Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver

most people had already reached their destinations. The bell over the door remained silent, and the buzz of conversation had been replaced by the drone of a small television behind the counter.

      Remy knew he could allow himself another five minutes tops before he would have to move on. Although his stomach was growling audibly, the coins he’d found on the floor of the phone booth wouldn’t stretch to buy him dinner. He would have preferred to stay here long enough for his feet to warm up past the numb stage, but the waitress had been by twice already, eyeing the coffee he’d been nursing, and he didn’t want to risk becoming conspicuous.

      His immediate problem was where to go once he left the diner. Because of Dana, he couldn’t use Half Moon Bay as a base to work from, so his first priority was to find somewhere else to stay. But where? No one could survive in the bush at this time of year, and he sure didn’t have the means to pay for a motel. He had no friends he could count on—the events of the past year had proven that much. If he was lucky he might stumble over a cottage in the area that was empty for the winter…as long as his feet didn’t freeze solid while he was wandering around the bush looking.

      It appeared as if he had to risk going into Hainesborough earlier than he would have wanted. Hopefully, the news of the breakout would have died down by now. He could find shelter in his office or in the construction trailer in the yard. It had been two days, and the Kingston pen was hundreds of miles from here. Besides, no one would expect to see him—escaped felons generally knew better than to return to the scene of the crime, right?

      Wherever he ended up, he couldn’t count on luck being with him this time. He’d probably used up a lifetime’s quota of luck getting this far. Being in the exercise yard just as the leading edge of the storm had disrupted the power to the electric fence had been a fluke. A one-in-a-million opportunity. Two men had gone over the wall before Remy had fully understood what was happening.

      The decision to follow them had been instinctive. After being a law-abiding citizen for his entire adult life, he had escaped custody without a qualm or a backward glance. Odd, how easily the old skills had come back to him. He wasn’t as agile as he’d been as a juvenile, but he’d known how to avoid detection by sticking to the alleys and back roads. He’d ditched the prison issue jacket and stolen that poor sap Becker’s overcoat. He’d hitched a ride with an out-of-province trucker. Then he’d lied to the innocent woman who had saved his life.

      Damn, he’d already been through this in his mind, he thought, scowling into his cold coffee. He’d do whatever it took. He wasn’t going to leave a legacy of shame for his daughter. Somehow he was going to find a way to prove his innocence.

      He lifted the mug to his lips and drained the last of his coffee, then counted out enough coins to cover it. He slid to the edge of the bench and glanced around the diner, preparing to leave when his gaze was caught by the face on the TV screen.

      It was his mug shot.

      The shock of seeing himself like that kept him motionless for a vital second before his pulse tripped into over-drive. Hunching his shoulders, Remy ducked his head, as if concentrating on fastening the buttons on his coat while he watched the screen out of the corner of his eye.