Sick of small-town sympathy for the loss of her boyfriend but aware that her father will object to her plans, Liz Roark pretends she’s going off to school, but intends to head to Chicago and a new life...
It would be hours before they found the note and by then I’d be two hundred miles away, maybe more.
The thought of all that distance squeezed my heart. “You can’t be homesick until you’ve left home,” I lectured myself as I poured half a cup of coffee and filled it to the brim with milk—the way I always drank it. I’d stop at the college and use a familiar ladies room, because after that . . . Well, that was uncharted and frightening territory.
“Don’t worry until you have to.” But in case I ended up squatting in the brush beside a road, I took a roll of toilet paper from the pantry and stuffed it in the brown leather purse my father said reminded him of a horse’s feed bag.
The rain had diminished to a sputtering drizzle when I stepped out onto the porch in a green hooded raincoat with my books cradled against my chest. Buggy gleamed in the graying light like a beacon. I dashed across the sodden lawn, unlocked the door, opened it on squealing hinges, and slid inside.
“About time you got here,” a voice whispered.