Find a place, some other life …
“I don’t want to be alone,” he said; and it moved her to hear him speak that difficult truth. But others mattered, too. Gideon. Channing. Faircloth.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
But at the motel he said, “Reconsider.” The smile was back, but the recklessness and easy grace were gone. He seemed needful and nervous, and that was the bitter side of loneliness.
“I’m happy for you, Adrian. That you’re letting go.”
“But you won’t come with me?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because you saw me beat those men?”
“No.”
He looked away, stiff-featured. “Do you think I’m a coward? For leaving?”
“I think you’re allowed to move on.”
“Olivet said there were other prisoners with other secrets. What if that’s true? What if there are others suffering as I did?”
“You can’t go back,” Elizabeth said. “And it’s not just the murder warrant. No one will take your word over the warden’s. With the guards in his pocket, he’s unassailable. It’s the genius of what he’s doing.”
“Because prisoners lie and prisoners die.”
“Exactly.”
Adrian flushed, the dark eyes troubled as he watched cars blow past on the dusty road. “Maybe I should kill him.”
“Find a place,” she said. “Make that life.”
His chin dipped, but not in agreement. “No one outside the prison understands how dangerous the warden is. They don’t know what he does or the pleasure he takes in doing it. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that a month from now, or a year. What if Eli was wrong?”
“Even if he was, it hardly matters. Every cop in the state is looking for you, and you need to think that through. If you get picked up for Preston’s murder, you’ll end up in the same prison under the same warden.” He shook his head, but she persisted. “Look at me. Adrian, let me see what I can do. If he’s made mistakes, we might get lucky. Some other prisoner. A guard willing to talk. Be patient. As it happens, I’ve recently met some people in the state police.”
He lifted an eyebrow, and his mouth tilted. “Is that a joke?”
“Maybe.”
There it was again: the smile, the unexpected flutter. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”
“Good.”
“But I’ll wait a day in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Here. This motel.”
“Adrian—”
“It’s a lot of money, Liz. You can have half of it. No commitments. No strings.”
She held the gaze for a lingering moment, then rose to her toes and kissed his cheek.
“That feels like good-bye,” he said.
“That was for luck.” She took his face and kissed him long on the lips. “That’s the good-bye.”
*
The drive out was hard. She told herself he’d be fine, that he’d manage. But, that was only half the problem. She tasted the kiss, the way he’d kissed her back.
“You barely know him, Liz.”
She said it twice, but if knowing was in a kiss, then she knew him pretty well—the shape of his mouth, the softness and small pressures. He was just a man, she told herself, a loose end from the distant past. But her feelings for him had never been that simple. They showed up in dreams, lingered like the taste of his kiss. Even now they worked to confuse her, and that was the thing about childhood emotions: love or hate, anger or desire—they never stayed in the box.
*
It took time to leave the low country and cross the sand hills, heading west. By the time she reached the center of the state, she’d channeled the confusion into a narrow space behind the walls of her chest. It was an old space, and her feelings for Adrian filled it from long practice. Life now was about the children and Crybaby and what remained of her career. So she took a deep breath and sought the calm center that made her such a good cop. Steadiness. Logic. That was the center.
Problem was, she couldn’t find it.
Everything was the kiss and wind and thoughts of her hands on his skin. Adrian didn’t want to stay locked away. She didn’t want him locked away, either.
“Pull yourself together.”
But she couldn’t.
The carousel was turning: Adrian and the kids, Crybaby and the basement. Whom was she kidding when she said life could go back to what it had been?
Herself?
Anyone at all?
When she crossed the city line, she stopped at a strip mall to replace her cell phone. The clerk recognized her face from the papers, but didn’t say anything about it. His finger rose once. His mouth opened and closed.
“I don’t need a smartphone. Cheapest thing you have as long as it calls and texts.”
He set her up with a flip phone made of gray plastic.
“Everything’s the same? Passwords? Voice mail?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re good to go.”
She signed the receipt, returned to the car, and sat beneath blue sky and a pillar of heat. Punching keys, she called voice mail. Seven were from reporters. Two were from Beckett and six more from Dyer.