It had all started with a card game. He’d thought if he ingratiated himself with Cavaro he would be safe. So he’d taken a chance.

“Don’t go all in,” he had said.

The play stopped, and eyes were leveled at him in outrage.

“What did you say?” The response was laced with equal parts anger and curiosity.

“He’s got to be holding the ace of clubs. You’ll lose.”

The table erupted, and Finn was brought down, the long point of a sharpened bolt nicking the skin beneath his right eye, drawing a line of blood before a sudden command demanded his release. The bolt disappeared, and Finn was pulled upward by a hand in his collar and a hand in his hair. His hair was released as he straightened, his height making it difficult to keep a good grip.

“Let me see your cards,” Cavaro demanded, looking across the table at the only man left in the game.

Without argument, the man laid his cards down, revealing them.

“How did you know he had the ace?” Cavaro asked, not looking at Clyde. “You weren’t anywhere near his cards.”

“I know all the cards that have been played. Three aces have been played, and I can see your cards. You don’t have it, he must.

“You know all the cards that have been played,” Cavaro had repeated, not questioning, but mocking.

“Yes. And the order that they were played.”

The laughter had risen around the table and from the men lining the walls, watching the play.

“Prove it.” With a look, one of Cavaro’s men had sat at the table and pulled the pile of cards toward him.

“Turn around, kid.”

Clyde had turned his back on the table. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of cards and knew they wouldn’t be in the order they had been played. But maybe they would be close enough, and all he could do was tell them the order they had been lain down. Whether they believed him or not was beyond his control.

He’d proceeded to lay it out, from the first card played to the players who laid down what, replaying it all in clear monotone, interrupting when someone disagreed, correcting them and moving on quickly until he described the cards that Cavaro’s opponent was left holding.

The silence in the room had felt like razors against his skin and it had been all he could do not to move, to run from the slicing stares and the sharp doubt cutting away at his courage. But he hadn’t turned. He hadn’t run. He’d waited, nervous sweat pooling in his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

“How did you do that?” Cavaro had asked. The mockery was gone.

“I’m good with numbers.”

THERE WAS A big, black swastika on Clyde’s chest. I lay awake in the hard, double bed, gripping the covers, my mind churning, my thoughts racing. The door between our rooms stood wide, like the gates to hell, and I wanted to run and fling it closed and bolt it for good measure. But I didn’t dare. I’d surprised him, it was clear. But I’d seen the mark before he’d turned away. What kind of man put a swastika on his chest?

Not a good man. Not a man I should be riding with, across the country, going on a trip that had no destination or purpose. I had grabbed on to Finn Clyde like he was a lifeline, but I was suddenly realizing his raft might have a big leak. Served me right. It wasn’t like he’d invited me to jump in, to attach myself to him. I’d done that all on my own.

It was strange. I had trusted him immediately. I had liked him immediately. The music industry had made me suspicious of everyone. But Clyde hadn’t known who I was. And he’d put himself out there for me, simply because . . . because, as he said, he’d seen a kid about to jump off a bridge. Still, there had been something about him that had felt right to me, something that made me feel anchored and safe. Gran always said I didn’t have much sense. Gran was obviously right.

I lay perfectly still for a long time, my ears straining in the dark until I thought I was going to lose my mind . . .or what was left of it. He was shirtless, and the bare skin had drawn my eyes, but instead of seeing the well-muscled contours of his arms and chest, the ripples of abdominals, or the width of his shoulders, my gaze had narrowed in on the tattoo. He’d turned, allowing me to hide my reaction, to play it cool, to doubt my eyes and pretend I hadn’t seen a thing. His back was decorated in various black, poorly executed tattoos, as well. Playing cards and numbers, from what I could tell before I dropped my eyes and turned away.

Finally, when I’d figured I had given Clyde plenty of time to fall asleep, I eased out of bed, inch by inch, and crept toward the door on my side of the adjoining rooms.

What if it squealed or moaned and gave me away? I held my breath and carefully swung the door closed. It was silent on its hinges, and I almost whimpered in gratitude. Then I turned the lock. It cracked loudly as the bolt shot home and my heart echoed the thunderous report. If Finn was still awake he would have heard it. And he wouldn’t have misinterpreted what it meant, especially after I’d made such a big deal about leaving the doors between us open.

In the morning, I would get up early and check out. Then I would check into a different room, safe from the stranger on the other side of the door, and I would call Bear and wait in the motel until he could come and get me. Adventure over.

Chapter Five

REPORTS OF A Bonnie Rae Shelby sighting at a Quik Clips hair salon have been confirmed. Brittney Gunnerson, an employee at the business, said Bonnie Rae Shelby got a cut and color and left in a hurry out the back entrance with a tall, white male, approximately 6’1 or 6’2, in his mid-twenties, wearing a black, knit cap and a worn, jean jacket. The employee said Miss Shelby addressed the stranger as Clyde, although there are no further clues as to his identity. Gunnerson is considering pressing assault charges against the unknown man, claiming he pushed her and struck her across the face when she asked him and the singer to leave through the front entrance. Bonnie and Clyde? Folks, you can’t make this stuff up.