“And the cab driver let you get out on the bridge?”

“He didn’t have much choice when I opened the door and told him to stop. He slammed on the brakes pretty quick, and was glad to see me go, I think.”

We sat in silence while Clyde seemed to mull it all over. The fingers of my left hand fingered the strings, finding chords and sliding up and down the frets. But I didn’t play. I just let Clyde be until he sighed and sat back in his seat.

“That doesn’t prove anything, Bonnie. I don’t know anything about Bonnie Rae Shelby. You could still be seventeen for all I know.”

I sighed. “You’ve got a phone, right? Look me up.” I really wished he didn’t have to. I just wanted to drive. Drive, drive, drive. And never look back. And odds were, as soon as Clyde figured out I was Bonnie Rae Shelby, he was going to see dollar signs just like everyone else did.

Clyde reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was a flip phone. Ancient. “I’m not going to be able to do that with this, am I?”

“Uh. No. Where did you get that phone? A museum?”

“My mom insisted I have a phone on this trip. So she hooked me up.”

“Does your mama hate you?”

Clyde shoved the phone back into his pocket, and his eyes met mine. I instantly felt bad. I was joking. I hated my big mouth. There was something about his expression that made me pause. He had sad eyes and a tired face. Too tired for a young man. I wondered if my eyes were as weary.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-four,” he answered.

I nodded, as if I agreed. Which was stupid. I would have nodded if he’d said twenty-three or twenty-five.

“Are you going to hurt me, Clyde?”

His eyebrows shot up, and he drew back, as if I’d surprised him.

“Are you going to cut me up in little pieces or make me do disgusting things?”

Shock widened Clyde’s eyes, and then he laughed a little and ran that hand over his face. It must be what he did when he didn’t know what else to do.

“No?” I persisted.

“You are a very strange girl, Bonnie,” he muttered. “But no. I’m not going to hurt you, or cut you, or anything else.”

“I didn’t think so. Guys who do things like that don’t play the hero and talk strangers down from bridges. Although you didn’t really talk me down. You knocked me down. Thank you, by the way.” My throat closed, and I pushed through the sudden, surprising emotion. “I’m not going to hurt you either, Clyde. I just need a ride. I can help with costs and keep you company and even spell you when you need a break.”

It occurred to me suddenly that Gran’s phone might be in her purse. I pulled it open again, shoving the cash out of the way and looking into the big zipper pocket where Gran kept Tic Tacs and lipstick. I found her phone laying at the bottom of the bag. It had been on vibrate, and there were thirty missed calls and twice that many new text messages. She’d obviously figured out I had taken her purse. I didn’t look at any of them. Instead, I swiped across the screen and set to work googling my name. I found a couple of good shots, close-ups of my face, and handed the phone to Clyde.

“See?”

He took the phone and looked down at the images. Then he reached up and turned on the dome light, illuminating my face for his perusal. He looked from me to the screen for several long seconds and then reached out and pulled off my stocking cap.

“Why did you do that to your hair?”

“You don’t like it?”

A ghost of a grin flitted across his face. “No.”

I snatched the phone from his hand and clicked through a few links until I found a biography on Bonnie Rae Shelby. My date of birth was listed right at the top, March 1, 1992.

“And there’s everything you need to know about me, including my age. Totally reliable information off the internet. There might even be stuff there I don’t know.”

Clyde took the phone again and read through the information I’d offered him. He read and read. And read. It was awkward, and I turned from him, strumming the guitar and hoping that there wasn’t anything too far-fetched in the so-called biography—like romances that had never happened and bad acts I hadn’t been fortunate enough to actually commit.

“Clyde?”

He looked up from the little screen in his hand.

“You got enough dirt now? ’Cause I need food. And a shower. And I’m thinking I don’t like my hair much either.”

Chapter Three

THEY DIDN’T FIND a shower, but they did find a pancake house. Bonnie dug into her stack like she was starving, but she seemed to fill up before she’d eaten even half of her food. She looked at what was left of the teetering golden pile with regret. Clyde watched her as he finished every last bite on his own plate and drank three glasses of milk. She insisted on picking up the tab, and he decided he would let her this once—if she truly was Bonnie Rae Shelby, she could afford it—but he didn’t like letting her buy his food. It made him feel small in a way that his six feet two inch frame could never be. Small in a way that reminded him of the times he’d turned his head when he should have spoken up, or let someone get hurt because standing up would have made him a bigger target. He didn’t like feeling small, so he made a silent promise to himself that he wouldn’t let her pay for his meal again.

After breakfast they found a Walmart, and she skipped down the aisles throwing things into the basket until he warned her that the cargo space was limited. She looked at her purchases the way she had looked at the pancakes—regretfully—then put several things back. She still left the store with her arms full of sacks—jeans and T’s, another stocking cap and a coat to match, underwear that he had studiously ignored, and all kinds of feminine things that made him truly grateful he was a man. She’d also purchased a couple of duffle bags to stuff it all in, and she’d made short work of organizing it, throwing her bags in the back seat with his. She seemed amazingly lighthearted and upbeat for a girl who had wanted to die less than twelve hours before. That worried him, more than the fact that she was apparently a pop-star on the run, more than the fact that she seemed to completely trust him.