“Remember, you call meanytime. And … I could just come with you, check the place out, then leave!”
I get into the car and open the window. “Dad, you’re being unbearable right now. I love you; I’ll be fine. Kiss me goodbye.”
“… but—”
I point to my face aggressively. He frowns and kisses my cheek.
“I’ll call you when I get there.”
I set off, anxious to reach my destination and for these next few weeks to fly by. And hopefully, by then, this will all be over.
The question is,whatwill all be over?
I’m agreeing to be part of a murder, aren’t I?
I could play ignorant, and I know the law well enough to know that would work—how was I supposed to know that the man who “kidnapped” me was also planning a murder?
But I don’t just have to convince the police. I have to convince myself.
My dad is a cop. I’ve grown up around cops. The law was life in my house, and I’m breaking one of the most important laws there is. Taking a person's life is serious, regardless of what they’ve done to deserve it.
But it’s too late now, because I’m pulling up outside the Airbnb, and Gable is leaning against his car, already looking annoyed.
“Does your watch work?” he asks.
“Does your smile work?” I snap. “Quit bitching at me!”
He taps his wrist. “I’d like to get there today, if possible, Gibson.”
“And I’d like to remove your head with a butterknife, but here we are!” I lug my suitcase from the trunk. He doesn’t help; he just looks bored as he watches me struggle. “Don’t worry; I got this. No need to offer a hand or anything.”
“Good. I’m not your chauffeur.”
“God, you’resuchan ass.”
“I’m here to keep you alive, not happy.” He watches me throw the suitcase into his trunk. “Why do you need so much stuff?”
“You said to pack for hot and cold!”
“Yes, not a fucking fashion show.”
I’m going to kill him. I’m not even in the car yet and I’m already close to kicking him in the balls. How am I going to survive a month?
And it just gets worse.
He doesn’t play music in the car, and we argue over that, too. How can someone plan a car journey andnothave music?
“The navigation saysnine hours,” I whimper. “No music for that long? What are we going to do? Talk?”
“Nope, we’re going to sit quietly.”
“For nine hours?”
“Get your laptop out. Write some shit.”
“I can’t type in a moving car. I’ll puke.”
He groans. “Why couldn’t Asher have fallen in love with someone else? A nice, quiet lady with no attitude? A nun?”
