Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(6)

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“Mexico,” he says. It’s not a question, not a debate. “There is a woman there who owes me a favor. She will help us.”

“Mexico?” I ask.

“Yes. Don’t worry about the language. I am fluent. It will be—”

“I’m not worried about speaking Spanish, Dominic. I’m worried about my brother.”

“It is for your brother that we go.”

“He needs to rest.” I glance down to where Jamie leans against the window, eyes closed. He looks worse than I’ve seen him in weeks, since the hospital. Since Germany. “We’ve got to stop. He’s not strong enough for this.”

“America is no longer safe.”

“America is a big freaking country.”

“We must get you both someplace safe,” he says again, and for the first time, I hear it. Dominic isn’t just worried. Dominic is scared.

As a boy, he loved our mother. As a man, he watched her die. It is far too late to save her, but it’s not too late for us, and so he is going to keep driving—keep moving. He will never, ever stop.

“How did they find us?” I ask, thinking back to the sight of the prime minister in her white suit, appearing out of nowhere like a ghost.

When Dominic turns back, he looks me squarely in the eye. I’m not just the pesky kid sister anymore, the brat, the burden. Dominic and I have been through too much together, and now he knows me well enough not to lie. I almost wish he would, instead of saying, “I don’t know.”

If there was a leak we could plug it, a trail we could clear it. There are few things in the world scarier than the unknown. I’ve learned that the hard way. And now the only thing Dominic knows is to run and keep running until there is no room left to take another step.

“Jamie’s fever is back,” I say.

“We will give him fluids in the car, hang a bag. He’ll be—”

“He will not be fine!” The gas station parking lot is empty, but I don’t care. I’d yell even if a crowd were watching. I have to make him see. No. I have to make him stop.

“He needs a bed, Dominic. And a shower. And a meal that doesn’t come out of a bag. We all do. When was the last time you slept? I mean really slept?”

“I’ll sleep when you’re safe.”

“Oh, Dominic.” I shake my head slowly. “I will never be safe. And that goes double if you collapse or give out on us. We need you. I know you know that. But I’m saying it anyway. We need you at your best. And you’re not now. You can’t be. It’s just not possible. So …”

I don’t realize Alexei’s behind me until Dominic glances over my shoulder, but even before I turn I can hear it: the conversation they are having without me. It consists of glances and shrugs. Neither one of them wants to admit that I’m right. But they probably don’t want to spend another night sleeping in a twenty-five-year-old Buick, either, so Alexei shrugs.

“I will see about getting us some rooms.”

The little motel on the far side of the parking lot probably has only twenty units, and it doesn’t seem busy. The opposite, in fact. Which is worse.

“Stop,” I call out, and Alexei turns. “You’re still front-page news,” I tell him. With all that’s going on with me and Jamie, the fact that Alexei is a wanted fugitive is easy to forget sometimes. But the headlines are real. The manhunt is months old but ongoing. “Even if no one in their right mind would expect you to run to the US, we probably shouldn’t take the chance.”

Then I look at Dominic, the scar that will forever mark his face. “And you’re … memorable,” I tell him, then hold out my hand until he passes me his wallet. “You two stay here. I’ll go see about the rooms.”

There’s a smell that comes from being on the run. It’s the odor of stale, reheated coffee and dim, abandoned rooms, of seedy motels where a decade’s worth of cigarette smoke has seeped into the curtains. Inside the little motel office, the coffeepot has been on all day, and the smell of it hits me as soon as I step inside.

But, otherwise, the place is clean. Tidy. The woman behind the counter is busy with a pair of knitting needles and pink yarn. Then I realize that the entire room is covered in yarn. There is a knit sleeve over a jar of pens, a calendar holder on the wall, and at least a dozen dolls with brightly colored yarn dresses. Whoever this woman is, she really must believe that idle hands are a devil’s plaything. I doubt she’s been truly idle a day in her life.

“How can I help ya, hon?” she asks me, a big, bright smile on her face. I might be the only real person she’s seen for hours. Maybe days.

“Do you have any adjoining rooms?” I ask.

“Well”—she gives a little laugh—“we’re not exactly fully booked at the moment. I think we can take care of you.”

The sun is almost down now, and a neon light is coming to life. The word VACANCY glows green against the glass.

“Can I have two, please?”

The woman eyes me then, a little skeptical. I don’t want to know what she’s seeing. I’m still too thin, too tired, too haggard and dirty and worn. I probably look like the chased animal that I am, and there’s not a doubt in my mind this woman sees it. From her place behind the counter, looking through that perfectly clean window, this woman sees everything.