“About that,” she says, adjusting herself on the bed, causing the giant T-shirt she’s been wearing to sleep (compliments ofthe Thompsons) to slip off one shoulder. I don’t know what it is about me and her shoulders, but it shoots a hot spear of want inside me.
She catches me staring at her shoulder and I don’t even have the decency to look away.
She clears her throat and I meet her eyes. “I think I know where we can go.”
“Where? London? Believe it or not, people in your country actually like me.”
She raises a brow. “Are you basing that on the reception you had at Prince George’s gala?”
“Sure am. Everyone seemed to love me. Except you.”
I said it lightly, but her expression falls and she looks down, smoothing the duvet with her hands.
“So, tell me,” I say quickly, not wanting the moment to stretch. “Where can we go?”
She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She looks young like this. Vulnerable.
“My father,” she says carefully. “As you know, he’s a scientist. What you don’t know is that he used to work for MI6.”
So it runs in the family.
“After my mother and brother died, he took us away from London. Ran away from the grief. Moved us to a tiny private island in British Columbia, Canada, near the border with Washington. He’s still there. He runs a research facility. Ever heard of the Madrona Foundation?”
I shake my head.
“It doesn’t matter. He runs his facility alone, just him and an assistant or two. It would be the perfect place to hide, for now anyway, to take stock of the situation. Think. Being in another country will be helpful, and my father is so isolated where he is. You could fly there without being seen and if Global does findout where you’ve gone, comes after you, well at least we have the Canadian Wall between them and us.”
“Can you trust your father?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says. “It was my choice that we’re kind of no contact, but I know he’d welcome us.”
“You’re willing to stake all of this on that trust?”
She mulls that over, biting her lip. Then she nods and gives me a steady look. “Yes. I’m willing to. He’ll help us. Heowesme.”
I want to ask her what that means but if they’re no contact, that means something went down between them. I can only hope her instincts are sharp right now, not muddled.
“Okay. Then tomorrow I’ll get the money, right before the bank closes. Then we leave.”
“Sounds like we finally have a plan.” Her face looks even more grave. “How is the voice?”
I go still, unable to speak.
“Last night, when you finally fell asleep, it sounded like you were talking to the voice in your dreams,” she goes on.
I feel my cheeks go red. I hate that she could hear that, hate that the voice was getting me even in my sleep. “It’s still there but it’s quiet. Not really giving me any commands, just…reminding me it exists. Whatever it is.”
“Well, there’s a chance that my father might be able to fix that.”
“You said he was a scientist, not a miracle worker.”
A dark look passes over her. “Oh, you’d be surprised at what he’s capable of.” Then she gets out of bed. “Time for coffee,” she says, padding away, and I’m left wondering if we’re about to make a huge mistake.
The next morning, our last morning here, Mia wakes up before I do. I find her standing on the deck, wrapped in a wool blanket, watching another round of snow fall over the lake.
“It’s beautiful,” she says without turning around.
“It is,” I say but I’m looking at her. The snow catches in her hair, melts on her cheeks. Her bruises have faded to pale shadows, and in this light, with her face turned up to the breaking sky, she looks almost peaceful. I move to stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
