“Well, I don’t know.” The old man’s voice isn’t as strong as it used to be. It probably doesn’t help that I woke him up from his afternoon nap. “I should call him and ask him if it’s okay.”
“And how do you expect to do that whenI have his phone?”
Shit. I guess Doc could have a landline. Or Clancy could realize that I’m lying. I have no idea where Doc’s phone is. But this was the only excuse I could think of that Clancy would buy.
“Oh…” Clancy chuckles—more to himself than anything else. “I suppose you’re right. Well, give me just one minute. I’ll get you that address.”
I blow out a breath and sink down onto the narrow bed. The hostel on the edge of downtown isn’t much. But the closet-sized private room was only a hundred bucks, and they let me pay in cash.
Clancy rattles off the address. I write it on the little notepad next to the bed, then squeeze my eyes shut. How do I tell himI’m leaving? That I’m already gone? This job gave me a home. Alife. My only friend. Shit. Gladys goes back to Blakely on Friday. If she gets anywhere near my house—Clancy’s house—she could be putting herself in danger.
“Um, Clancy? There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. Once I drop Doc’s phone off at the Post Office, I need a few days off. Can you have this week’s renters pick up their keys from Milt at the General Store?”
“Well, I guess so. Is everything all right, Nat?”
The concern in his voice shouldn’t affect me this much. But I’m exhausted. My hip is on fire, and the headache currently trying to split my skull in two laughed in the face of the four ibuprofen I took an hour ago.
“It’s fine. Just some family shit—stuff—I need to take care of, and Gladys is visiting her grand-niece in Seattle this week. Otherwise, I’d ask her to help out. You know how much she loves to talk to the guests.”
He chuckles. “That I do. I’ll give Milt a call. You take care now, Nat. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. I’ll…talk to you soon. Thanks.” I hang up and burst into tears. In a few days, I’ll have to send him a text and tell him I’m never coming back. But until then, I can pretend I still have a home.
It’s been eight hours since I left Doc in the hospital. Thirteen since I last saw my house. Thirty-two since I’ve slept. And in that time, I’ve been to Goodwill for clothes and a backpack, grabbed a burger and fries from one of the cheaper local chains, and found the hostel. I’ve got nothing left. Bleeding all over the damn place with a concussion hasn’t helped, I’m sure.
I lock the door and limp out to the front desk. The bored clerk is all too happy to give me directions to the address in West Seattle. It’s three buses and a half-mile walk to the residential neighborhood. There’s no way I can make it without sleep.And the cover of darkness will let me surveil the place without arousing suspicion. I hope.
Back in my tiny room, I set the alarm on the old clock and remove my jeans. A small bit of blood stains the gauze over my hip. I peel the tape back an inch to peer at the wound. Shit. The skin is hot to the touch. Why didn’t I get a first aid kit at the drugstore? I’ll have to pick up some antibiotic cream on my way to Doc’s. And more ibuprofen.
Ishouldhoof it to the bus station and get on the first Greyhound out of here. I could be in Mexico by tomorrow night. The ten thousand dollars sewn into the lining of my duffel bag should last me long enough to disappear.
As I start to drift, I wonder why I’m still fighting. Why I even care if Bastian kills me. Because without Gladys—without Doc—what do I even have to live for?
Five hoursof sleep wasn’t enough. Not even close. I think I have a fever. My body aches. Then again, I got the shit beat out of me less than twenty-four hours ago. I pop a handful of ibuprofen and wash them down with half a bottle of water I bought on the way to the bus stop.
I have to know Doc will be okay. Parker was too much of an idiot to have found me on his own. Bastian must know he’s dead by now. He’ll send the others to Blakely. They’ll talk to the couple who own the marina. Threaten them if need be. Find out that a sea plane disappeared overnight. It won’t be hard for them to track down a name. Or an address.
The oversized sunglasses cover the deep purple bruise on my cheek and my black eye. A brand new baseball cap from thehospital gift shop hides my hair and the butterfly bandages on my forehead.
My hip screams at me with every step. I scored a pair of designer jeans at Goodwill for ten bucks, but the seam presses against the bullet wound. The very swollen bullet wound.
One hour, three buses, and a painful mile of walking later, I peer out of an alleyway between two houses. Doc’s home is right across the street. The porch light is on, but all the windows are dark. He should still be in the hospital. But Bastian won’t know that. Does he have men inside right now? Waiting?
I sink down behind a cluster of trash cans and watch. One hour. Two. My ass is numb, and though it’s summer, the heat wave broke, and the temperature starts to drop rapidly.
Shivering, with a headache that leaves me nauseous, I brace my hand on one of the big, black bins and pull myself to my feet. I can’t stay out here all night. For all I know, Doc has an expensive security system. This is a ritzy neighborhood and he’s clearly not hurting for money. Not with a house right on the water. But infil was always my specialty. Exfil…not so much.
When the pins and needles fade away, I sweep my gaze up and down the street. All clear. I don’t rush. Don’t try to hide. I look like I belong here. Or, I hope I do. Until I reach the sidewalk and catch sight of his doorbell camera.
Pivoting quickly, I pass one neighbor’s house, then another. The third house is undergoing renovations. Major ones. Perfect. Even if thereisa camera, the likelihood anyone’s paying attention to it is low. I scramble over their fence and land in a crouch in their backyard. Something in my hip pops. Fuck. Was that a stitch? Two?
The water laps at a short retaining wall at the edge of the property. I take off the new-to-me sneakers, tie the laces together, and drape them around my neck. The water soaks the denim up to my knees, but cutting through backyards is toorisky. This…I’m far enough away from the houses no cameras should catch me.
The back of Doc’s place doesn’t sport a camera—at least not one I can see. My teeth are chattering when I haul myself up onto his deck. I squeeze the water from my jeans, shove my feet back into my sneakers, and peer through the floor-to-ceiling windows into his living room.
Still dark. No telltale blinking red lights, though expensive systems are usually completely silent.
I shine a flashlight around the patio door. There. A small, rectangular box sits at the top of the frame. From the outside, there’s no way to get around it. Unless I can overload the circuit.
