“I can’t stop worrying about you.” She breathes in slowly, the air trembling in her every word. “But you’re really not going to listen, are you?”
“I can’t afford to. Not this time.”
“Then you’d better promise I’ll see you again. Promise me, Fel, so I can yell at you for whatever dumb, dangerous thing you’re about to do.”
I can’t promise that.
All I can do is pull her into a ferocious hug, ignoring the emergency brake poking my ribs between us to squeeze her so close.
My cousin.
My friend.
Whatever happens next, she’ll make sure my other friends—Libby, Clarissa, Haley, even the guys—understand.
“I have to come back for Shrub, right? Can you check on him the next day or two for me?” I ask, fighting a smile as I throw my thumb back to point at the drowsy pup in the back.
Slowly, she nods and gives me a pinky. Just like when we were little, I take it with mine, making the holy, unbreakable pinky swear promise.
It doesn’t change the tears in my eyes as I let her go and give her a gentle shove out of the car.
Once I watch her moving, tumbling into her husband’s arms, I reverse the station wagon and back out of the driveway quickly, pointing my little car at the highway.
The long, slow road eventually leads off the paved blacktop and into the valley, where the shapes of construction equipment and buildings in progress hulk against the dark. It nearly obscures the worn dirt track leading to the airstrip that used to be my father’s favorite place to spend his mornings.
Just a dusty mess now.
There’s not even a proper tower anymore, and the dry red earth has blown over the cracked tarmac until it’s barely visible. Part of me thinks of the bumpy landing Paisley’s going to have, and I can’t help a flash of vicious pleasure.
But I’ve got to focus.
I have work to do.
After concealing one of the gold bars in the tufts of dry grass growing all along the edge of the tarmac, I get back in the station wagon and send a single text with a pic attached.
The gold gleams bright like fire in my phone’s camera flash.
Want the rest? I text. Let’s play scavenger hunt. Find this piece and then find me.
Not that she’ll have to look hard.
My phone lights up in minutes with a response that I can hear in her lisping, cruel tones, Well, well, well. Well, well, WELL, you magnificent, two-faced, lying little bitch!
I’m speeding to The Nest with every ounce of blood in my veins icing over.
For the first time in my life, I won’t be happy to go to work today in those lovely walls.
The place that’s always come first in my life hits different today.
Unless a miracle happens—and when do they ever?—my quaint little café is about to become my last stand.
22
Lead Into Gold (Alaska)
When I wake up, I can’t remember where the hell I am.
Trying to focus through blinding pain feels harder than pushing a truck through solid mud.
The last thing I remember is looking for Eli—Eli—and then passing out in such brutal tension and exhaustion that it’s a fight to get my bearings. High-key adrenaline fools my body into thinking I’m waking up somewhere I haven’t been in a long time.
An active combat zone.
Sand in the air, in my nose, in my lungs, the bright sun beating down and baking me inside my gear. Hard-charging across a line anyone else would’ve abandoned a long time ago to push, push, and push again because there’s no option but to go home victorious or return in a body bag.
Fuck.
I almost roll out of bed and dive for a weapon I haven’t held in years.
Before I realize I’m in the cabin at Charming Inn. In Heart’s Edge. In Montana.
Far away from any mission, far from any battle solved by good marksmanship and cold resolve.
That doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I haven’t been fighting all night.
Fighting for my son.
Clawing at my soul.
It’s morning now, harsh light flooding in to accuse me as it pours through the tall windows, demanding to know why I’m still in bed when Eli’s still out there somewhere.
Practically alone. Afraid. Waiting. Suffering.
I’m up in one swift, groaning jerk that makes me wince.
Everything hurts, especially the bruises and scrapes from fumbling around in the dark out there, but I don’t care. Rubbing the back of my sore neck, I stand, only to realize something else.
I woke up alone.
No Felicity curled up next to me, clinging close in that way she has where she hooks a leg over mine in her sleep like she’s afraid I’ll slip away if she doesn’t hold on.
Frowning, I stride into the hall, then the living room.
“Fliss?” I call.
Nothing.
Not even a sign of rumpled blankets on the sofa in case she decided to sleep there to give me space. And when I look outside, it’s empty too.
Her station wagon’s gone.
Not good.
Then there’s the dead giveaway that tells me something’s fucked in no uncertain terms.
Shrub. Also gone.
The Pekingese’s carrier disappeared, along with his fuzzy dog bed, his toys, his food and water dishes. That, more than even the absence of the little carry bag she keeps her clothing and personal effects in, tells me all I need to know.
She’s gone.
Not just for the day.
I don’t know if I blame her, not after how cold and withdrawn and thrashed I was last night. I could pin it on shock, but I know the truth.
Some of it was my own conflicted feelings.
I don’t know if Eli’s lost in the woods thanks to bad luck and a flash bad decision by a young mind.
Is he innocently lost, or is he another casualty of Fliss’ demon chickens coming home to roost?
Is he paying the price for my dumbass sticking my nose where it didn’t belong?
I thought I could. Safely.
I thought I was ready for anything, from random acts of fate to facing whatever hellish drug syndicate is chasing her down.
I shouldn’t punish Fliss for my own overconfidence.
But I goddamned well can’t let go of this simmering, brewing feeling, either, and it’s confusing the hell out of me.
Part of me aches for the way she can calm me down, soothe my inner beast, make everything seem so simple, so easy—even when she’s what’s got me agitated.
Hell.
I’ll call her, make sure she’s okay, get that worry off my mind before I hit the trail to have as much daylight as possible for the search.
While I chug another glass of water, I hit her contact on my cell and wait for the pickup.
Nothing.
Just her cheerful sounding voicemail, then dead air.
I try again.
Again.
And again with an increasing anger that builds up inside me till I’m stabbing at the phone like I want the screen to break. I can’t even make myself say a damned word to that sweet recording when my voice chokes up in this hot ball of fury inside my throat.
“Dammit, where are you?” I snarl to the universe.
My gut throbs like it’s just taken a knife.
I’m not angry at her.
I don’t blame her for this torture.