Rules of Survival(63)

Technically the newswoman was right: I’d killed Gerald.

Shaun must have figured out where my thoughts were headed, because he grabbed my arm and spun me away from the television. “Don’t go there, Kayla. You didn’t pull the trigger. Bengali did.”

“He’s trying to flush you out,” Patrick said. “But he’s going about it the wrong way. Exposure like this would only drive you deeper into hiding. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Ahem,” Deeds cleared his throat. For a minute I’d actually forgotten he was there. “I have an appointment in a few hours. Can we move this along?”

Patrick inclined his head toward the door. “You’re free to move yourself along, Grayson. I’d love to say it was nice seeing you again, but…you know. It wasn’t.”

But Deeds wouldn’t be deterred. I didn’t know what he was thinking—Shaun and Patrick were standing right there—but he reached around and made a swipe for my arm.

“Go!” Patrick hissed, and threw himself forward at Deeds. They collapsed in a heap, Deeds screaming obscenities the entire way down.

Shaun didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my hand and bolted for the back of the diner. Through the door marked employees only, and past the kitchen—which made me sort of glad I hadn’t had the chance to eat the pancakes I’d ordered—then out the back door.

We ran for what felt like ten miles before Shaun let me stop to let me catch my breath. “I think we lost him,” I huffed.

“I hope so.” He braced both hands against his knees and sucked in a deep breath. “But we shouldn’t stay put. My vote is hit someplace, figure out our next move, then get some rest.”

Rest sounded good. Food sounded good, too. “We should head back to Dutchess County. That’s where Patrick said Mick was living.”

…

Shaun stretched across the king-size hotel bed a few feet from me. We’d each taken a shower the same way we had at the trailer, and were busy cramming pizza down our throats. I hadn’t known it was possible to be this hungry. “So what now?” he asked between bites. “Go back to find Pat—or forward to find Mick?”

“We find Mick. Maybe he knows what really happened to Bengali’s son.” I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs underneath me.

“How will that help, though?”

“Mick was the other partner—the one who was with her when it all went down. Patrick thinks Mom and Mick stole the money. I need to know what really happened. I need to know if my mom had anything to do with that kid’s death.”

Shaun tossed a piece of crust onto the stand beside the bed and frowned. “Kayla, does it really matter right now? I mean, I get wanting to know the truth, but I think our priority needs to be living to see tomorrow. To do that, we need to deal with Bengali.”

“He’s my dad,” I rushed on. I knew he couldn’t understand, not really, but I needed the truth. My world turned upside down when I found out all the things Mom had kept from me. No matter what, I’d always love her, but I needed to know. “You heard what Patrick said about him. He was the master of disappearing. He can get these cuffs off and help me drop out of sight. Bengali won’t be able to find me. If this guy has the reach Patrick says, then I think this is my best bet.”

Shaun didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “What was the name Pat said he was using? Do you remember?”

“Hank Friedman.” I pointed to the nightstand. “Check the phone book. Bet there’s one in there.”

He stretched and pulled open the drawer. Sure enough, I’d been right. After a few moments of page flipping, Shaun nodded. “There’s just one listing for a Hank Friedman in Dutchess County,” he said, ripping out a section of the phone book.

I stood on my toes to peer over his shoulder. “Picker Street. Must be him.”

He closed the phone book and kicked it to the floor. “Say it is. Say we find him. Then what?”

I shrugged. “Then you can finally be rid of me.”

Shaun didn’t look as excited about the idea as I would have thought. He tugged on the chain, sending me toppling off-balance and forward. I landed right beside him. “But what if I want to keep you?”

“Aww,” I said, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “Am I actually growing on you?” I made the mistake of looking up, and caught him watching me. No. Not watching. This was more than simply looking. “Devouring” was the word that came to mind.

“It’s been an intense few days,” he said, eyes locked on mine. He shifted toward me and rose onto his knees.

“Yeah,” I said. My heart skipped a beat.

He came a little closer. “Kind of funny how it turned out.”

“Yeah,” I said again, swallowing hard. I rose onto my knees as well. It was impossible to think of anything other than the way his lips looked, imagining what they’d feel like all over my skin, with his eyes on me like that.

He hooked the pointer and middle fingers of his left hand into the waistband of my sweatpants and used it to tug me close. “I have a problem,” he said. The sound of his voice, low and just a little bit dangerous, made my heart race.

“That’s not good,” I responded, inhaling sharply as he ran his fingers side to side. The warmth of them against my skin blazed, my stomach fluttering in anticipation, and I wanted nothing more than to feel more of that. To drown in it. “What’s the problem, exactly?”