Nowhere to Run. Nancy Bush

doesn’t feel like anyone lives here.”

      He assessed her silently for a few moments, then said, “I just moved here and I don’t have a lot of stuff.”

      “Where’d you come from?”

      “Canada,” he said.

      “Canada,” she repeated with an edge to her voice. “You don’t sound Canadian.”

      “Yeah? Well, I’ve been oot and aboot all day, eh? That good enough for you?”

      She almost laughed. Hysterical laughter, for certain, but the irked look on his face was almost comical. Almost. “Not really.”

      “I didn’t say I was Canadian. I’ve just been living in British Columbia a while, that’s all. I’m a fishing guide.”

      “Really?”

      “Really. What are you, besides a fugitive?”

      “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then asked, “You have a television?”

      “Basic cable. In my bedroom.”

      “Can you walk?” she asked. She hadn’t bound his feet.

      “You want me to come watch TV with you?”

      “Just the news.”

      They stared at each other another moment or two, then he got awkwardly to his feet, carrying the chair on his back as Liv preceded him across the living room toward the west end of the house. Directly ahead was a bathroom and there were bedrooms to the right and left of a short hallway. She could see the television in the bedroom to the right—the room toward the rear of the house—and headed that way. Auggie followed after her, banging the chair into the wall several times and swearing softly in the process.

      By the time he’d slammed his chair down near the door and sat upon it and Liv had perched on the end of the bed, it was five forty-five. Had it really only been hours since the attack?

      The remote was tossed on the bed beside her. Liv snatched it up and hit the POWER button. The Channel Seven news came up and it was the weather. They both watched in silence as more sunshine was predicted, and more, and more. “It’s been a beautiful week so far and there’s more to come,” the weatherman said with a smile.

      “Beautiful week,” Liv repeated as they went to commercial, her voice breaking. She wanted to lie down on his bed and bury her face in the covers and never come up.

      “What started this?” Auggie asked her, a note of concern entering his voice, which nearly did her in.

      She turned down the volume but kept her gaze on the commercial—something about being ultra-fit with the use of a “miracle product”—but her thoughts were far removed. At length, she asked him, “Do you know about what happened at Zuma today?”

      A pause. “Someone shot up the place,” he said carefully.

      “I was out to lunch, literally . . . but I came back and they were all dead, dying, injured, shot. . . .” She looked over at him and saw he was staring at the .38 she’d laid on the bed beside her. “It wasn’t this gun. This one hasn’t even been fired . . . yet. I just went home and got it and then I ran out.”

      “You work there.”

      “I’m the missing employee.”

      “You should call the police,” he said immediately. “If what you’re saying is true, then—”

      “That’s just it. They won’t believe me. They never believe me.”

      “Never believe you?”

      “I don’t trust them. I don’t like them and I don’t want them.” She shook her head. On a half-laugh, she gestured to his trussed-up state, “And now, it’s too late anyway.”

      “I wouldn’t press charges.”

      “Oh, sure,” she said with a snort of disbelief.

      “Livvie, they’ll help you. They want to get in touch with you.”

      “Of course they do!” she said emphatically. “And they’ll throw me into an interrogation room and try to wring out a confession and use my past against me and before you know it, it’ll all be my fault. And maybe it is anyway!”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You’re not meant to.”

      “What did you mean about ‘my past’?”

      “Nothing!”

      “Well, why the hell did you say it was your fault? I believe you, that you didn’t shoot those people at Zuma,” he added.

      “I didn’t.”

      “Why were they shot? Do you have any idea?”

      She shook her head slowly.

      “You do have an idea, Livvie,” he argued, watching her closely.

      “It’s just Liv . . . please . . . and, yeah, someone’s after me.”

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know, but it’s always been there. I’ve always known it, felt it. I think this—massacre—has something to do with me.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “I can’t explain it. I don’t have any proof. I know you won’t believe me. Why would you? But it’s a feeling I have, and it’s real.” She paused, then added, “I’m not . . . completely nuts.”

      He was studying her in a way that made her extremely uncomfortable. She was about to say something to break the tension, when he said, “We’ll go to the police together. I’ll take you and we’ll tell them—”

      “NO!”

      He drew in a breath and exhaled it slowly. “If you would just—”