Made to Be Broken by Kelley Armstrong Page A

out, a crack made my stomach drop as my foot smacked the brake. I twisted in my seat to look behind me. All was as clear as it had been when I'd shoulder-checked.
    Another sharp rap, clearly now coming from the front end. I whipped around to see Jack, his open palm over the hood as he hobbled across the front of the truck, crutch under his arm.
    He motioned for me to lower the window. I cranked it halfway down. He leaned against my door. Twenty seconds of silence passed.
    "Yes, Jack?" I said finally.
    "Could use a place. Lodge'd be good. I'll pay."
    "You don't have to – "
    "I want to."
    "Okay." I rattled off the price. "That's a room, all activities, breakfast, dinner, snacks, and beverages. Lunch is available for ten more, eight for a picnic basket – "
    "That's fine." If he caught the sarcasm in my recital, he gave no sign. "Probably be two weeks. That okay?"
    I nodded.
    "Gimme five minutes."
    He stumped off. I opened the door to follow and help him pack, then forced myself to close it. Better to take a few minutes and figure out how I was going to swing this past Emma. I'd decided on a story, and was jotting notes in my "Sammi casebook," when Jack rapped on the driver's window. When I looked up, he beckoned me out.
    I rolled the window down. "We have to go, Jack. I have work waiting. If there's a problem – "
    "Gonna drive. Up all night. Should sleep."
    Out of practice with Jack's habit of dropping pronouns – and any other words he deemed nonessential – it took a minute to realize he meant that I'd been up all night so I should get some sleep while he drove.
    "Have you forgotten your broken ankle?" I said.
    "Left foot. Truck's automatic."
    "You aren't driving my truck with a cast on. It may be a piece of crap but – "
    "Out."
    I shifted into reverse. The truck lunged back.
    Jack swore, eyed me, as if trying to figure out how serious I was, then cursed again, slung his bag into the pickup bed, and hobbled to the passenger side.
    I used my real ID at the border. I suspect Jack wasn't thrilled with that, but if I was using my own vehicle, it was silly to pull a fake passport. I presumed his was fake. I didn't take a good look.
    Jack didn't say much on the drive, maybe because I kept the radio cranked up. When I pulled over in Oakville for a washroom break and coffees, I came back to find him in the driver's seat. Arguing would have required energy, and I was asleep before we reached the highway.
    When I woke up, we'd already gone through Toronto and were passing Whitby. I stretched, reached for my coffee, and found it cold and bitter.
    "Got time for breakfast?" Jack asked.
    I checked my watch. Almost eight. I needed to call Emma and explain, but with that explanation came the excuse for being as late as I wanted. I directed him off the highway and made the call.
    I told Emma that Jack was my dad's cousin. When Aunt Evie called the night before, it had been about him, stranded in Buffalo with a broken ankle in the midst of a cross-country job-hunting move. He really needed a place to stay while he recuperated and Aunt Evie thought the lodge would be perfect.
    I'd started worrying about him, stuck in a strange city, and took off last night to pick him up. For most people this might seem odd, but Emma didn't question it from me. She'd only grumbled that she hoped I wasn't being taken advantage of by family that otherwise couldn't be bothered with me. I assured her he was paying and that cheered her up.
    For a name, I went with John. That way, if I slipped and called him Jack, I'd just say that's what family called him.
    We stopped at one of the rare Canadian Denny's, the lot filled with trucks. My dad always said that was the best way to look for food on the road – go where the truckers go. Not true. Truckers go where it's cheap and filling, but he always took me to places like this for breakfast on a road trip, so that's where I instinctively turned in.
    These truckers must have been pretty hungry, because they'd all