Which made Layla bark a laugh and wipe her cheeks with the heel of her hand. If they knew about Zoe, they also knew Abigail had passed. “He meant Fate. Damn, she’s a twisted bitch, but I guess I tricked her . . . and here I am.”
Adam came up beside Talia. “You tricked Fate?”
“Goes by the name Moira,” Layla said, nodding. She glanced around. “Where’s Shadowman?”
“He’s mortal!” Talia’s eyes went wide. “As in flesh and blood. Maybe even angelic. And so worried about you.”
Mortal. That’s what she’d been hoping for. Kicked out of Twilight. Busted.
“He was en route to the Annex building, the northeastern headquarters of the angels,” Adam said, “but he deviated at the river. Landed somewhere near Port Newark. Kev lost him from there.”
“What do you mean lost him ?”
“As in, I don’t know where he is.” Adam lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “He doesn’t exactly keep me updated on all his movements. All I know is he wants to cross into Twilight to find you. Maybe he found another way.”
“But he can’t cross on his own, right?” Layla had an idea where he might be heading. It was the only place she could think of. A dark and lonesome place that suited him well. The place they’d met during her second life. Third time’s a charm.
But not if he was gone before she got there.
“We have no idea what he’s capable of,” Talia said, shrugging. She blinked hard, but her eyes still shone. “No idea what you’re capable of either, it seems. I’m so glad you’re back.”
“In the meantime,” Adam interjected, “we’ve got Rose Petty’s husband here. We were just about to question him as to where she might be heading, what she might do next.”
Rose. Right. From one bitch to another.
Layla’s high crashed. She knew exactly where Shadowman was. Wanted to jump on him and tell him all about her job well done. But, yeah, she had to deal with her devil first, no matter how bad she wanted to dash to the warehouse.
Rose had shredded her heart and made her weak enough to consider suicide when she had just found everything she’d chanced this second life for. Layla had just tricked Fate. She needed to face Rose down, too.
She took a deep breath for energy. “No. That’ll take forever, and I’m in a hurry. I’ve got a better idea.”
Rose had to be quick.
She filled an old plastic bag with foodstuffs from the diner’s shelves. She’d skipped the modern (and busy) truck stop directly off the exit and gone for the place with the old-style gas pumps and the peeling yellow paint instead. The diner smelled of petrified cigarette smoke, grease, and mildew, even though the earth was frozen right outside.
Only a local would come here, and even that person wouldn’t eat.
Potato chips. Mashed packaged chocolate-covered donuts. The cans of tuna would need a handheld can opener. She dug into the drawers to find one, shifting all manner of utensils, and settled for a screwdriver mixed in with the forks.
She needed enough to get her to Macon without any stops. They had to be looking for her by now. She’d been careless in Middleton, so sure that she’d be able to kill Layla with no trouble. She’d been warned about Death, but did she believe it? No. She’d gotten cocky. Lesson learned. And now she had to hide.
Mickey would take her in, and they’d figure out what to do together. Of the two, she knew she had a quicker mind, but he gave her the sense of calm to use it right. Mickey always believed in her. With Mickey, she could do anything.
She grabbed a handful of plastic dinnerware.
Of course, she’d had to kill the fool behind the diner counter. He’d been drinking coffee and watching the news on the TV mounted in the corner when she came in. Went pasty at the sight of her arm. Maybe if he’d worked harder, the place wouldn’t be in such straits. Now he just bled on the floor while morning news anchors chattered on about the weather.
The bags of flour wouldn’t do her any good. Some green beans. Rose made a face. Fine. One can, just in case. Her belly had been making noises for hours now, and she had to mind her food groups.
“Citizens of Middleton can rest easy this morning,” a reporter said, coming over the television. “A recent crime spree has been stopped with the apprehension of escaped convict Mickey Petty.”
Rose’s attention snapped up. Mickey?
She dropped the bag of food. With the strength of her bad hand, she vaulted over the counter to view the TV screen.
Sure enough, her Mickey was handcuffed, led by a crew of police officers to a large black SUV. Her sweetheart’s hair had gone gray and a little thin up top. His face was covered with at least two days of stubble, skin a little saggy at the chin. And those eyes, the ones she loved so very much, were ringed with puffy pink bags of exhaustion and darting in fear.
“The heroine of the hour?” the reporter continued, following the crowd down the street. “A tourist to our small town, Ms. Layla Mathews.”
Layla. The one who played whore to Death. The one who threatened the existence of the gate.