When they reached the stairwell landing, and were face to face with her faux forsythia wreath hanging from her door, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. So far, she’d managed not to betray her pain—no grunts, no groans—decreasing the chances he’d hustle her to the emergency room.
Digging out her key from her purse, she wiggled. “You can put me down now.”
Vincent didn’t seem like he wanted to, but he did, steadying her as her legs bore her full weight. Blood smears now marred his arms and neck, reminding her that she was covered in the stuff. She quickly unlocked the door and hurried inside, giving the living room a once over. Millie hadn’t trashed it before leaving, so it looked much the same as it did when Avery left for her morning shift. Worn, used furniture, cheap mementos from their lives resting on a few surfaces. A mug from a restaurant here, a cheap vase with a wooden rose there. No pictures. Nothing to indicate who lived here. It was safe to allow a stranger…an FBI Special Agent into her home.
Vincent closed the door behind them, and then put his hands in his jean pockets, looking around, not hiding his interest. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years. Listen…” She bit her lip. “I really want a shower. Would you mind making your own coffee? It’s in the cupboard over the coffeepot.”
“Sure. You want a cup?”
“No, thank you. Hey, I appreciate the lift up the stairs.” She held his gaze, gave him a nod. “I do.”
“All part of the service.” He adopted a bright smile, teasing.
“Privacy isn’t part of that service?”
He pressed his lips together and averted his gaze. “Not when you could be in shock,” he said. “I’m not leaving your side until I know for sure. What if you slip and fall in the tub? Most accidents occur in the home—”
“I’m fine!”
“Maybe.” He lifted his brows, stepping into the galley kitchen. “You should have let the EMT decide that, but you didn’t, so I’m here.” He opened the cupboard above the coffeepot and pulled down a can of Folgers.
She frowned, folding her arms over her chest. “For how long? You moving in?”
“The time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.” He threw her an easy smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not a long-term kind of guy.”
She could believe it. “More of a love ‘em and leave him, huh?”
He chuckled, filling the coffeepot using the sink. “Take your shower, and then I’ll take you out for lunch. Deal?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s extortion, and I don’t like the idea of—” She shut up, not knowing how to say being naked in the shower with you in my living room unsettles me.
“Of what?” He pulled filters from the cupboard, and stuffed one into the machine’s coffee grounds funnel.
“Forget it.” She pressed her lips together, unwilling to go there.
He glanced at her. “What did I do now?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re like a dog with a bone? No means no. You get that, right?”
He leaned against the counter. “And when, exactly, did you say no to me?”
Point, set, match. He chuckled when she just stood there, eyes narrowed, then waved down the hall, the only other place to go in her apartment. “You do your thing.” Then he pushed the coffee machine’s button, and left the kitchen. He walked into the living room and sat on her worn, Goodwill-purchased couch. “Go. I don’t mind waiting.”
She glanced at her television directly across from him, the one Millie always complained about. “I told you. I don’t have cable.”
He lifted his iPhone. “I’ll check my mail.”
“No Wi-Fi.” She took a step back from him, having run out of excuses, but still not liking that he was in her apartment. “But then, you probably have plenty of data, being a Fed and all.”
“If not, I’m sure the restaurant will have Wi-Fi.” His smile widened.
Lunch. Hmm. “I am hungry. After lunch, though, I have things to do. It’s good-bye.” He nodded, but she didn’t believe him, and decided to devise a plan to ditch him before she headed back to the Greyhound bus station.
“The shower will make you feel better,” he said.
Vincent was doing a good job of acting as if he were a welcomed guest. It irritated the hell out of her, but it was the sympathy she saw on his face that convinced her she was probably making more of this than necessary. She and Vincent did experience something horrible together. They’d survived. Shared trauma was a powerful bond, and he’d already inferred that he was hiding from his peers’ sympathy.
“Fine.” She turned and hurried into her bedroom, gathering her clothes, and the stuff she’d take with her when she left on the bus. So, basically, her ticket, license, and debit card.
Changing her identity, hiding in a tiny town, keeping her head down, nothing she’d done over the last three years had protected her and Millie as she’d hoped. She should have known better. A person got to be one of two things in life, and one of them wasn’t a bystander. That left the role of player or victim, neither of which she had any interest in being, not that life ever cared what she’d wanted. Avery and Millie had been steeped in victimhood for so long their fingers were pruned from it, but her choices had kept them alive, so there was hope of a future not dictated by whether Dante Coppola wanted them dead.
Lifting her face to the shower’s spray, she dreamed of the day when she could feed off something other than hope, when scrubbing off the taint of violence wasn’t in vain. There were things she wanted in life, ambitions, for her and Millie. They weren’t big, like being an astronaut, or a rock star, or physicist, though if Millie wanted those things, Avery would do her best to position her to do so. No, Avery’s ambitions were more about walking to the store without having to look over her shoulder, or maybe have a job that allowed her to afford Disneyland. Millie would love to go there. She wanted little things like that, the things that people took for granted, the memories that people looked back on with fondness. For Avery and Millie, memories carried fear, and were the reason they needed to hide. There was no room for happiness to muscle into their lives, and until things changed, all they had was hope. So, hope would have to suffice.
She lingered in the shower mostly because the hot water did ease her aches and was helping with the swelling, though her jaw still clicked when she opened her mouth. Jim’s sucker punch was no joke. By tomorrow, she’d have a colorful bruise to show for it. The water stung as it washed over her abrasions, but it soothed the long ridge of bruising from when Jim slammed her against the counter. By the time she was soaped and rinsed, she’d logged all her injuries and decided she’d live. She was tired, though, and hungry. Real hungry.
The smells from the restaurant below made her mouth water. The bus ride would be long, so best to have a full belly when she embarked. Unfortunately, the food in her cupboards required cooking, so that meant eating out. No way was she going on the run and cooking. Vincent offered lunch, so she’d take him up on it, and then ditch him afterward.
Leaving the shower still feeling sore, but clean, she wrapped herself in a towel and then stepped into her adjoining bedroom. A wave of disorientation had her looking around. Everything seemed…wrong. Her bedspread was mussed, though Millie could have done that if she’d watched television in here. It would also explain why the nick knacks on her side table weren’t quite where Avery had left them.
None of it matters anymore. Millie was gone. Her days of messing with Avery’s stuff were over until they set up house somewhere else. What mattered was Millie was safe, and soon, Avery would be with her. Until then, she needed to focus on shaking Special Agent Vincent Modena, FBI.