Free The Escape Diaries by Juliet Rosetti

Katz’s
sharp-angled face rose up before me. He was still out there hunting me; I could
feel him. He was smart, determined, and undoubtedly using all the tools at his
disposal: body heat sensors, night-vision goggles, and topographical maps
showing every ridge, rivulet, and rabbit hole within a thirty-mile radius. The
net was probably tightening around me at this very moment.
    Something inside,
a small streak of perverse pride, reared up. However steep the odds against me,
I wasn’t going to let that arrogant city slicker meet his deadline. He was not going to have me in custody by the end of the day. Tomorrow, most likely. But
not today. Tapping into some hidden reservoir of energy, I slogged on.
    I found myself
trampling through an unfamiliar crop, each footstep spuming a spicy fragrance.
It was like stamping through a giant packet of drawer sachet. Lavender! This
was a lavender field! A cozy farmhouse sat at the edge of the field, its
mailbox identifying the place as belonging to The Kucksdorfs. I could
see the Kucksdorfs through a lighted bedroom window—a mother and three
little Kucksdorfs. The kids were in their pajamas, bouncing on the bed, carrying
on with the kind of monkeyshines kids typically use to delay bedtime. A man—probably
Papa Kucksdorf—entered the room carrying a book. The kids scrambled over,
arranging themselves around him on the bed, elbowing one another for better
spots.
    I nearly burst
into tears. Twenty years folded back. It was the Maguire farmhouse and my dad
was telling my brothers and me a bedtime story. Unlike my mom, who preferred to
read us classics like Robin Hood and Treasure Island, Dad spun stories out of his imagination, tales in
which the Maguire kids hunted buried treasure, sword-fought with pirates, and
vanquished dragons.
    My parents gave
me that rarest of experiences: a happy childhood. We lived on a dairy farm
outside a small town called Quail Hollow. It was a wonderful place to grow up.
There were always kittens to cuddle, piglets to raise, eggs to gather. No kids
my age lived nearby so I spent a lot of time with my older brothers, Brendan
and Jimmy, playing football, falling out of trees, and building soapbox cars
out of lawn mower wheels and scrap lumber. When my brothers weren’t attempting
to kill me, they taught me the lessons that would serve me well throughout
life: never tattle, never whine, and never get caught.
                Never
get caught, dummy! Standing here with my nose pressed to the Kucksdorfs’
windows like the Little Match Girl, I was practically begging Katz to swoop in
and nab me. I forced myself to move on.
    Cornfield.
Cornfield. Another cornfield. A full moon rose, silvering the night, making it
easier to navigate. A farm loomed just ahead. Barn, silo, sheds, house,
everything run-down and ramshackle. No lights shone from the house. No dogs
barked. Maybe nobody lived here. Creeping cautiously around the farmyard, I
found the unlocked door of a shed and let myself in. Dark inside, fragrant with
the smell of hay. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness I could make
out haylofts above a wooden floor.
                Leave
now, you moron! This was my brain.
                Feed
me: stomach.
                Not
one step farther: feet.
    Feet won. My legs
Jell-O-ed out from under me and abruptly I was sprawled atop a heap of loose
hay. I explained to my brain that I was just resting and would move on in a
minute. My sweat dried, leaving me clammy and shivering. I untied the hoodie
from around my waist, intending to pull it on, but that required too much
effort. I let it drift over my chest like a blanket.
    I’d changed my
outfit nine times the day Kip took me to meet his mother. I was trying to
strike exactly the right note between too casual (jeans and T-shirt) and trying
too hard (heels and little black dress).
                “What
should I wear?” I asked the Sunday afternoon Kip was presenting me to