The Great Escape

But the biggest change was her hair. She’d dyed it a harsh coal black. Then, using the directions on the special jar of wax, she’d formed half-a-dozen random dreadlocks that she’d sprayed orange. Now she lined her eyes top and bottom in smudgy black, then clipped in a nose ring. A rebellious eighteen-year-old stared back at her. A girl who looked nothing like a thirty-one-year-old professional lobbyist and runaway bride.

Later, as she passed through the lobby on the way to her car, she pretended not to notice the covert glances of the other lodgers. By the time she’d backed out of her parking place, the tutu skirt was already making the back of her thighs itch. Her boots were uncomfortable, her makeup over the top, but she began to relax.

Viper, the biker girl.

PANDA TOOK A MORNING RUN along the lakefront path. Normally, the beauty of the Chicago skyline cleared his head, but that wasn’t happening today.

Two miles turned into three. Three to four. He swiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his sweat-soaked T-shirt. He was back where he belonged, but after the quiet of Caddo, the city was too loud, too fast.

A pair of weekend idiots on Rollerblades blocked the path ahead of him. He swerved into the grass to pass them, then cut back onto the pavement.

Lucy was a smart woman. She should have seen it coming. But she hadn’t, and that wasn’t his fault. He’d done what he needed to.

Still, he’d hurt enough people in his life, and knowing he’d hurt one more—knowing exactly how far he’d stepped over the line—was something he couldn’t forgive.

A biker sped past. Panda ran faster, wishing he could outrun himself.

Out of nowhere, an explosion ripped through the air. He threw himself off the path and hit the ground. Gravel scraped his chin and dug into his hands. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his ears roared.

Slowly he lifted his head. Looked around.

Not an explosion at all. An old junker of a landscaping truck had backfired.

A dog walker stopped on the path to stare at him. A runner slowed. The truck disappeared, leaving a trail of exhaust hanging over Lake Shore Drive.

Shit. This hadn’t happened to him in years, but two weeks with Lucy Jorik and here he was. Flat on the ground. Dirt in his mouth. Something to remember the next time he tried to forget who he was and where he’d been.

AS THE MILES ROLLED BY, Lucy kept glancing at herself in the mirror, taking in the harsh makeup, dead black hair, and orange dreadlocks. Her mood began to lift. But was she really going to keep going? Even Ted, who was smart about everything, wouldn’t be able to figure this one out. Neither could she, but she loved this feeling of slipping into a new skin.

Before long she left Illinois behind and headed into Michigan. Would Ted ever forgive her? Would her family? Weren’t some things beyond forgiveness?

Near Cadillac, she abandoned the freeway for the secondary roads that led to northwestern Michigan. By evening, she was waiting in line with half a dozen other cars to drive onto the day’s last ferry to Charity Island, a place she’d had difficulty locating on a map. Her muscles were stiff, her eyes scratchy, and her good mood fading. What she was doing was crazy, but if she didn’t follow through, she’d wonder for the rest of her life about Panda and that kiss and why she’d fallen into bed with a virtual stranger two weeks after she’d run out on a man who’d been too good for her. Not an entirely logical reason to make this trip, but she wasn’t exactly in the best shape these days, and it was the best she could do.

The old ferryboat, painted black with highway yellow striping, smelled of mildew, rope, and spent fuel. A dozen passengers boarded with her. One of them, a college kid hauling a backpack, tried to strike up a conversation by asking where she went to school. She told him she’d dropped out of Memphis State and walked away, her heavy combat boots thumping on the deck.

She stayed in the bow for the rest of the trip, watching the island gradually materialize in the fading light. It was shaped like a reclining dog—head at one end, harbor where its belly would be, lighthouse raised like a stubby tail at the other end. The island lay fifteen miles out in Lake Michigan, according to a tourist brochure. It was ten miles long by two miles wide with a year-round population of three hundred, a number that jumped into the thousands during the summer. According to its chamber of commerce, Charity Island offered visitors secluded beaches, pristine woods, fishing and hunting, as well as cross-country skiing and snowmobiling in the winter, but she only cared about finding answers to her questions.