“See how pleasant things can be when you cooperate?” Michael grins and I follow him to the car.
We leave Peachtree City by back roads. Michael drives. Martin sits behind me, keeping the gun trained on the back of my head. I try to concentrate on the passing houses and cars instead, but I don’t recognize any of the surroundings. Thanks to the navigation system, I can tell we’re headed south, but beyond that it’s just long stretches of darkness punctured by random porch lights. I have no idea where we’re going, but then the car’s headlights hit a reflective green sign and I have to press both feet into the floorboard. “Are you taking me to the airport?”
Michael makes a left, maneuvering us down a long, paved drive. “Aren’t you the smart one?”
Not nearly smart enough. I can’t think past the whistling in my head. I put both hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together. It’s one thing to drive me somewhere. It’s totally different to fly. Griff won’t find me. By the time he wakes up, I could be halfway across the country.
So what am I going to do? Run for it?
Impractical. We’re at least two miles off the main road and the woods will slow me down. Even if I did reach the road, the likelihood of flagging down a car is pretty much nil so that leaves . . .
Hell if I know.
It’s a small airport—we’re passing mostly private planes, puddle-jumper stuff. Michael drives us to the tarmac’s far end and parks by the very last hangar.
“Get out,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.
I fumble with mine. My fingers have gone numb. All of me has gone numb. Michael keeps one hand on my arm as Martin walks away, heading into the darkened hangar. We follow and my eyes adjust slowly. I can see shapes on either side of us. Boxes? Equipment?
Farther ahead, it’s easier to see what’s waiting under the moonlight: a plane.
I don’t understand. Is Michael escaping for good? If he is, why would he take me with him?
“What do you want?” I ask.
“To talk.”
“About what?” I turn and it’s a mistake. Michael’s in my space now, breathing the same air. He traces one finger along my cheekbone and I struggle not to shudder.
“All this time,” he says softly. “They told you I wanted to kill you, right? That you were mine? That I knew you had the money and I would come for you?”
I nod. I’d forgotten the sound of his voice, how smooth it was, how every word felt like the promise you’d always wanted. He used that voice with addicts looking for a fix and with my mother when she was looking for an escape.
“Norcut and Hart were half right,” Michael continues. He pulls me deeper into the hangar by my elbow. We walk just outside of the moonlight as Martin jogs back and forth ahead of us, readying the plane. “I was coming for you. You are mine. You aren’t just my daughter. You’re my creation, my right hand. But I knew you didn’t have the money.”
“How’s that?”
“Because I did.”
“You have the money?”
He smiles. “Aside from that minor lapse with your sister, I’ve always had the money. I stole it months and months ago—just before my first arrest. Why do you think Norcut was always so quick to keep any appointment with you? Why do you think Carson stayed so close to you and your sister?”
“Because he wanted to arrest you.”
Michael gives me a pitying look. “Or is that just what he told you? I didn’t expect for your sister to find the money, but thankfully, I knew exactly where she would put it so I waited. Then I took it back from your account. I needed to panic them. Fear makes for an easier target and I knew the dear doctor was seriously terrified when she started having my old contacts killed.”
“They were going to kill me over that money.” I take a deep breath, smelling fuel and oil. “If I don’t deliver, they’ll kill Lily and Bren. You have to return it.”
“No, I don’t. By the time I’m finished, there won’t be a Looking Glass. I created it and I can destroy it and they know that. They fear me.”
“You created Looking Glass?”
Michael shrugs. “What did that bitch tell you? That I worked for her? Bay found us clients. Norcut found children with the right skills and Carson handled security. Eventually, Hart became the face of Looking Glass. He has that . . . approachable look people love so much. Hart helped Bay find the right companies to hire us and I test-drove several of our”—Michael grins, his teeth flashing in the moonlight—“sales pitches? You remember that last scam before I was arrested?”
My stomach squeezes. “Yeah, we were asking people for donations and then stealing their credit card information.”
“And it worked beautifully. We took money from the marks and then we took money from the credit card company.”
“You mean you sold the credit card company a solution to a problem you created. They never realized they were paying the people who ripped off their clients in the first place.”