A woman sat in the seat on the other side of Dieter, juggling her handbag and a rollaboard suitcase.
Flicka said, “A few months later, I packed your clothes and gave them to charity. I thought I was going to die while I did it.”
Dieter leaned toward Flicka. “I would have begged you on my knees to marry me if you’d gotten pregnant,” he whispered, his jaw clenched. “And not just to save my own life after Wulfram found out.”
She snorted, which was all the laughter she could manage through her chest that was tight with wanting to sob. “Yeah, he would have shot you.”
“Bare hands,” Dieter said, his voice very low. “Not a gun. He would have beat me to death with his fists, and I would have let him because I would have deserved it, except that would have meant leaving you alone. I would never have done that.”
Flicka couldn’t answer because her throat was closed up, but she didn’t believe him.
He had left her alone in London.
Completely, utterly alone.
Dieter looked up and surveyed the crowd around them. He whispered to Flicka, “We should get on the plane now.”
“But they’re not boarding yet.”
A line had formed by the ticket counter, and people were marching onto the aerobridge and toward the plane.
Dieter was already standing up beside her. He slung the duffel bag containing their few clothes and her diamond tiara over his shoulder and held out his hand to her. “We need to go now.”
She ignored his hand and stood up, lifting her chin and letting her eyes suck in her tears in the dry, air-conditioned terminal. “Fine.”
He pushed through the crowd, insinuating himself into the business-class line, and opened a space for Flicka to step in front of him.
She did, but only for expediency’s sake.
Behind her, he whispered near her ear, “A security guard saw me and looked at his tablet. He’s conferring with another official right now. They’re by the help desk.”
Flicka knew better than to look that direction. “Why would they be after you?”
“Quentin Sault saw me in the van. They know you’re with me.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Get ready to move, but let’s try to get on the plane.”
“Right.”
“If they arrest me, get on the plane. Go to Nevada. Get a burner phone and call Wulfram.”
“Okay.”
“Take the duffel bag, just in case they come over here. Keep it.”
Flicka felt the bag nudge her arm, and she arranged the strap of the light duffel on her shoulder.
Dieter’s fingers wound in hers, and she let him because she hurt so much and his hand helped.
Seeking comfort in his touch was ridiculous because he was the one who had sliced her open, at least metaphorically.
He moved closer to her, not touching her, but his warmth spread through the thin cloth of her blouse and over her back.
“I didn’t want to trap you. You were so young—”
She waved Gretchen’s red passport over her shoulder without looking back. “You don’t get to use that excuse anymore.”
