Chapter 3

Nicky's POV

I pay the taxi driver and wait until he's driven out of sight before sprinting down the dirt path leading to the simple one-story house I'd been living in for the past few weeks.

I punched in the code on the lock and swung the door open, stepping inside quickly and relocking the door.

The house is nothing special, and it's really more a place for me to sleep than anything else. The furniture is decent and comfortable. One large couch and an armchair take up the living room. The kitchen has the bare necessities, a refrigerator and a stove, no microwave and one pot and one pan. The bathroom has working plumbing, and that's really all that matters, and then the bedroom has a bed, dresser, and closet, and then whatever else I've thrown around the room.

I make my way quickly to the bedroom and throw open the closet. I pull out the backpack on the floor and then grab the computer off the dresser and shove it inside. I grab a few folded-up sets of clothes and shove them into the backpack along with the computer. I briefly glance around the room and notice nothing else worth taking.

I make my way back into the kitchen and wrench open the cabinet doors under the sink. I pull out several bottles of lighter fluid, the kind used for barbequing, and set to work soaking as much of the house as I can.

This is a normal routine for me. I have to many people looking for me, law enforcement and otherwise, and I can't afford to leave anything anywhere that could potentially lead back to me.

But it's not as if I set fires in the middle of residential areas, or anywhere where they have the potential to continuously burn and destroy other buildings, and other people's lives. Oh, no.

Like all the houses I've chosen to temporarily live in, this one is isolated from anyone else, the area around the house is all dirt, rocks, and concrete, no dead grass, no twigs, nothing for the fire to catch on and spread. The house will burn, but nothing else will.

I dump the last of the lighter fluid in the living room and start for the front door, pausing only to grab a phone off a small table set up next to the door. I turn back around so I'm facing into the house and pull a pack of matches from the backpack.

I light it up and toss it into the house, watching as the living room and kitchen are consumed in flames. I take a step back from the sudden heat and as a final touch, I toss Agent Stevenson's awful hat into the growing flames.

I let a smile make its way onto my face.

I then turn and walk back down the dirt path leading out of here. I make it probably about a half mile from the house before I hear the sirens approaching. They get louder and louder and I watch as the fire trucks come screeching past me, not paying any attention to the girl in the T-shirt, hooded sweater, and ripped up jeans.

I continue walking, no particular destination in mind. I know I've got to rent a car, hitch a ride, or take a bus to get virtually anywhere at this point but I'm not in any hurry. With any luck, I've got a least another couple days before the FBI joins in the manhunt looking for me.

Man, I really do wish I could've stuck around on that plane to see the look on Ryder's face. But since I wish to live a long-ish life, it wasn't in my best interest to stick around.

There's not a doubt in my mind. He would have killed me.

I don't know how he found me when I got on that bus, and if I'm being honest, I don't want to know. But it's not going to happen again. That was just pure luck on his part and a fluke accident on mine. I was clearly being too predictable.

I continue walking until I reach the nearest town. I use to come here to get groceries and anything else I happened to need while staying in that house. Now, I walk to the nearest bus stop and take a seat.

I'll get a ride to a rental car agency and then from there take a train to where ever. I only really use airplanes when I feel I don't have any other choice. I don't particularly relish in having to go through security. It's not as if I'm ever carrying something I shouldn't be, I just don't feel comfortable with it at all. Plus, sometimes I do carry things that most definitely are not allowed on planes.

***

I stare out the window at the passing scenery as the train moves quickly to reach its next stop. It's scheduled to make six stops, and I haven't decided which one I'll be departing on. Though, it's not like I don't have the time to make the decision. The stops are spaced out every few hours.

I get as comfortable as possible in my seat and then rifle through my backpack for my phone. I pull up the internet and see a small article listed about the fire, but it's not that big a deal since there were no bodies found, nobody hurt, and completely contained to the house. Apparently, they're still investigating how the fire got started in the first place.

My phone suddenly starts ringing in my hand, and a number I don't recognize flashes across the screen. Most likely one of those spam calls, so I let it go to the robotic voicemail set up.

My phone rings again after a moment, same number. I frown at the phone and tap the little green button, allowing me to answer it. I put it up to my ear.

"Start counting down."

I freeze up at the tone of voice on the other end. The voice is distorted and robotic and yet so full of venom. It's impossible to tell who's on the other end.

"What?" I finally manage to ask, my voice cracking slightly.

"Surprised? You should have known it wouldn't take us long to catch up with you."

I feel my mouth go dry, but I steady my voice. "Well, it's taken you over four years so far."

Silence. It's quiet for a full minute and I debate hanging up, thinking they've already ended the call.

"You're good with numbers Nicolette. So, tell me, what do think the probability is of you making it out of this alive?"

Practically non-existent. But they don't need to know that.

"Considering I have virtually an endless supply of money at my disposal, I'd say very high."

Silence. And then, "We caught up with you once. We'll do it again."

The call ends and I'm left staring at the phone in my now shaking hands. I take a few deep breaths and tilt my head back, trying to calm myself down so I can think rationally about what I'm going to do next.

For a split second, I'm worried they know exactly where I am. That they've tracked my phone. But as the fog on my mind begins to clear I remember that there's no possible way for them to track my phone . . . but I was also under the impression there was no possible way for them to get my number either.

I hold the phone out at arm's length away from me, held up in between my thumb and pointer finger like it's got some disease and only the most marginal of contact with it will prevent me from catching the disease.

Completely irrational, I know. No one has to tell me this.

Of course, my brain is not thinking rationally at the moment. All it's thinking of is what the call ended on.

Chains. Concrete walls and floors. Blood. And . . . HIM.

I shudder and close my eyes tight as if that'll somehow erase that memory but it doesn't work. So instead I think of what happened after. How I got out of it the first time.

Bright purple, pink, and red hair. Crossbow. 57. JD. 13. 45. 61. 60. 83. 77.

I start repeating those numbers in my head over and over again.

57. 13. 45. 61. 60. 83. 77. 57. 13. 45. 61. 60. 83. 77. 57. 13. 45. 61. 60. 83. 77 . . .

Finally, I calm down enough to the point I'm no longer shaking, and now I'm just pissed off.

I glare at the phone in my hand and then do the only rational thing to do in a moment like this.

I unlatch the window and pitch it out as hard as I can.

Ok, so I know that's not the most rational thing to do, but hey, it makes me feel better.

I sit back in my seat, a happy smile spreading across my face and I lean back, perfectly content with myself.

The train comes to a stop a couple hours later and I decide this is as good a place as any to get off. Plus, if they were in fact, able to track my phone and realized I was on the train, now they won't know which stop I got off on.

I adjust the straps of my backpack on my shoulder and make my way quickly out of the train station, not wanting to stay there longer than necessary.

I can see a sign for a motel a few blocks from the train station, and even though I'd rather get further away from the station, I'm exhausted and figure it wouldn't hurt to spend one night there.

I walk the distance to the motel and into the lobby, stopping at the front desk.

There's an older woman behind the desk and she smiles when she sees me standing in front of her.

"What can I do for you dear?" She asks, her voice soft.

"A room for one, non-smoking, and preferably on the first floor. Just for the night," I tell her.

She moves her gaze over to her computer and types on the keyboard a few times before handing me a key with the room number attached to the keychain.

"There you go," She says cheerfully. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks," I mutter as I quickly make my way to the room.

I unlock the door and step inside, shutting the door and locking it behind me. I flip the light switch on the wall next to me.

The room's nothing fancy. A double bed in the middle, one nightstand on either side, one with a lamp on it and the other with a digital clock. A small dresser with a TV set up on it, and then the bathroom. No closet. Not that I need it anyway.

I toss my backpack on the bed and then sit down next to it, racking a hand through my hair. I make my way into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I stand under the hot water for what feels like forever before shutting it off and stepping out, wrapping myself in a towel.

I dry myself off as much as possible with the exception of hair and slip my glasses back onto my face before I end up crashing into something. And that's not an exaggeration. My eyesight completely sucks.

I make my way back into the bedroom and pull out a large worn out T-shirt, underwear, and a pair of pajama shorts from inside my backpack and slip them on. I use the towel to continue to dry my hair.

I toss the backpack onto the floor next to the bed, but not too far away that I can't get to it if I need to make a fast getaway for whatever reason, and I pull back the covers on the bed.

I flip through some channels on the TV but don't find anything worth watching so I pull out my laptop and look up the article on the house I had burned down.

Pretty much the same as before, nothing added, nothing changed, and no new articles talking about what happened. Soon to be forgotten, just how I wanted it.

Sure the police and firefighters would find out the house hadn't caught fire on its own. Sure they'd launch their own investigation, but it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't find anything worth mentioning to anyone.

I scan through some other news articles, nothing really catching my eye. Puppies rescued from a puppy mill, jewelry store robber caught, plane forced to land because of some unruly passenger, Suspect identified in a murder investigation, and several other news revolving around celebrities and sports.

I shut down my computer and put it back in my backpack. I remove my glasses and place them on the nightstand next to the digital clock on my left and then reach over and switch off the lamp in my right, plunging the room into darkness.