She giggled, and Finn found himself smiling in the dark.

“And then we’re right back at square one,” he whispered.

Bonnie snuggled further into his legs, throwing her arm across his knees. It was several minutes before she spoke again.

“How did we end up together? Don’t you think it’s . . . strange?” she mumbled into the blanket. “I mean . . . what are the odds?”

He had asked himself the same thing over and over. But he wasn’t ready to admit that, so he pulled out his mental math book and dusted it off, speaking softly, but impersonally.

“Mathematically speaking, they’re pretty low. But not as low as you might think.” Finn’s mind settled into the comfort of percentages and the odds of certain coincidences with relief, not wanting to linger on thoughts of fate or destiny. He offered Bonnie a few examples of how oddities weren’t really oddities at all when you examined the numbers. It was all true. And it was all bullshit.

Bonnie’s head had grown heavy on his legs and she hadn’t offered up so much as a “hmm” for several minutes. Finn sat up and looked down at her. He’d done it again. Two nights in a row. He talked about numbers and she was instantly asleep. Asleep. In his tiny bed—in Katy’s tiny bed. He sighed and looped his hands under her armpits, pulling her up beside him. It was narrow, but doable. He threw the pink comforter over them and closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore the press of her body against his, willing the numbers in his head to take him away, the way they’d done for Bonnie.

Chapter Ten

THEY LEFT JUST after seven the next morning, before Shayna and her girls were even up. Bonnie thought it would be easier that way, and had shaken Finn awake with a light hand against his shoulder. He’d scared her, shooting up from the bed, the slam and slide of prison doors ringing in his ears, carried over from a dream that visited almost every night.

Finn couldn’t have felt much worse if he had actually woken up to find himself still behind bars. He’d spent the night snuggled up to Bonnie in a glorified Barbie bed, a bed as hard and small as a pink, plastic shoebox, and his back hurt and his hips ached and he had a headache that only sex or black coffee would ease. Since sex wasn’t an option, he got himself ready in a hurry and was out in the Blazer within minutes of rising, hoping for black coffee and unfortunately, still thinking about sex.

Bonnie climbed in beside him and they were off. Off—just long enough to go through a McDonald’s drive thru for coffee, long enough to get half of it in his belly, long enough to be driving along at maximum speed on highway 51, headed toward Cincinnati, when they heard the awful thumping sound that only means one thing. Steering became almost impossible.

The rest of Finn’s coffee landed in his lap as he gripped the wheel and maneuvered the galloping Blazer to the side of the road. He spent an hour changing the tire, thankful that he had a spare, even though the spare was really just a donut, and he would have to stop and buy a new one as soon as possible. The only way to Cincinnati from Portsmouth was on an old highway that wound in and out of little towns, making the going slow and the services limited. The spare got them as far as a town called Winchester, and at that point, Finn was wishing he had a Winchester to put himself out of his misery. Bonnie had been very quiet throughout the long morning, and surprisingly, the silence hadn’t been welcome.

She hadn’t complained or groaned when they’d blown the tire, and she’d stayed beside him while he’d changed it, though he’d barked at her to get back inside the Blazer. She’d ignored him and huddled in a squat as the traffic flew by them, handing him this tool and holding that one, not saying a word. He preferred the Bonnie that told lame jokes about his name and poked and teased him, non-stop. This Bonnie made him think of the girl perched on the bridge, surrounded by mist.

They were in Winchester for two hours, awaiting service. The tire cost $200, and he and Bonnie fought about who should pay for it, resulting in a few stares and unwanted attention, reminding him again about the fact that the police were looking for them. Looking for her. Because they believed he had “taken” her. But maybe the people in the service station just stared because his crotch was stained with coffee, and his hands were smeared with grease. Nobody approached them, though, and in the end, Finn let Bonnie pay cash for the tire so he wouldn’t have to show his ID or hand over his credit card with his very memorable name engraved along the bottom.

When they were on the road again, he reminded her that when they reached Cincinnati, she had to call her gran. The longer they let things lie, the worse it would get for both of them. Especially him. She just nodded, but didn’t commit to anything, and Finn resisted the urge to scream. Her moody silence was killing him. And scaring him. He reached for the radio and flipped it on, needing something, anything to occupy his thoughts.

“The tattoo on your hand. The five dots. What does it mean?” Bonnie asked, her eyes drawn to his hand by his sudden motion. He flipped off the radio once again.

“If you connect the four outer dots, they make a square. See?” he held out his hand so she could see what he meant.

She nodded, her eyes on the dots. “Yeah?”

“That represents a cage.”

“And the dot inside?” Bonnie asked.

“The man in the cage,” he answered stiffly. “You’ll see a lot of guys who’ve served time with this tattoo. But I actually wanted to get this one.” Finn smiled humorlessly and felt the slice of nausea in his stomach that always accompanied thoughts of his other tattoos.