Broken (28 page)

Two years ago, this had seemed like the way to go forward. Not exactly the
ideal
way, but the safer way. Safe—as in it was safer to drive 120 mph down the highway wearing a seat belt as opposed to driving 120 mph down the highway
not
wearing a seat belt. There hadn’t been a lot of good options—this had just seemed like the best choice at the time.

Sara stood in the doorway of the little apartment and took one last look around. Now, regrets, guilt, grief, and doubts were tearing into her with razor-sharp claws.

If she gave in to those emotions, though, she was going to collapse and she didn’t have time to collapse. The damned phone in her pocket weighed as much as an anchor—one that tied her to her past, one that reminded her of promises that had been made. She wanted to pull it out of her pocket, throw it on the ground, and dance on it until it was nothing but busted plastic and wires.

Instead, she checked her bags, the money she’d hidden away on her body, and the time. With her duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her carry-on-sized suitcase in the other hand, she slipped out of the apartment. As always, she’d packed light. Anything she didn’t have to have she left behind.

Normally that just consisted of a few changes of clothes, her money, and a small toiletry kit. One extra thing had ended up in her bag this time, though. One of Quinn’s T-shirts. It had been thrown over the foot of her bed and while she was packing, she hadn’t been able to resist picking it up, bringing it to her face, breathing it in. Tears had knotted in her throat as she pushed it inside her bag. If she knew herself at all, she suspected she’d be sleeping in that T-shirt until it fell apart on her.

It had taken a lot longer than normal to pack up, but she suspected she was subconsciously delaying herself.

Hoping Quinn might call.

Hoping he might get home early.

Just plain hoping.

Tears blurred her eyes as she locked the door of the private outer entrance. She didn’t want to go through the other door and risk seeing Theresa in the house. Risk having to talk, having to evade questions she couldn’t answer.

She was so done with telling lies.

She was so tired of running.

“How much longer do I have to keep doing this?” she muttered.

But there was nobody there to answer.

Sighing, she started down the steps. She had a half hour before she could catch a ride downtown on the Metrolink. From there, she’d go to the bus station. Instead of heading south, though, she was going to head west. Get even farther away this time. Sometime soon, she’d have to make a phone call and figure out just what the
problems
were, but she couldn’t handle it now.

She rounded the corner of the walk and her heart jumped into her throat.

Theresa was sitting on an iron bench that wrapped around the base of a towering oak—almost like she’d been waiting. The older woman’s gaze lingered on Sara’s suitcase. Their gazes locked and Theresa smiled a sad, knowing smile.

“Already time, huh?”

“Ahhhh . . .”

Theresa waved a hand. “Oh, don’t feel like you need to tell me anything. I’d rather you say nothing than offer me lies, and I realize that it may not be easy for you to tell the truth. Maybe you can’t.” Leaning her back against the tree trunk, she said, “Tell me something, Sara . . . Do you get tired of running?”

A knot lodged itself in Sara’s throat, one she thought was going to choke her. She swallowed while tears started to well up in her eyes. “Do I get tired of running?”

One tear broke free and she dashed it away. Angry and hurting, she glared at Theresa and demanded, “Do you think I
like
running? I hate it and I wish I could stop, but I just can’t see too many alternatives.”

“I believe you,” Theresa said quietly. “I do. I don’t know what you’re running from, or why. I do know you’ve been happy here and I hate that you’re going to lose that.

“You know you can’t run forever.” She rose from the iron bench and walked over to Sara. Sara stood frozen as the older woman enfolded her in a hug. She smelled like spices, fresh baked bread, and White Diamonds perfume. “Sometimes when you’re lost inside a problem, Sara, it can be very, very hard to see that there are other alternatives, other options. There’s almost always a way, darling.”

His gut burned, his throat ached, and his chest felt like it was going to explode.

The information from the report was imprinted on his mind. Approximately two years ago, Sarah Elizabeth Morgan had disappeared from the home she shared with her husband. She’d taken with her some clothes, a car that had been a Christmas gift a year earlier, some pretty expensive antiques, and all of her jewelry.

The antiques had been worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars, easy—and that was at legal auctions. Keeping them out of the public eye, for private bidders, there might be even more money. A few of them had resurfaced in legit markets, but many were still unaccounted for.

It took only two days to locate her car. It had been auctioned off and the check was deposited. Half of the money was withdrawn a week later and that was the last time they could find any record of Sarah Elizabeth Morgan. It was as though she’d just dropped off the face of the earth. She never once tried to access the rest of the money from selling her car. On occasion, some of the jewelry would turn up, either at a pawn shop or in an auction, but none of those had yielded any concrete information about her. The same with the antiques—a few of the stolen items had been recovered over the past two years, but nothing had provided a trail back to Sarah.

There was other information in the file, and he’d skimmed through it before taking the papers out and shoving them into his pocket. There was also a check for ten thousand dollars. All his. It was for “expenses,” but hell, what fucking expenses was he going to run into?

There would be another two hundred fifty thousand and all he had to do was make a phone call and tell one James Morgan that his wife was currently residing in St Louis, Missouri. Hell, if he could get her to Chicago, Quinn would net another two fifty.

All he had to do was make the call. But he couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

He had to look at Sara—
Sarah
—and know why.

Why she’d lied to him.

Why she had run away from her life.

Why she’d stolen from her husband.

Why she’d changed her name.

Why she’d made a half-assed attempt to change her appearance.

Why she was living off money made under the table.

Why she was hiding out in an apartment in St. Louis, Missouri, instead of living in some slick mansion in Chicago.

Why she’d
lied
. . .

“She didn’t really lie,” he told himself as he shot off the exit, weaving in and out of traffic.

Horns blared but he ignored them. Lights went from yellow to red and he just blasted through. He needed to get to the house. Needed to look Sarah in the eyes and have her tell him why.

God, he’d trusted her . . .

He knew better than to trust people. He’d assumed she was on the run from something, but he hadn’t figured she was
married
.

A married woman.

A thief.

He slowed to take the turn and as he did, he caught sight of a familiar head of hair. Sarah—hotfooting it down the sidewalk, heading away from him, with a bag slung over her back and a bag rolling along behind her. Leaving.

She sure as hell wasn’t leaving.

And not because of the fucking money he’d get once he made the call to her husband.
Husband.

Quinn wanted answers, damn it. He had to have them. A muscle jerked in his jaw and he was having a hard time breathing—felt like he had a chain wrapped around his chest, drawing tighter and tighter, trying to choke the life out of him.

He started to speed up, but then he made himself stop. He needed a few minutes. It was pretty obvious she was leaving, and for good, so he’d just follow her, see where she was planning on going. Give himself a little bit of time to settle.

Get himself under control so when he confronted her, she wouldn’t have any clue about the huge, gaping hole she’d just put in his heart.

YOU can’t run forever
.

She hadn’t wanted to run forever, but the one chance she had at stopping kept eluding her.

The words chased her as she made her way to the bus station. Chased her, haunted her, mocked her.

Even with those words echoing in her head, even with the memory of Quinn’s face with those somber, quiet eyes, she managed to get to the bus station without breaking down.

She got through the ticket line without breaking.

She even managed to hold it together for the first few minutes as she paced in endless circles, watching the clock tick away the minutes. But then, as the hour hand began to creep closer to the
3,
it got harder and harder to hold the tears back.

They burned her eyes, lodged in her throat, threatened to choke her, and finally, she couldn’t fight it anymore. Dashing into the bathroom, she locked herself in a stall and broke down. Harsh, ugly sobs tore from her throat.

The tears blinded her. The pain deafened her. Lost in misery, minutes ticked away and by the time the storm of grief began to ease, her throat was sore, her eyes burned, and her head pounded.

She slipped out of the stall and hoped nobody had come in while she was indulging in her breakdown. Her hopes were dashed as a woman slipped out of the stall next to hers.

Studiously ignoring the other woman, Sara made her way to the sink, rolling her little carry-on behind her. The strap of her duffel was cutting into her skin, but she wasn’t about to take it off. She’d had one stolen before and if she hadn’t already learned the lesson of keeping her cash on her body, she might have been up a creek.

With a flick of her wrists, she turned on the tap and bent over the sink, splashing cold water in her face. A quick glance in the mirror told her that the water hadn’t done much to help, but at least there weren’t dried tear tracks on her face now.

She braced her hands on the sink and stared at her reflection. Red-rimmed, unhappy eyes stared back at her. Her mouth was unsmiling, her face was paler than normal. Her hair, that nondescript, drab brown, fell into her face and she shoved it back, fighting a wave of helpless anger.

She looked pretty much like shit.

Fitting, since that was precisely how she felt.

The phone in her pocket vibrated and she heard the faint chime that signaled a text message. Pulling it out, she read the brief message:
Where are you
?

She keyed in a response.
Bus station.
Then she closed the phone and tucked it away. She’d have to get a new one soon—it was the first thing she should have done, but she hadn’t wanted to take the time today.

God only knew what kind of
problems
were behind this latest move and she had already lingered too long.

“God, I don’t want to do this,” she muttered, her voice raspy.

She wanted another option, wanted another way out, but she just didn’t know if there was one. She was so fucking
tired
of running. She just didn’t have much choice.

Theresa’s words started to circle around in her mind.

Lost inside a problem.
That definitely described Sara’s current state. Lost inside a problem with no viable solution in sight.

When this whole mess had started, some of the other options hadn’t seemed feasible. She’d been running high on worry and adrenaline and hadn’t taken the time she needed to slow down and evaluate things as well as she should have.

Now she felt like she’d travelled so far down the road that going back didn’t seem possible. If it was just her, it might be different—

The phone in her pocket chimed again, and with a grimace, Sara pulled it out and flipped it open. She read the message with narrowed eyes.
Why haven’t you gotten a new phone?

Been a little bit busy hauling tail to get out of town.
Feeling more than a little bitchy, she almost added in something else, but she stopped herself before she could do so. Being a bitch wasn’t going to change things. Pining over what she wasn’t meant to have wasn’t going to change things.

Of course, being stoic and just dealing with things as they came wasn’t changing things, either.