She stopped. Looked back at him.

“We will be,” he promised her.

He saw her swallow.

“You left me hours ago—just walked out. Now you think you’ll sleep with me?” She shook her head. “You aren’t that irresistible, no matter what you think.”

She headed into the small station. His eyes narrowed. We will be.

The bell over the door jingled when Cassie entered the station. She glanced toward the counter and saw the clerk staring her way.

Older, balding, with a faded shirt and a grizzled jaw, he seemed to be studying her a bit too closely.

She gave him a smile, trying to put on her friendliest face. “Twenty dollars’ worth of gas, please.” She headed toward the counter. A glance to the upper right corner revealed the surveillance video that was currently showing Dante as he put gas in the Jeep.

She slid her cash across the counter and glanced up at the TV that had been mounted behind the counter. A sports show was on—a basketball game.

“Where you headed?” the clerk asked, taking the money and ringing up the sale real fast.

She kept her smile in place. “My boyfriend and I are going to visit some relatives in Georgia.” She didn’t actually have any relatives anymore. They were all dead.

“Maps are in the back,” he told her, inclining his head. “You might want to pick up a few.”

That wasn’t such a bad idea. The old Jeep wasn’t equipped with any GPS, and if they could find a short cut that would take them to Belle, Mississippi, in time . . . “Thanks. I’ll do that.” She turned away from him and headed toward the maps.

The basketball game kept playing behind her. She heard the rustle of footsteps.

“Authorities are still looking for the two suspects wanted in connection with an arson that killed four people in Chicago . . .”

That wasn’t the basketball game. That was a newsflash that she’d rather be doing without. Cassie kept walking. It wasn’t the time to panic. She glanced over at the maps and tried to act casual.

“Federal officials have identified one of the suspects as twenty-nine-year-old Cassandra Armstrong, an ex-doctoral student from Tulane who—”

Ex-doctoral? She’d gotten that doctorate—and an MD.

Cassie turned for the door and found her path blocked by the store clerk. He had a shotgun in his hands. “That same news story has been on every fifteen minutes for the last four hours. They’ve been running a picture of you every time it airs.”

The gun was pointing right at her heart.

“Did you kill those four people in Chicago?”

They were dead, though they hadn’t exactly been people. Or, well, humans, anyway. “Does it matter that they were trying to kill me?”

The clerk was between her and the door. Dammit. She should have realized that her story would be fed to the media. It was a strategy that had been used before.

Give your prey no place to hide. Let everyone hunt them.

She was being hunted, all right.

“Cassandra Armstrong is considered armed and dangerous. She should not be confronted. If you see her, you should call . . .” The news reporter quickly rattled off a number that Cassie was sure was also flashing on the screen at that moment.

“You don’t look dangerous to me,” the clerk said, frowning.

Appearances can be deceiving. “This isn’t your fight. Just step out of my way, and let me go.”

His hold tightened on the gun.

She had a handy new healing technique, but would she heal from a gunshot wound to the chest? Cassie didn’t think she wanted to find out.

Sweat beaded the man’s brow. “You . . . killed those people.”

The bell jingled behind him.

Oh, crap. If he swung at Dante with that gun—Dante would burn him.

“No!” Cassie cried out, then she slammed her body into the store clerk’s. They tumbled onto the floor, but she got up faster than he did.

And she came up with the shotgun in her hands.

The man’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. “I-I got a wife . . . kids . . .”

“Cassie?” Dante was behind her.

“You’re gonna keep that wife and kids, sir. I’m not hurting you.” She backed up and bumped into Dante. “You just stay on the floor. Count to one hundred, and forget you ever saw us.” She would not have this man’s death on her conscience.

Her conscience was already messed up enough.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” The man closed his eyes as he started to count. He didn’t get up off the floor.