The Easy Way Out

41

Scanning a face for micro-expressions and then interpreting them with accuracy had been a lifelong process. The corner of a mouth twitching, the flare of nostrils, a tongue swabbing the inside of a dry mouth, are all subtle signals of intention. The easiest tell is always the eyes. So when the officer from the Judson Police Department strutted from his cruiser to Rachel's car idling on the shoulder of the road, she removed her sunglasses, meeting his eyes with a genial smile, smooth as lemon chiffon.

"Turn off the car, Miss," he said.

While placing one arm of her sunglasses in her mouth she killed the engine.

"License and registration, please." He peered into the back seat.

She reverted to her natural Southern drawl. "How fast was I going, officer?" She tucked her sunglasses onto her head then reached for her shoulder bag.

He glanced inside her bag, his gaze then shifting to the lacy bra trim peeking from her open shirt. When she produced the stolen driver's license, he eyeballed the license, then studied Rachel. She didn't flinch.

"Madison Reilly. This doesn't look like you."

With a disarming giggle, she replied, "Oh, the hair. Just had it cut and colored. You like it?"

"You got your rental agreement, Miss Reilly?"

She sorted through her bag. "Can't think of where I went and put it."

Pushing back the brim of his hat, his authoritarian disposition softened. "You know this vehicle was reported stolen?"

"Wait. What?!" She dropped her jaw. "Stolen?!"

He leaned closer, filling his nostrils with her scent. "You maybe decided to keep it a little longer and maybe forgot to let somebody at the rental office know about that?"

"There's gotta be some mistake."

"They don't get that call, they file a stolen vehicle report. That's how that works."

"Oh, my goodness." She rubbed her brow.

"Happens to lots of folks," he said with a gracious smile. "We'll get this squared away. You just sit tight a minute."

He trudged back toward the police cruiser when the whine of the rental car's engine turned him.

Rachel's car kicked gravel, grabbed asphalt, then streaked away.

The officer raced for his patrol car.

Seven miles down the road, a roaring engine and the whoop-whoop-whoop of police sirens tore a piercing hole through the serenity of the small town as two Judson police cruisers pursued the black sedan around a bend. The sedan's tires squealed when the vehicle fishtailed through the intersection, pedestrians bolting out of the way.

Rachel knew she couldn't outrun the patrol cars so she accelerated then yanked the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels. She whipped the steering wheel violently, sending the back of the car in an arc of smoked rubber across the pavement, executing a tight J-turn. Before the cops could react, she was headed in the opposite direction toward downtown Greenville.

Up ahead at the next intersection, a police cruiser nosed into her lane. She floored it, jerking the wheel hard. The car bounced up onto the sidewalk, churned sod through the green space, and screamed down the street.

Rachel's frantic eyes ping-ponged between the rearview and side-view mirrors and the windshield, her world growing smaller by the minute. The GPS caught her attention, displaying a park up ahead on the left with a circular walkway around a fountain and a wide set of stairs descending toward the river. A sign for Liberty Bridge at Falls Park blurred past her window.