His countenance is angry. “Jesus Christ, Farrington, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! What the hell are you doing here? What’s going on?”
“What am I doing here?” Furious blotches of color and light flash across my eyes. “How do you know where I am!?”
His eyes fill with concern. “Good Jesus, he has your sister.”
I’m not buying it. “How do you know?” I roar.
“The necklace, Farrington—the clover—it’s a GPS tracker.”
I’m stunned silent. Did I hear him correctly? Is he serious? Confusion grips my mind. And a wave of relief so strong it threatens to bring me to my knees.
“I couldn’t just hand you over to the feds with no recourse. I had to know you were safe and I have serious trust issues.” Ryder looks away. “That was a huge violation of your privacy and I’m . . . not sorry because the truth is, I’d do it again.”
I’m not sorry either. Not at all.
At that moment, the phone begins to ring, back next to the grave where I dropped it. Without being asked, Ryder jumps off me fast, and I crawl-scramble to the phone.
I flip it open. “I’m here!”
“Were you followed?” Miguel asks.
“No,” I answer, staring directly at Ryder. “No one followed me.”
“For her sake, I hope you’re right. She’s a very beautiful child.”
I cringe. “I want to know she’s okay.”
“I here, Waychul. When we go home?”
“Lemy, I’m here! I’m going—”
He must have put the phone to her mouth for only a second before taking it back. “The girl is unharmed. For now.”
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything.” I begin to break down in tears. “Just please, don’t hurt her.”
“Keep track of the time. At exactly eight p.m. be at the Toulouse Streetcar stop on the Loyola line. Make sure no police recognize you—if you’re stopped or delayed for any reason, she dies. You get on and sit down at the front of the streetcar when the doors open, and I will let her off the back.”
“How can I know you’ll keep your word and let her off the streetcar?”
“You’ll have to trust me, little dove,” Miguel croons through the phone and hangs up.
Dove is the code name the FBI used for me.
“NO!” I scream into the dead phone.
“Farrington, it’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not! It’s never going to be okay! He has people everywhere.” I pace through the grass, the morning dew drenching my shoes. “My sister and I are going to die because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now no one can make us safe—not the cops or the FBI—not even you. Because he’ll never quit. Miguel will never stop until I’m dead.”
Ryder tunnels through his hiding place and yanks me back through with him. He grips my shoulders, forcing me to look in his eyes. “I will never stop until you’re safe.”
“Why? Why do you care?”
He swallows hard. “Because you are not dying on my watch—and neither is your sister. No fucking way. Do you trust me, Farrington?” He urges me for an answer. “Tell me you trust me.”
My fingers come up and graze the sweet little four leaf clover that hangs around my neck. After Ryder put it on me, the good luck charm quickly became a part of me. For the last few weeks without him, I’ve made a habit of smoothing my fingers over its surface when I’m thinking or need strength or when I think of the man who has become more a part of me than he could ever imagine.
I nod. “A tracker. I should have known.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Farrington.”
“Yes, despite my earlier actions.”
He lets out a lungful of air and looks relieved, as if he expected me to say no.
“I couldn’t figure out how you knew. It seemed like there was only one way you could’ve known.”
“I should’ve told you. About the . . . gift.”
“So, does this make you my guardian angel?”
“No, Farrington. I’m no angel.” He looks away.
“Despite what you believe”—I lay my hands on both sides of his firm, prominent jaw, which clenches at my touch—“I believe you are.”
Chapter Eleven
Ryder
After Farrington tells me Miguel’s instructions, I do a quick Google search about Midsummer Mardi Gras. It looks like it’s a barely toned-down version of the real holiday. There will be plenty of partying in the streets, and the Krewe of OAK even puts on a parade with floats. There’ll still be an abundance of costumes and revelry, but instead of the millions of spectators and participants that gather for the festivities during true Mardi Gras, this mid-year spectacle usually hosts tens of thousands of people that come out from the city. It will start today and continue into tomorrow morning.
“This is what we’re going to do.” I give her two hundred dollar bills. “Get to the Hotel Bourbon on Toulouse Street. It’s close to the streetcar stop. Register under the name of Sarah Lake—they’re not the kind of establishment that will ask for ID, especially since you’re going to drop them the cash and tell them to keep the change.”