A tall figure was walking through the cemetery lot, phone pressed to his ear, scanning cars.
David.
My breath caught.
He was maybe fifty yards away, checking each vehicle.
I slid lower in my seat. The Honda was an ordinary silver sedan, but if he got close enough he would see the license plate. The law firm sticker on the back glass. The little dent above the taillight.
He turned toward me.
I had maybe thirty seconds.
The back exit.
Earlier, some instinct I hadn’t trusted had made me notice the maintenance road and the side gate.
I put the car in gear, headlights off, and rolled forward slowly, using the departing vehicles as cover. David’s head turned at the sound of an engine, but two other cars were leaving through the main exit.
I went the other direction.
David broke into a jog, still talking into his phone.
The moment I cleared the headstones, I hit the gas. Branches scraped along the side of the car. Gravel spat under my tires. Then I was through the unlocked service gate onto a quiet residential street lined with live oaks and old brick ranch houses.
Left at the next intersection.
Then left again.
Then right.
Only when I had three turns between us did I switch on my headlights and try to breathe.
My phone rang. David.
I let it ring out.
Then again.
And again.
On the fourth call I turned the phone face down and drove.
Thirty-four years in Austin had taught me the side streets as well as any map. If I needed to disappear inside the city grid, I could.
The phone stopped.
Then a text.
At a red light, against every instinct, I glanced down.
Emma, please. I know you’re confused. I can explain everything. Just come home. I love you.
Another text came instantly.
We need to talk about the baby.
