I don’t answer this. I don’t think it’s funny at all.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says, his smile fading. “You could surrender. Just come back with me—”
“I’m not going back to prison.”
“Look, I need you to understand: if you start running, I can’t keep you safe. If they spot you, they’ll shoot you on sight—”
“This is not negotiable.”
“Rosabelle—”
I pivot and run.
8
James
I swear, this girl is going to be the death of me.
Shit,she’s already been the death of me.
Fuck.
My footfalls hit the ground with increasing intensity even as I remind myself not to sprint in the storm. The winds are only picking up, sending sheets of rain at a diagonal aimed directly at my feet. With my luck I’ll manage to fall and snap my neck before Rosabelle even gets a chance to kill me—and this girl is definitely going to kill me. She’ll either break my heart or bury a knife in it; one way or another, my life is in her hands.
There’s something very wrong with me.
I can think of no other reason why I happen to be deeply, alarmingly attracted to a girl who murders people for a living. Sorry, correction: a girl in a cat costume who murders people for a living. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I can’t believe this is my real life right now: I’m running after a girl wearing a child’s cat costume, watching her little tail swish as she darts from one building to another.
Fuck me.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.The word echoes in my head with every footfall as I chase after her, audibly groaning as I watch her move in the direction of a distant airplane hangar.
I swear to God, if she thinks she can fly a plane in this weather—
I briefly lose my footing, nearly tripping on a grate buried in a puddle. By the time I steady myself, water is sloshing in my shoes, and Rosabelle has gained twenty more feet. I’m wearing the wrong gear for this. I should’ve been wearing boots; instead, I’m wearing a pair of low-tread, low-top sneakers. Clearly, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking I had to dress for an undercover chase through a rainstorm.
Worse: Rosabelle is faster than she looks.
Quiet, too. If this is how she operates running on little food and no sleep, I can only imagine what she’s like when her tank is full. I have no clue what she’s thinking right now. I only know her well enough to know that this girl doesn’t do anything without a plan.
“Rosabelle,” I hiss, trying not to raise my voice.
She doesn’t turn around.
“Rosabelle,” I try again, a little louder this time.
Again, her little tail swishes.
Suddenly I can hear Adam’s voice in my head—I can practically read the fear in his eyes when he suggested I seea professionalforthe unresolved trauma that’s leading me to make poor and destructive choices.
Yeah, well.
I might have to revisit that.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel if I saw Rosabelle again; I thought maybe I’d come to my senses, that I’d see her and realize everyone was right—that I’d romanticized her in my head; that I’d experienced momentary insanity; that everythingI’d once felt for her was a result of some weird fever dream.
Nope.
