I dive back in and clamber across the car to the driver’s seat, starting the engine, looking at the mirror. They’re heading toward me. “God, no.”
I slam the car into reverse and hit the gas awkwardly, shooting back, one arm braced on the wheel. I crash into one of them and push his body a few feet back until it smashes into the cop car with an almighty bang. And when I look up to the mirror again, I see him trapped between the trunk of Nath’s car and the hood of the cop car. A trail of blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. “Oh my God,” I breathe, frozen. I’m woken up from my inert state when the other cop appears at the passenger side, and I push myself into the door, swinging my legs round and kicking aimlessly, catching him on the jaw, sending him flying back onto the sidewalk.
I can hear James yelling. Screaming. “Beau, talk to me!”
I frantically search for my cell and take it to my ear with a shaky hand, wedging it between my shoulder and my cheek. “I can’t leave Nath.”
“Drive, Beau. For the love of God, drive. Otto is coming up behind you.”
I look up at the mirror and see a car pull over, Otto getting out.
“Drive!”
The tears come on thick and fast. The heartache. The pain. The anger. I screech away, wiping at my face, sniffing back the tears. “No,” I sob, smacking the wheel repeatedly. “No, no, no.”
“Beau, listen carefully. I need you to head for Midtown. Tell me what street you’re on.”
I carefully glance around, furiously brushing at my eyes to clear my sight. “On Northwest Nineteenth Avenue passing Northwest Sixteenth Street,” I sob.
“Keep going until you get to Northwest North River Drive. Do a left and follow the road. There’s a right turn just past the marina. Pull in there. Goldie’s not far behind you,” he says, just as I see the nose of her car poke out in the traffic before overtaking a few cars, speeding past them and pulling in behind me.
“I see her.”
“Good girl. She’ll bring you to me.” He hangs up, and I grip the steering wheel harder, trying to drive sensibly, my vision foggy. When I reach the end of the road, I take a left as instructed, my eyes looking for the turning past the marina, my frayed nerves obliterated. I see it and peek at my mirror as I take it. Goldie is still close behind. I pull over and get out. My legs are wobbly, and I grab the top of the door to steady myself.
“You’re not going to pass out, are you?” Goldie asks, seizing me and steadying me.
“Where’s James?” I demand, hating having to depend on her to hold me up. “Tell me where the fuck he is.”
Her lips press together. She won’t tell me. She won’t disobey a direct order. “Get in,” she says, depositing me in her car. Then she goes to Nath’s BMW and drives it further down the deserted lane, pulling in past some overgrowth. She’s out of sight for all of ten seconds, and when she emerges, she walks toward me as cool as could be, fastening her jacket.
Then the sky lights up, a fire ball erupting behind her.
62
JAMES
I hear the explosion down the line and push my fist into the steering wheel. “Fuck,” I curse, thumping it repeatedly, so fucking furious with myself for missing so many fucking clues. The moment I parked, clarity struck. Small moments kept coming back to me. Little things. Things that probably would have gone amiss to many. Fuck, I missed them myself. But now?
Now it’s like a cloud of comprehensions has burst above my head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I slip my car into drive and pull out of the side street up the road from Butler’s house. How could I have got it so wrong?
“All sorted,” Goldie says.
“How’s Beau?”
“In shock, I think.”
“Take her back to mine. I’ll meet you there.” I drive home in a haze of fury mixed with worry, because what needs to happen next might be the end of Beau and me.
And no matter what, I can’t let that happen.
I feel like my fucking hands are tied.
Powerless.
When I pull into the underground car park, Goldie is literally holding Beau up as she walks her to the stairwell. I hop out and hurry over, taking over and tucking her in close to my side. “She won’t stop shaking,” she says, opening the door for us. I nod and check Beau. She’s vacant. Hollow.
“Beau, look at me,” I demand, harsher than I should, truly worried.
Her eyes turn up. Expressionless eyes. She’s looking straight through me. I have no idea how to handle this. “Bath,” I say like a chump.
“Is that your answer for everything?” she asks, blinking and moving away. “Fuck me black and blue, have a bath. Get me pregnant, have a bath. My best friend is murdered, have a bath.”
I recoil, injured. “Okay, no bath,” I say quietly.
“I want a bath,” she whimpers, her bottom lip wobbling, her eyes welling. “I want a fucking bath!” She flips out, screaming, and Goldie withdraws, shocked, while I stand like an idiot wondering what the fuck to do. A bath. Give her what she wants, James.
I scoop her up, my heart squeezing when she clings to me, and walk through the doorway. Goldie keeps her distance, trailing a few paces back. “Otto’s boarded up the doors and swept the apartment and building.”
I frown. “Boarded up?”
“Butler drove himself in.”
For fuck’s sake. Hardly a security breach, more a fucking ram raid. Regardless, we need to get out of here. “Get it repaired.”
“Already on it.”
When I get Beau into my apartment, I’m forced to hang back while Goldie runs more checks, and the whole time, Beau cries shallowly, her shoulders jerking. Eventually, we’re allowed to enter, and I take Beau straight to my bathroom and sit her on the toilet seat while I slip my gun on the vanity and run her a bath. She stares blankly at her feet.
“This is all my fault,” she mumbles. “I should never have asked him to dig. I should have left it alone.”
“This is not your fault.”
“It is. All of it.”
I growl and kneel before her. “Stop it.”
“I killed him. And a cop.” She looks at me with glassy, traumatized eyes. “I backed Nath’s car into one of the cops. I’ll be sent to prison.” She shoots up, knocking me back, and starts pacing the bathroom, her hands in her hair. “Our baby will be born in prison.” Swinging around, she finds me, and I see nothing but terror splashed all over her face. “We have to leave.” She marches out of the bathroom, and I follow, my worry multiplying. “Pack your things, we have to go.” She flies into my dressing room and starts pulling down my clothes with one hand, tossing them in a pile behind her. “Where’s your passport?”
“Beau,” I say gently, moving in slowly, warily. “We can’t leave.”
“Stop me.” Drawers are yanked open, my boxers and socks tossed out. “I’ll be dead before I bring my child into this world in a state penitentiary.” She whirls around. “Why aren’t you packing?”
“Because we’re not leaving.”
She laughs. “Of course we’re leaving.” Her arm swings out and points at nothing. “I just killed a cop and drove away.”