"The redacted truth will." She pulls away and sets the soap on the soap dish. "I met you, and we had a spark. I emailed myfamily saying I had car trouble." She narrows her eyes at me and I shrug.
"What? I can't help that part… The dead man's body left evidence."
"And," she says with emphasis, "you brought me to your house because of the storm. We had a spark, we really connected…." I'm starting to catch where she's going.
"And you fell in love and never looked up to take a breath until you realized how long we'd been holed up in this house outside of town…." It could work. "You really think they'll buy that?" I ask her, still not really believing it.
"I think it has to work. Because the alternative is never seeing my family again. And I can't accept that."
I pull her close, and she wraps her arms around my waist. We stand there under the spray, holding each other, and I let my mind turn over the problem. We still have a lot of risks to take, and it's not going to be easy. Hell, it might be impossible. But Riley's right. We have to try.
The idea of watching her go through the emotional pain of never being able to see her family again isn't something I’m willing to walk through.
"We'll make it work," I say quietly. "I'll find a way to get you to that wedding. And I'll be there with you. Not hiding in the shadows."
She kisses me, and I feel the desperation in it, the relief, the overwhelming emotion she's been holding back. I kiss her back, and we stay there under the water until it starts to run cold.
This whole time, I thought the raciest part of this situation was going to be convincing Sal to keep her around. Now I realize we've only started to see the challenging moments.
But if Riley is confident that we can do it, so am I.
And there isn't anything I wouldn’t do for her.
25
RILEY
I've wiped down the kitchen counter three times already, and I'm about to do it a fourth when I force myself to stop and toss the sponge back into the sink. The safehouse is immaculate at this point, every surface scrubbed clean, every pillow on the couch fluffed and arranged just so. I've been alone all day waiting for Rafe to finish overseeing the deliveries, and the waiting has turned me into someone who cleans compulsively just to keep from losing her mind.
The Christmas tree blinks in the corner of the living room, cycling on and off in a rhythm that's started to grate on my nerves hours ago. I walk over to the mantel and adjust the garland for what must be the tenth time today, making sure it drapes evenly across the stone. My fingers smooth out a wrinkle in the fabric, and I step back to examine my work.
Perfect. Everything is perfect. And I still feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin.
Rafe said the shipments would wrap up by late afternoon, and it's well past that now. The sun's already set, and the windowsshow nothing but darkness and the faint glow of distant holiday lights reflecting off fresh snow. He's probably just being thorough, making sure every detail's accounted for before he comes back, but God help me, I'm going mad with worry. I know how much was at stake in this.
And the waiting is killing me.
I move back into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, staring at its contents without really seeing them. There's leftover pasta from last night, a carton of eggs, some vegetables that probably need to be used soon. I close the door without taking anything out and lean against the counter, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface.
It's Christmas Eve. By now, everything should be wrapped up. The toy drive is over. The weapons have to have been delivered. And all of my work has to have held up. I did everything I could possibly do to cut ties between Rafe's illegal activities and Next Gen. But I have no clue what time the banker's dead man's switch is set to go, and if I missed anything at all, it could blow up in my face.
Chewing a nail, I stare at the chipped linoleum flooring and I can't stop second-guessing myself. What if I did miss something—a thread I didn't catch or a connection I didn't sever? What if all my work just made things worse instead of better? It's eating away at me, causing me way more anxiety than it should be.
I push off the counter and walk back into the living room, my eyes drifting to the landline phone sitting on the side table. It's an old-fashioned thing, beige plastic with a coiled cord that tethers it to the wall. I've been circling past it all day, eyeing it every time I walk by, telling myself over and over not to touch it.
Rafe made it clear the day he brought me here that it was too risky to use that phone to call out, and I haven't touched it. But it's Christmas, and I miss my family. And I haven't heard my sister's voice in weeks.
Besides, Rafe and I already have a plan for how we'll handle my return to Buffalo, and he promised me I'd be able to be in my sister's wedding—if she's still planning it. With my disappearance, I wouldn't be surprised if she canceled the whole thing and sent out regrets to every guest. And I hate that for her. I hate the idea that she'd have to postpone her wedding, and I'll never forgive myself if that's the case.
So I sit down on the couch and stare at the phone, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. I'm going home tomorrow. Rafe promised me that. He's going to figure out a way to get me back to Buffalo safely, and I'll see my family again. I just have to wait one more day.
Except I don't think I can wait one more day.
I reach for the phone before I can talk myself out of it. My hand hovers over the receiver for a moment, and then I pick it up and bring it to my ear. The dial tone hums, and my heart starts to pound so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is a bad idea—a terrible idea. But my fingers are already moving, pressing the numbers I've had memorized since I was a kid.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
