“Drive,” I say to Brian, sliding in the passenger side. “Drive fast.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
I was wrong about onething: John does not live with his mother. He does, however, live in a basement—the bottom floor of a large house with white columns that has been split into five or six separate apartments. Very college-town-style.
Brian and I inspect the house, the surrounding cars parked along the road. Two college-aged women who are obviously intoxicated stroll down the sidewalk, singing loudly.
“God, I miss college,” Brian murmurs.
“Ugh.”
“You didn’t like it?”
I reach for the door. “I spent four years trying not to kill anyone, Brian. No, I did not like it.”
We take the path that leads to the front door. Closer up, chipped paint coats the exterior of the house, and a row of mailboxes labeled A through F sits on the banister.
“Look.” Brian points to the ground where shattered glass reflects in the streetlamp. Someone busted out the porch light, an ominous sign.
I pull the screen door, reach for the doorknob. It turns easilybeneath my hand. Inside, it’s obvious this was once a grand house—probably built a hundred or more years ago—a wide staircase with stained carpet winding up one side. The lights are off, but the house goes far back into the lot, doors on either side labeled with apartment numbers.
We wander in, and I pull out the gun I collected from Ian’s storage locker, just in case. The house feels empty, like all the college kids are out partying instead of home getting ready for bed.
“Nadia.” Brian touches my back. “Technically, we can’t be here. We’re trespassing.”
I snort; he’s probably used to getting a warrant.
“That’s the least of my worries. We have to talk to him. It’s the only way to find out who wants you dead.”
“You think he’ll tell us?”
“Yes.” I don’t mention that I won’t be asking politely, and I won’t be taking no for an answer. I adjust my grip on the gun—it’s a Sig Sauer, Ian’s favorite, but it feels too big in my hand. We stopped in Bonner Springs on the way to Columbia, and to my relief, Ian’s stash was not only there, but I still had access to it. But I’m well aware he likely knows where we are now. That’s what I’d do, if I were him—I’d have my stashes set up to trigger an alarm in case anyone breached the door, maybe even set up a camera so I’d know who’d been there. But we’ll be gone by morning. Not enough time for him to track us down. And we must sort out who wants Brian dead—it’s the only way to keep our family safe. Although Ian does know where we live…that will require some thought. But for now, I need to focus on the moment.
At the back of the house sits a kitchen tiled in white, painted yellow, with appliances old enough that I’m surprised they’re still running. The fridge hums loudly, or maybe the house is just that quiet.
A final apartment letter hangs on the door opposite the stove—a door I suspect leads to the basement.
“This is it.”
The urge to knock hits me—we’re entering his personal space—but the element of surprise is on our side. Maybe he’s asleep in bed. Or perhaps he’s marathon-bingeingSuper Mario. Either way, I’d rather give him a scare. People who are scared are more likely to give an honest answer, and fast.
“Stay behind me,” I tell Brian.
“Nadia—”
I press a finger to his lips. “Stay behind me.”
He sighs, and I know it’s not some outdated sense of manliness—or hell, maybe it is—it’s more that he’s having a hard time seeing me for who I am, what I am. And I get it. I look at him and still see a management consultant. But this will change with time. We’ll go to therapy. We’ll be honest—well,mostlyhonest. There are things I haven’t told him yet, things I won’t tell him. Like that Ian and I were friends. And I’m keeping my hidey-hole a secret as long as I can. But he has to get used to who I am, and the sooner, the better.
The hinges creak, and I wince as the sound echoes through the house. When it’s open just enough for us to slide through the doorway, we go—into a dark hall, feet padding over squeaky laminate.
“Light?” Brian murmurs.
“Not yet.”
Together, we ease down the staircase, and I count each step—nine, ten, eleven—at twelve, we reach a landing. I turn, take in the utter darkness. I’d expected to see the bluish glow of a television screen, John’s boyish face lit up, his eyes eager as he leans forward, jabbing at the rectangular controller.
But there’s nothing. Like he’s not here.
