“Route 211 to Route 29. Twenty miles south. Green farmhouse, red barn.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m a lawyer,” she says, a spark of pride returning to her voice. “I remember everything.”
“Good.” I look at her. “Because if I die, you’re the only one who can finish this.”
“You’re not going to die.” The fierceness in her voice surprises me. She’s scared, yes. But she’s not beaten.
“Everyone dies, Cassie.”
By noon, exhaustion is winning. Her eyes keep drifting shut.
“Get some rest,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
She stands, but she sways. I reach out to steady her. My hand grips her arm. It’s a tactical move, but her skin is warm through the sweater, and the contact burns.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
She’s looking at the tear in my shirt. A graze I ignored.
“It’s nothing.”
“Sit down.”
“I need to?—”
“Sit. Down.”
It’s the commanding voice. The lawyer voice. To my surprise, I sit.
She finds the first aid kit. Opens it. Her hands shake slightly, but her movements are precise. She cleans the wound. The sting of alcohol is sharp, grounding.
Her fingers touch my skin. Cool. Soft.
I stop breathing. My body reacts instantly, a traitorous spike of adrenaline and heat that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched like this in years. Not gently. Not without money exchanging hands or blood being spilled.
She pauses. Her hand resting on my shoulder.
“You have scars,” she says quietly. She traces the old bullet wound on my collarbone.
“Hazards of the trade.”
“This one isn’t from a bullet.” She traces the jagged line on my forearm. “Knife?”
“Yes.”
“And this?” Her thumb brushes the burn scar on my hand.
“Mistake.”
She looks at me then. We are six inches apart. The air in the cabin feels too thin. Too hot. I should move. I should check the perimeter. Anything but sit here and let her touch me.
But I don’t move.
