was with—no one believed her. She was too foreign-looking for any of the places she mentioned.
“Really,” she managed.
Some of her anger must have surfaced on her face, as the man held up his hands. “No offense.”
She managed to nod and turned to leave.
“Have a nice day!” he called.
“No thanks to you,” she said, loud enough for him to hear.
The heat was almost a relief after that exchange, and she paused outside, hands on her hips, breathing deeply to calm down. She was making progress. Six months ago, that guy wouldn’t have gotten the snide, passive remark thrown over her shoulder. He would have been in trouble. Dr. Leichman would be proud of her for not kicking the shit out of him.
She smiled at the thought and pressed the slightly cool bottle of water to her forehead, realizing a moment too late that the dye from the coloring on the label had leaked onto her hand.
“Shit,” she said, wiping her forehead. Her fingers came away smudged and blue.
Great. Now, on top of everything, she was probably marked blue for life—all thanks to a two-dollar bottle of shitty, lukewarm water.
She heard the gas stop pumping as she approached the car and noticed for the first time the enormous markup on the gas here—almost a dollar higher than it had been in town this morning. Between the water and the gas, she’d dumped almost forty dollars on this one stop.
Still, in this case, she had no one to blame but herself. She hadn’t been paying attention—too distracted from this morning. In fact, by the time she’d realized she needed gas, she couldn’t have said how long the car’s gas light had been on. Even if she’d been aware of the price of gasoline here, she’d been forced to stop at the first place she’d seen—this dump. God knew how far the next one would be. That’s what you got from avoiding the interstate.
She opened the car door, and a blast of heat rolled out of it like a hot wind. She closed her eyes against it, rocking back a step, then forced herself to climb in. She immediately rolled the window down. If this morning was any indication, it would take the damn thing thirty minutes to cool down again inside. The car had no cup holders, so she threw the bottle onto the passenger’s seat, unconcerned about the dye hurting the upholstery. No one would even notice in an old jalopy like this, and anyway, it wasn’t her car. She used a tissue and a little spit to clean the blue off her forehead, surprised when it all rubbed away.
Doing some quick math, she thought she’d probably hit El Paso in an hour, maybe less. She’d meant to ask the guy inside how far it was, but judging from the time and her usual speed, she must be close. From there, she’d head north into New Mexico, and that would give her a little breathing room, a little time to make some choices. Getting out of Texas was the first step.
She turned the key and the engine failed to roll over, grinding and complaining. She had a hot flash o
f desperate panic, and then it finally sputtered to life. Her heart sputtered with relief, tight and painful in her chest. Her hands were shaking and sweaty when she threw the car into gear, and she spun the wheels, squealing out of the station and back into the little one-lane highway. She sped crazily for a few minutes and then forced herself to slow down, setting the car at a mile or two over the posted limit. No reason to get herself pulled over now—not when she was this close to escape.
The blacktop stretched out in front of her, doing that funny mirage thing in the distance. There was nothing to see on either side of the car, the sun too blinding, the landscape too bleak. A few long irrigation machines sat in brown fields, growing dirt, as far as she could tell. Only a lone bird in the sky or an occasional pickup truck indicated anything was alive out here. Finally, she spotted a mile-marker sign. El Paso: 47 miles.
“Thank Christ,” she whispered, finally feeling a bit of tension seep out of her shoulders. Not far now.
Despite the hazy heat, she saw the figure long before she reached it. She even knew what to expect: a hitchhiker. She’d passed several of them already this morning. Broken men with ratty clothes, an occasional college kid with a patchy beard and a guitar. All of them held a cardboard sign with destinations, or pleas of some kind. She was usually going too fast to read them but would catch a word or two: Help or Going To and the name of some city. Not that she would ever consider stopping, not on her own, and not this close to the border, but it gave her something to think about for a while. She liked imagining their lives, what had brought them to stand on the side of the road, out here of all places. She’d been trained to make educated guesses about people from a single glance, and she was very good at it. Going by someone at 55 miles an hour didn’t usually give her much to go on, but it passed the time.
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