A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)(27)

“How is Sarah taking it?”

“She’s married and has a toddler now.”

“Whoa.” I wonder if coma survivors feel like this. “Wait. Did they ever find out what happened with Drew’s parents?”

“What do you mean? The car went off the road. They think maybe Drew’s mom swerved to avoid hitting an animal? They went down a huge ravine. Crashed. It took more than a day for a group of mountain bike riders to find them. By then it was too late.”

“Drew was in Afghanistan?”

“And Sarah was back home in San Diego with her baby. It was a big mess. The whole community rallied to try and help. Not financially—the Fosters were fine, of course—but poor Sarah really bore the brunt of it. She had to get Drew back home from overseas, manage the funeral stuff, and the press....”

Just like that, some kind of switch flips in me.

I am done with this day.

Done.

“You know, Jane, I think I need to go home.” I press my palms into the countertop around the sink and let my head drop.

Her hand is warm as she gently sets it between my shoulder blades. “I understand. Of course. Let me get you back to the Grove.” Daddy named our house The Grove a long time ago, christened by the planting of tiny weeping willows that now tower over the estate like sentries.

“That’s my job,” Drew says through the door.

Oh, crap. Was he listening this entire time? The door opens and in walks Drew again, eyes flat and still. If he’s feeling anything underneath that placid exterior, it’s well hidden.

“You’re sick,” he declares, reaching for me. “You need to go home. I’ve already called your—”

“Oh, sure. Call Daddy the second Lindsay doesn’t do exactly what she’s told to do,” I snap. “The minute she doesn’t act like a programmed robot, we have to get the senator on the line and make her behave!”

“—doctor,” he says, finishing his sentence. “I’ve already called your doctor, and she’s meeting us at the Grove.” Drew gives me an even look that says nothing. He’s being very patient.

Too patient.

“Doctor? What doctor?”

“Stacia.”

I see red. “Did Daddy give you permission?” Now I’m just lashing out. I storm past him to find a very surprised Silas just outside the door. He’s reading a bulletin board advertisement for some band.

“Ms—”

I cut him off by flipping him the bird. He makes a sound of surprise, like he’s hurt. I don’t care. Walking out of the bar, I fling open the main doors, take a right— And start running.





Chapter 21





I’m really not equipped for the twelve-mile run back home. I’m wearing casual leather shoes, for one thing, though they don’t have any heel at all. Also, I have on a cotton t-shirt, a jangly metal necklace made from reclaimed copper water pipes, and dressy yoga pants. I wasn’t exactly worried about looking like a fashion plate when I left the house this morning.

Clearly.

I don’t sprint. I make a sharp left-right-left and find myself parallel to the town’s main park, a lush affair that uses so much water that there is a group on the corner, picketing twenty-four seven, in an effort to “drought shame” the town. In her rare letters to me, Mom’s described this phenomenon, how the ongoing drought in California is dredging up all kinds of local social, political and economic problems.

I run right past a group of people with protest signs, and keep going until I find one of the larger side streets that will eventually take me to the main road to get home.

After a few blocks, I’m sweating.

Within two miles, I’m drenched.

By three miles, I realize I’m not alone.

Either Drew or Silas is following me. They’re both dressed in full suits. Idiots. I’ll have to have a private talk with Daddy at our meeting tomorrow and insist that if I have to have a security detail, they’ve got to dress more fashionably. Jeans and t-shirts are fine. This Men-in-Black look has got to go.

“Go away,” I call back.

“Can’t,” a man’s voice shouts. “It’s my job.”

“To stalk me?”

“To protect you.” Damn, he’s suddenly close, voice louder, spooking me.

I come to a dead halt. Whoever’s behind me slams into me. I’ve left my knees unlocked and my thighs tight and coiled, ready for impact, so he bounces off me and falls to the ground.

Whoever he is, he’s back up before I can turn around.

Drew. It’s Drew.

Of course it is.

“Fuck off, Drew,” I say, giving him the finger, and taking off at a massive sprint, running as if I’m being chased.

He keeps up with me, legs like a robot’s, face impassive. At the island, physical activity was encouraged. Every three months they held an island marathon.

Guess who won? Not just my age group. Not just the women’s division.

Overall.

Every marathon, eleven in a row.

I slow my pace and decide that nine more miles is a great workout for me. My eyes drift down to Drew’s wingtips.

Oh, this is going to be fun. My loafers can outrun those wingtips.

Three more miles and we’re on a secluded path, running along a dried out river bed, once-lush greenery turned to brown, decaying stalks.