“And that’s a bad thing, why?” He chuckles which causes me to grin, not because the joke was funny. More so, because we escaped without getting arrested.
At Fourteenth Street, we exit, go above ground, and ping Slate. A few minutes later, he pulls up in a mini-Hummer and waves us over.
After we all climb in, Suds turns around in his seat. “You did good, sugar.”
“Thanks, but it was Hands idea to send us underground. All we did was run.”
Slate eases into traffic and blends in with the flow over the Triboro Bridge. From there, he follows the signs toward Long Island.
Chrissy’s shaking next to me, so I take her hand. “We got this.”
Her cold fingers curl around mine. “I’ve been thinking. Mr. Slate found listening devices in my mom’s apartment. Wouldn’t a judge need to sign off on that shit? And don’t the police need solid evidence to obtain a warrant?”
For a seventeen-year-old, these are great questions and I wish I had answers. “We can discuss it more with your lawyer. For now, we should rest.”
“I can’t afford an attorney.” Her tone implies I’m two fries short of a Happy Meal.
“But your mom can. She’s already retained one of the best.” My conversation in the back seat must spark something in my partner because he picks up his phone and puts it to his ear.
“Quinn? I’m puttin’ you on speaker, so don’t say nothin’ bad about Slate.” My husband chuckles, our driver ignores him, and at Andy’s heavy sigh, Suds laughs out loud.
“We got ourselves in what you might call, a clusterfuck and we need your help to sort it all out.”
“I’m on my way, stay off the airwaves.”
“Copy that.” As he tosses the burner phone out the window, I swivel around to see if we picked up any new tails but all is clear.
By the time we reach the Moses Causeway, I’m convinced we’re safe and face forward where we approach the two Ferris-wheel-like arches of the Great South Bay Bridge. I was expecting to veer toward Fire Island but instead, the Patten man enters Captree State Park.
This time of year, the marina is empty except for a few huge yachts and a wooden fishing boat that bobs on the waves.
“Give us a moment to secure the area.” Slate hops out, followed by Suds.
The frigid damp air causes Chrissy and I to zip up our jackets and when the guys motion us out, I gasp. “Holy shit, if I had known we were taking a cruise, I would’ve dressed warmer.”
Thick clouds cause the last of the November day to fade to black. In darkness, we walk the worn pier and with the help of Suds’ strong arms, jump in the wobbly craft. The motor gurgles and suddenly we’re racing across the water with my hair whipping into my eyes and mouth.
Chrissy taps me on the shoulder, pulls an elastic tie off her wrist, and hands it to me. By the time we reach the dock, I’ve lost all orientation, my hands are numb, and my teeth chatter.
“Upsy-daisy.” Suds lifts the teen out of the boat, then me.
Thank God the blowing clouds allow a shaft of moonlight to outline the footpath, otherwise I would’ve taken a swim. Ahead, the ancient beach house, perched on spindly stilts, must be our destination.
Gingerly, I leave the slippery surface and follow a dark shadow across the sand to a rough railing beside a set of stairs. At the top, the door is held open, and shuts the moment we’re all inside, protected from the wind.
“Wh-What is this place?” Chrissy blows into her hands and stomps her feet.
Slate turns a knob on the stove. As the igniter clicks and blue flames burst to life, Suds answers the girl’s question.
“Oak Island.”
“Like in the reality show?”
“You guessed it. We’re in Canada.” He snickers and she looks at me, like I could possibly control his sense of humor.
“Is he always like this?”
“No. Most the time, he’s worse.” Laughing, I light the oven and within minutes, the kitchen warms.
