"He saw me," I whisper, turning until my mouth is near her neck. "That's the detective from Port Lavaca—he saw me. He's coming."

Morgan doesn't give any sign she's heard me. Instead, she leans forward and presses her hand to the cab driver's shoulder. "I want to go to the historic district."

The driver nods.

I watch her for answers. She squeezes my hand and stares ahead. Face fixed in a smile, but eyes telling a different story—tight, focused.

The taxi turns to Ocala's main street, a thirty mile-an-hour quagmire with stoplights on every corner. Shops line the road, but not real stores. Not things people actually need. Bridal boutiques and wine bars, all upscale southern charm. Evening is still hours off, and the sun beats in full force—pedestrians stay clear, and the streets are mostly deserted.

Something shifts the crutches at my feet. Morgan reaches for a familiar black duffel bag, which she lifts this into her lap, hugging it to her body.

She touches her hand, then points out my window. When I look at her, she nods slowly. I feel like I'm supposed to know what this means, but I don't. Still, I wrap my good foot under the crutches, ready to move.

She presses her palm to the driver's shoulder again. This time, money is between her fingers, little green packet of prestige.

"Stop right here, please. Just pull over and stop, thank you."

Moments pass painfully before he notices the money in his peripheral, then takes it. He counts four fifties, spends another split second to process that data, and pulls into the right lane. Our stop is sudden.

Morgan's door is open before he's fully parked—she climbs out, bag in hand. I struggle to open my door and grab the crutches, and am left making uncomfortable eye contact with the driver as I finally pull myself upright and move.

She's waving at me from across the street, where she stands in front of a rectangular bus—a red city tour, ancient faces peering out the windows. I shuffle to her as traffic on either side of the road stops at the sight of a crippled guy.

Then we're on the bus, my crutches slick on the metal panels of the steps. Morgan's smiling, thanking the bus driver for her patience, and handing over a ten dollar bill. Keep the change.

I'm lowering myself into my seat as the bus kicks into motion, and the movement pushes me back into the hard plastic. I wince as my knee is strained, but land beside Morgan, whose leg is pressed to mine.

She grabs my hand and pulls—I turn to her, and she's staring out the window.

Three police cruisers turn the corner, and lights start flashing. By the time we've pulled past the traffic light, our cab from moments ago is swarmed—one car in front, behind, and beside it. Doors open and officers emerge with guns drawn.

The first real sign of what I've brought upon myself. The manhunt. I've defied authority, given the finger to the State and everything it stands for. Now, it's retribution. Now, this nigh omnipotent fraternity will do what it always does when it's threatened: obliterate the problem. Teach the lesson.

"You're going to get me killed," Morgan says, eyes forward. My hand is still in hers.

"What did I do wrong?" My voice twists on itself; sounds more like I'm whining than I mean to.

She turns to me, blue satellites trained on my pupils. "You didn't do anything wrong, Sean. This is Mr. Banks' fault. No one should have been driving bodies around after the week we've had. But, you're going to need to keep up. You don't exactly blend in with those things." Morgan nods at my crutches and cast.

Something within me sinks, disappointed. There's no good response, so I turn to stare out the windows of the bus.

Morgan withdraws her hand from mine. "I don't mean to make you feel bad. Look, we're really in it right now. This is a manhunt; they're going to set a perimeter and check everyone in it."

"We need to get out of here."

"Here, yes. But we can't leave the city until tomorrow morning."

"That's crazy." I face her, stare at her cheek.

"Cole's body is in the morgue, burnt to shit. I need to be there tomorrow to pretend to be his daughter and sign the cremation papers, while they still think he's the trailer's owner."

"How important can that be?"

Morgan speaks, voice still low and controlled, eyes forward. "If they suspect foul play, they'll look at the body. They'll see the bruises, the ether in his blood. May even figure out he's a dead sheriff. That happens, they'll start unraveling everything. They'll find me, and they'll find Ethan, take him out of the home I made for him. The only way to stop that from happening is to cremate him. The science is too good, otherwise. Can't leave them something to work with."

"Ethan?"

She says nothing, and doesn't need to. The question escaped my mouth before I thought it through. Her son.