“I’m not… you don’t have to come, Erik. It’s not your problem. I’ll give everything back tomorrow. Or send it.”
“Already on my way. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Minutes?“Where are you?” I ask, relief flooding through me.
“Boston.”
“Looking for Casanova?”
“No.”
“Looking for me?”
“Not looking yet, but yes.”
He’s here for me.
My fingertips rub my forehead, and I feel happiness I shouldn’t. “Because of the gun?”
“Arya.” His voice is gruff.
“Sorry.” My voice doesn’t sound sorry. I decide it doesn’t matter. If he drove the hour to Boston, he’s not leaving without me.
Getting away for the day didn’t help at all. If anything, it made me feel worse. It’s only now that Erik’s on his way that I feel better.
* * *
ERIK
The drive takes eight minutes.When I arrive, she sits alone in the Lexus, beautiful enough through the window that it’s surprising no one smashed it to get to her. When I tap the glass, she startles. Then she looks up, sees me, and relaxes, and I get the strangest sensation, like when I walk into the woods after not being there for too long.
The click of the door lock prompts me to open her door. She reaches across to the driver’s side of the car to pop the trunk before she gets out.
When she emerges, her palm slides across my lower chest, and the electricity from her touch drives into me.
Glancing up, she mouths, “Thank you.”
The day’s anger dissipates like fog. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but for the moment, that ceases to matter.
There are five shopping bags in the trunk. For once, she doesn’t wait for me to grab them. Instead, she lines them up on her arm and slaps the trunk shut.
I open the back of the truck, and she sets the bags in a tight row and moves a box next to them to keep them upright. “They can’t get dirty. I have to return this stuff.”
My brow rises. “You need to returneverything?”
“Yes.” Her brow furrows, and she walks to the passenger door like a death-row prisoner on the way to the electric chair. Quiet solemnity is not something I’m used to from her. It’s disquieting.
Once we’re underway and pass the ramps for the interstate, I expect her to ask where we’re going. She doesn’t. It’s not until we reach my uncle Joe’s house that she leans forward and looks out the windshield.
“My uncle’s house,” I say, keying in the security code. “He’s away.”
“Here,” she says, taking a folded bundle of cash and the gun from her purse. There are twenties on the outside of the stack that shouldn’t be there.
I open the console safe and put the gun inside. Before dropping the money in, I unwrap it. A quick count reveals all the money’s there, which raises more questions than it answers. Apparently, she spent some and then replaced it. I put the cash in the safe and lock it.
Joe’s house is remarkable, but Arya doesn’t say a word on that score. Her mind is elsewhere. And far away. I want to pull her back to me, mentally and physically.
Taking her by the hand, I lead her upstairs to the guest room. The smooth lines of the sleigh bed await.
