FOUND: Found By B.A. Sarvey

Week 4 Word: Found
Word Count 498
Found
by B.A. Sarvey

“They found me,” Rosie gasped. “Gol-darn-it!” All that effort wasted.
Bah! Broken tail light my foot, she thought. They knew. That’s why he pulled her over. And now he was swaggering back to his cruiser with her license. Well, she wasn’t going to wait for what came next. Drat. Took some conniving to get that one. Rosalind James, this one said. Roseanne Dean was the last one. Rosemary John. Rosamunde Jacobs—her favorite. Rose Marie Bruce. “That by which we call a rose, by any other name ….” She muttered.
How many of her sixty-eight years on this earth had been spent evading “them”, peering between the blinds, seldom going out, no trackable routines, moving frequently—furnished apartments only. No large purchases—certainly not a car. This one wasn’t hers. How long would it take the cop to figure that out? Cash paid for everything. No checks or credit cards. No sir-ree. No paper trails. Nothing personal that could be traced back to her. Periodic identity changes. She knew her way around the system. Knew how to obtain documents, too. Gol-darn-it! Well. She’d have to jump through some hoops, but she could get another license. Came in handy as identification. You never knew. Might not otherwise bother with one.
Counting to ten, Rosie gently shifted into “drive” and tapped the gas. By the time the trooper heard gravel crunching, Rosie had hit the roadway, and floored it. He scrambled, tripped. Rosie glanced in her rear view and smirked. He’d never catch her, she thought.
“Hold onto your hat, George!” Rosie whooped.
Wasn’t the first time she’d had to scamper, staying one step ahead of them. What tipped them off? Musta been careless. Can’t be careless. “What’s that George?” The roaring engine filled her head and she missed his comment.
“You can’t afford mistakes,” George repeated, softly, the words now buzzing through her brain.
Rose swatted at the air beside her ear. Like that was going to get rid of George! Good one, Rosie, she thought. Can’t outrun him. Not like that wet-behind-the-ears trooper she’d left in the dust. When she’d first gone on the lam, she’d thought to get away from George. But he stayed with her no matter what she did. Came uninvited in the first place and refused to leave. Oh well. Such was the burden of notoriety. You had these hangers-on.
Now George always ran the show. Whispered in her head. Told her where to go, how long to stay. Reminded her they were watching.
George leaned in close from the empty passenger seat. “Watch the curve ahead, Rosie.”
“Can’t get caught,” she shot back. “Not getting caught.”
Hundred twenty. She felt like a race car driver. Hundred twenty-eight. She thought the Camaro would shake apart. It left the roadway, soared into the brush. She never saw the tree coming. Heard nothing but George’s whisper in her ear. “You did it, Rosie.”
“They won’t get me,” she vowed.
Nothing left behind.
Not even skid marks.

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