“See you in a couple of days. Don’t try to contact me unless there is an emergency. I really hope this evidence hasn’t been found and destroyed. It’s your only hope of getting out of this.” Drake turns and leaves. He opens his car door and then returns with something in his hands. “Here.” He puts a blue cap and a pair of large sunglasses in my hand, and a wide summer hat and sunglasses in Wren’s. “There are pictures of you both all over the news and in every paper. Wear those. Try not to get recognized. If you need to go out into the open, you should try to disguise yourself as a male.”
I snort.
Drake gives me a look.
“Wren couldn’t pass as a male even if she grew an actual mustache. Thanks for these,” I tell him.
“Lie low,” he mutters as he leaves, starting his vehicle and pulling out.
Once he is out of sight, I put my arms around Wren and hug her close to me for a few moments.
“She’s alive,” I tell her. “Sally is still alive.”
“I know.” She sighs. “I can hardly believe it. We have to get our hands on that cellphone. We have to save her,” Wren says against my chest. “They will never allow her to regain consciousness. If she does…”
They will kill her.Neither of us says it out loud.
30
Wren
Grim turns into a quiet suburban neighborhood. My stomach churns as I recognize how close we are to the clinic.
“I’m nervous,” I say, adjusting the oversized sunglasses Drake gave me. The wide-brimmed hat feels awkward on my head. Do people even wear hats like this one in the car? “This feels dangerous. We’re too close to the scene of the crime.”
“The best place to hide is in plain sight,” Grim says, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “They’ll never think to look for us here.”
He turns onto a pretty street, and I scan the area. Every parked car could be security. Every person walking their dog could recognize us.
I heave an internal sigh of relief every time we pass someone and the alarm isn’t sounded. I’m being silly.
Grim pulls into a driveway and parks right in front of the garage.
The house has definitely seen better days. The paint is faded and peeling. A few shingles are missing from the roof. At least someone’s been taking care of the yard. The grass was recently mowed, and the flowerbeds look like they were turned, with dark soil showing where weeds have been pulled. They’re sparse but neat.
Grim cuts the engine and sits there for a moment.
“I hope he’s here,” he mutters. “Although I do have a Plan B.”
“Who is he?” I ask, looking at the house with growing curiosity. “Whose house is this?”
“Falkor.”
The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it. I decide to drop it because I’ll soon find out.
“Let’s go,” Grim says.
We walk up the cracked concrete path to the front door. Grim pulls off his cap and sunglasses, and I watch as his expression hardens.
I follow his lead, removing my own disguise.
Grim knocks on the door, and I hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
He knocks again, harder this time, and I find myself praying that Falkor is home. That he’ll help us.
The door swings open on the second knock, and there he is. Falkor breaks into a broad smile the moment he sees Grim, and relief floods through me. It’s the old male Grim brought in last week… or was it the week before? It’s hard to say since I see so many people on a weekly basis.
