We wait . . . wait . . . He moves away and my brain goes fuzzy.
I turn my head toward Griff, rest my cheek against his shoulder, and feel everything in me come down one notch and then another. I close my eyes and we stay put, listening. The SD micro card’s case is digging into my side and I let it, hoping the discomfort will give me something else to concentrate on beyond the fact that Hart is hunting me.
And Carson is involved.
And dead.
We give it twenty minutes before crawling toward the opening again. Griff goes first, waiting just beyond the line of sunshine as he listens. Finally, he looks at me. “Ready to go?”
“God, yes.”
We crawl out from the trailer and then scoot to the opening underneath the porch. Griff struggles to his feet, then offers me his forearm, drags me upright. I squint in the sudden sunlight and check my pockets again. The case is still there.
“That sucked,” I say and Griff laughs. He shakes dirt from his clothes, dashes one forearm over his head before turning to me. I’ve banged off most of the spiderwebs, but Griff keeps checking and checking me like he’s convinced I missed something.
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “I’m okay.”
Griff finally looks at me. “I’m not.”
He touches his fingertips to my stomach and I look down. My T-shirt’s torn and bloody. I examine the skin underneath, discovering two long, thin scrapes. I must’ve cut myself on that chain link fence.
Griff curves one bandaged hand against my cheek, and for an instant, I see Alex in him. It’s in the way he’s tired, beaten-down. I know it because I feel it too.
“What are we going to do?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Griff looks at me then looks away. He’s waiting for me to say something and I have nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have pocketfuls of apologies, an entire lungful of excuses, a handful of enough bravery to say, “I don’t have that answer, but I do know this: If every moment is a potential Big Moment, then this one’s mine. I want you.”
Griff stares at me in a way that should make me back down and I don’t. I’ve backed down too much to do it anymore. “I wanted you even when I couldn’t say the words, Griff—especially when I couldn’t say the words because they were too big and I didn’t know how. I want you.”
I swallow and taste tears. Now would be a really great time for him to say something. Anything.
And he’s still staring at me.
Until he jerks, blinks. “I want you too,” Griff says. “For what you are and what you will be.”
I stuff down a hysterical laugh—or was it a sob? Either way, my arms are around his neck and his arms are around my waist, and when Griff’s mouth meets mine, I know there’s no getting over this and I’m glad, grateful, because this is the boy who saw me when no one saw me, who knew I had good in me when I refused to believe it.
His hands frame my face, and panting, we break apart. “Text Bren, okay?” he whispers.
I nod, already reaching for my phone.
“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Griff tangles his bandaged fingers in mine and we dart between the trailers, casting one quick glance down the street before bolting for the abandoned field. The setting sun has turned the weeds to gold and we’re running hard, but my brain’s going even faster. With this information, I could leverage myself against Looking Glass. Norcut and Hart could take me down, but I could take them too. They wouldn’t dare risk it. All I have to do now is return the money—or whatever’s left of it—and we can call it even.
I’ll make them call it even.
Satisfaction makes me run faster. We explode from the grass, sneakers hitting the pavement, just in time to see Bren’s car approaching us. It’s coming fast.
Is something wrong?
I squint. The shape . . . the shape is wrong. That’s not Bren’s car.
Click.
I go cold and Griff’s hand tightens. There’s only one sound in the world like that: a gun. Slowly, we both turn, watch a figure push up from the ground and the thickening shadows.
“Do not move,” it says. Orange sunlight slants through the trees, hitting his shoulders . . . his face . . . his pistol.
“You drove me to Looking Glass,” I say.
“Turn around,” he says.
We do. A black BMW purrs toward us and I have to struggle not to sink to my knees. Every last bit of my energy is gone. That’s not a town car, but it’s close enough. Looking Glass always liked their shiny, black vehicles.
The car pulls to a stop a few feet from me and I watch the door open. The driver stands up, walks toward us.
Dark suit. Dark sunglasses.
He pulls them down with a single finger and an animal howl fights into my mouth. It’s not Hart.
It’s Michael.
40
“Hello, daughter.”
I take a step back and cold metal presses against my skull.
“Don’t even think about it,” the guy says, nudging me forward again.