“I didn’t exactly make it easy on you.”
Her head jerks toward me, but then the light goes green and Bren guns it. We turn onto another side street and Bren makes a left and then a right, hands holding the steering wheel hard even as the rest of her shakes. Adrenaline? Or something worse?
“I don’t understand.” I tense through another jerky turn. My own adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me numb. Tingly. “What’s going on?”
“I had to get you out of there.”
“Why?” I watch a shadow flash across Bren’s expression. She knows something, but she isn’t saying. “What changed?”
“Your sister told me what was happening, how they were keeping you from talking to us—lying to us about you. I know your father’s escape is another reason for you to stay, but I disagree. Michael’s people have been spotted in Tennessee. They’re moving north. They’re running, and Dr. Norcut never said a word.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I found out for her.” It’s the first time Griff’s spoken and it squeezes my chest even tighter.
“It makes sense,” Bren continues. “Michael can’t risk sticking around here.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” Bren makes a small huffing noise. “Yes. He thinks so too.”
Bren’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror. She’s looking at Griff, and reluctantly, I turn. He isn’t watching Bren. He’s watching me, and when our eyes meet, he touches one bandaged thumb to his lips.
I know the gesture and it still cracks me open rib by rib. He’s thinking about what to say, and as the silence stretches, I know he doesn’t know where to begin.
That makes two of us.
“What happened to you?” I manage and the words make my stomach sweep low because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
“I had to pay for what I did.”
“The narcing?”
A single nod.
Exactly what I was expecting and it still makes me want to vomit. “Did . . . did he hurt you?” Suddenly, I can’t say Michael’s name. I can’t push it past the thickening in my throat.
Another nod and I have to squeeze both hands together to steady myself.
A smile pushes across Griff’s mouth. “He caught me after I contacted you—a parting gift before he blew town. It could’ve been worse.”
Yeah, it could. Because Griff could be dead and he’s not and the gratefulness flattens my astonishment.
I inhale hard against sudden tears. “How . . . how . . . ?”
“How did he catch me?” Griff looks away, watches the cars we’re passing. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And . . . and your hands?”
Bren glances at me, skin between her eyes knotted. She doesn’t understand what I’m really asking. Doesn’t matter though because he does. Griff holds his palms up so I can see the way the bandages twist across his lifeline . . . or maybe he’s just staring at the backs of his hands. Maybe he can’t believe what he’s seeing either.
“Torn-up wrists,” he says at last. “Second-degree burns on the palms. I lucked out. It could’ve been third-degree.”
But this is bad enough and Michael knew it. Everyone in our neighborhood knows Griff is an artist. He was—is—so talented.
“They’ll heal eventually.” Griff’s hands drop to his lap. “In the meantime, I can do almost everything.”
“Except?”
“Draw.”
Two sharps breaths in and still, still the tears burn my eyes. “Does this mean no more art school?”
Griff’s smile overreaches his face, but there’s nothing real in it, not anymore. “I knew the price, Wick. When I took that job informing on Michael and Joe, I knew what would happen if I got caught. And I paid it.”
We stop at a gas station and switch seats. Griff goes to the front. I go to the back. Bren says just because Looking Glass knows I’m home doesn’t mean everyone else needs to know too, and I totally agree.
I am slightly surprised she thought of it though.
Maybe even a little uneasy.
Definitely sad. My life isn’t the only one that’s changed.
I lie on the floorboard and watch the treetops pass us. We swing right and then left as she winds through the neighborhood, eventually pulling into our driveway. The garage ceiling passes above me as she parks, none of us moving until the door is firmly down.
“It’s okay, Wick,” Bren says, twisting around and putting one hand on my knee. “It’s okay.”
Too bad she doesn’t sound like it is. I climb out of the car, stand in our garage again. There’s my car next to Bren’s, the boxed-up Christmas decorations on my right. It still smells like fresh paint.
Our house always smells like fresh paint.
Griff steps around me, my bag on his shoulder. I wince. “I’ll get it! Your hands—”
He stops, so close I can feel him. Griff’s warm. Being next to him is like lying in a patch of sunshine; I want to curl up and sleep forever.
“I’ve got it,” he says softly and his eyes travel past me, pin to something beyond my shoulder.