“The car is already packed,” I said, gesturing to the cardboard boxes visible through the rear window of my sedan.

“Good,” Harris said.

“Get on the interstate immediately.

Do not stop for gas or food until you are fifty miles south of the Franklin County line.”

“I am not planning to stop,” I said.

“Call Detective Sloan the moment you reach your new apartment in Cincinnati,” Harris said, stepping back from the car hood.

“We need to know you are off the road before we move on Caleb.”

I opened the driver’s side door and slid onto the cold vinyl seat.