The next thing she knew, someone was tugging on her elbow. She blinked up at him and for a second mistook the gray hair and worried blue eyes for her father’s.
Phil all but yanked her to her feet. “Time to go.”
Even though there were half a dozen armed men patrolling the parking lot, Phil scanned every shadow as he hurried her to the waiting armored car with the tinted windows. He’d barely slammed the door shut before the car sped off.
Abbie sank into the seat that smelled of cigarette smoke and canned deodorizer and let her heavy head plop against the window. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Phil patted her elbow. “Ten more days, princess. Once the trial’s over, you’ll be safe.”
She tried to draw reassurance from the man who’d become her lifeline in the past year since her camera lens had captured her father’s murder at the hands of his partner. But the soul-deep cold wouldn’t leave. Safe? She didn’t think she’d ever feel safe again. “I can’t.”
“Don’t you want to clear your father’s name? Don’t you want to see Vanderveer pay for his crimes?”
What good was she doing her father like this? “I just want my life back.”
“If Vanderveer is set free, you never will.”
You won’t ever be free from me, Abrielle. I won’t ever let you go. I’ll be in your dreams and in your nightmares. I’ll follow you wherever you go.
Somehow even behind bars Rafe Vanderveer had managed to do just that. Even from behind bars he would kill her. When was the last time she’d slept without having a nightmare about him? When was the last time she’d slept through the night? “Ten days is a long time to stay alive when my protectors keep dying.”
In the dim light from the dashboard Phil’s jaw seemed to sag with the weight of his responsibility. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
But doubt tailed her the three long hours until the car stopped again. It followed her in the shower, where even blistering heat couldn’t loosen the icy horror glued to her skin. It cozied up to her on another too-soft mattress of another motel bed with sheets that were too stiff and a pillow that was too flat.
Phil checked the doors and window, made a call, then slid into the second bed fully dressed. “Try to get some sleep.”
Code phrase for We’ll be moving again in the morning.
She aimed the remote at the television, turned the volume down low and flicked through channels until she landed on West Side Story. As Richard Beymer sang his heart out to Natalie Wood, Abbie relaxed. Then later, as the Sharks and the Jets duked it out, the doubt mutated into a fear so sharp, it cut her breath.
Someone knew. Not just anyone. Someone on the inside. How else could they have found her? The first time was her fault. She’d needed to hear a familiar voice and had called a friend from back home. But not the other two times. She’d trusted Phil. She’d believed he had her best interest at heart.
She craned her head toward the man who’d become a friend since she’d entered the program. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and wrinkled his forehead. Purple moons bruised the skin beneath his eyes. Eyes that were kind and understanding like her father’s. Was experience enough to account for his being alive while three younger men were dead? What reason did he have to betray her?
Even if he hadn’t, someone else had.
He couldn’t keep her safe. No one could. Raphael Vanderveer had too much to lose by letting her live.
WITSEC had taken everything from her, erased her past as if she’d never existed. But it wasn’t enough. Rafe remembered her. He wouldn’t let go. Not when she was the only thing between him and his freedom.
Somehow he’d done this to her and would keep doing it until she was dead. Then the town, the mill, the house, everything that was still part of her fondest memories would be his to abuse and destroy.
If she was to stay alive to avenge her father and make sure his murderer never left prison or touched her beloved town, if she was to have a chance to once again live an ordinary life, she could trust no one.
When Phil’s gentle snores told her he was asleep, she slunk out of bed. No point trying the front door. He’d be up with the first clink of the lock. She stumbled to the bathroom as if she’d just woken up. He’d heard her do that often enough in the past three weeks to think nothing was out of the ordinary.
In the bathroom she checked out the small window. Doable. Like Phil, she’d crawled into bed fully dressed. She’d given up on pajamas after the second attack. She glanced at her feet and wriggled her toes. No shoes. But she couldn’t risk going back for them. Hiding the slide of the window with a flush from the toilet, she took a deep breath. Then, balancing on the seat, she pushed herself onto the sill.
Outside, cold asphalt met her bare soles. Panic snaked up her spine until her teeth chattered. If Phil can’t hide you, what makes you think you have any chance to stay alive on your own? Glancing at the window, she thought of crawling back to her only safety net. A safety net full of holes. No, her best chance to stay alive was on her own.
A thick gray fog wrapped around her like a shield, giving her a skin of courage. Become smoke.
From not far away came the sound of trucks rumbling by on a highway. Like the swish of a lighthouse, the beams of the trucks’ headlights cut starry circles into the dark murk. She couldn’t go home, but she could disappear. All she had to do was hide for ten more days.
With one last look over her shoulder she faded into the mist.
“HEY, HOLLYWOOD, CONGRATULATIONS on your successful hunt.”
Grayson Reed paused at the door of what served as a briefing room in the basement bunker of Seekers, Inc.—also known as the Aerie—surveyed the four men around the conference table through the mirrored lenses of his glasses and copped a superhero pose. “No sweat.”
As Noah Kingsley strode past him toward the octopus of wires attached to the computer system, he jabbed Gray in the ribs with an elbow. “Never any sweat with you.”
Not that his target had made the game of hide-and-seek easy, but once he was cornered, he’d seen that walking out willingly was the wisest of options—especially with the LAPD SWAT team surrounding him. Gray had dealt with bullies often enough to have learned a few tricks. Even scum wanted to believe it deserved respect. Gray let them think he gave them what they wanted; then they gave him what he wanted. He was always one for win-win.
Dominic Skyralov studied the plate of muffins in front of him, chose a lemon-poppy seed and grinned his good-old-boy smile as he peeled the paper. “How was the mother state?”
They all thought Gray was a California boy born and bred. They’d choke on their coffees if he told them he’d lived less than an hour from Wintergreen until he’d graduated from high school—then he’d gone as far away as he could from the butt-end-of-nowhere town that was Echo Falls. Moving away to someplace where no one knew him, where no one had any expectations, had allowed him to reinvent himself. He flashed Skyralov a toothpaste-commercial smile because the blond cowboy expected it. “All sunshine and surf.”
As Kingsley set up the computer for whatever presentation Falconer had planned, he eyed Gray up and down. “What happened to you? The dry cleaner run out of perchloroethylene?”
Gray smoothed the wrinkles on his silk-blend dove-gray blazer. What was the point of buying cheap when suits took such abuse in this line of work? Cheaper to buy top-of-the-line in the long run—not that any of them gave him a break for his good sense. “Red-eye. Couldn’t wait to see you guys, so I didn’t even stop home.”
Skyralov