A second, much closer screech hits my ears as a small black car whips around the corner. The driver is young, maybe twenty, and his face seems familiar. My first thought, which makes no sense, is: Unfair. He’s even cuter than he used to be.
The guy flings the passenger-side door open, nearly clipping my leg. “Get in, Anna. They’re coming back around the block!”
“Do I know you? I think—”
“Get the hell in the car, Anna! They’ve shot Porter.”
Get in, Anna! It’s Aaron—oh my God, Pa!
I pile into the car and he heads across the lot, bouncing off the curb just a few feet away from where the gray sedan exited, turning the wrong way into a one-way alley. Thankfully, there’s no traffic and we make it to the intersection, where he hangs a sharp right onto Georgia Avenue. An ambulance whizzes past in the opposite direction.
Aaron who?
But Molly is too frantic to answer.
He punches the phone button on the car’s communications console and says, “Call Sam.”
A few seconds later, Sam—an older man, judging from the voice—says, “Aaron? You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Porter was shot, though.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sam says. He doesn’t sound surprised, however. Worried. Maybe a little annoyed, but almost like he expected this news.
I stare at Aaron as they talk, mentally thumbing through the scattered Molly files in my head, which are far too new to be neatly organized. He has a distinctive profile, the nose a bit long, but somehow it fits his face. Above-average height, broad shouldered, dark-reddish-brown hair. Jeans. A black windbreaker over a deep-green shirt. The color brings out the greenish flecks in his hazel eyes, which keep darting between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.
“At least he’s alive,” Aaron says. “Got him in the shoulder. Drive-by. Two men, gray or silver Ford . . . Focus, I think?”
“Any idea on the year?”
“Late model, 2017 or ’18, I’d say. Headed north on Georgia Avenue. One white, one Latino, but I don’t think either of them was Lucas. He’s moved up in the world . . . guess he can contract out his dirty work on occasion. Ambulance should take Porter to Holy Cross.”
“Heading there now. I’ll call this in to Daniel. Son of a bitch.”
“Sam? Just so you know, the girl is with me.”
A pause. “You think that’s wise?”
Aaron gives me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. “They shot at her, too, Sam. Something’s up.”
“Keep me posted.”
The connection ends, and without the distraction of their conversation, Molly’s pain is front and center.
“You said Porter is okay? How do you know?”
Aaron Whoever glances at me again. “I called an ambulance five minutes ago. They’ll get to him in time.”
It’s not just his face that’s familiar. His voice is familiar too, like I’ve heard it myself, not like something from Molly’s memory. I can’t pin it down, however.
I try to focus and tap into the few memories of Molly’s that are available. Quinn. His last name is Quinn. Molly had a crush on him, which I totally get. He’s borderline gorgeous.
And Molly trusted him. That trust is the only reason I got into the car with a complete stranger—a stranger who is driving much too fast and recklessly for my comfort—rather than doing the sensible thing and running back upstairs to Kelsey’s office when I heard gunfire.
Kelsey.
“We have to go back! What if they go into the building looking for me and—”
“Your doctor is safe. They won’t stick around long enough to go into the building when they hear sirens.”
And how the hell do you know that?
I’m tempted to actually ask the question, but another question that hasn’t fully formed in my head is nagging at me. So I decide to focus on verifying his identity first. Let’s see how he feels about me knowing things I shouldn’t know.
“You’re Aaron. Aaron Quinn, right? You knew Molly. You know Porter. And apparently you know my name already, although I’ve no idea how.”
He nods once as he exits onto 495.
The question that was hanging midbrain finally takes form. It’s been maybe three minutes since I got into the car, and . . .
“Wait a second! You said you called the ambulance five minutes ago?”
Aaron edges the car onto the Beltway. “Yeah. I was watching the building. They were acting suspiciously, so I called 911.”
“But that would mean you called the cops. Not an ambulance. And why were you watching the building in the first place?”
“Like you said, I knew Molly. Plus, Porter is a friend.”
This time when he says Porter’s name the connection in my mind is almost like an audible click. “Oh, God! It was you on the phone!” I reach for the door handle instinctively, even though I know it would be suicide to fling it open on a highway, with cars zipping by on both sides. “You left the message about the van. You left the note at Bartholomew House.”