Girls Like Us(67)

I withdraw my weapon and move to the window. I’m having trouble seeing clearly out of my right eye. I reach up and realize it’s swollen shut. When I see the smoking black mass in the driveway, I let out a scream. There is a crater in front of my house. Inside it is Lee’s car. It’s been reduced to a mass of smoldering metal.

Lee, I know, is gone.





25.



In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

I remind myself to keep breathing as I slip out the back door of my house. My feet sink into the wet sawgrass. I’m wearing a backpack stuffed with as much evidence as I can carry: photographs, audiotapes, financial records. I’m packing two weapons: one at my hip, one at my ankle. I need to get away from the house as fast as I can. I have to assume that Dad’s truck, parked across from Lee’s, is fitted with the same car bomb that turned my driveway into a moonscape. Whoever rigged it will, no doubt, be back to check their handiwork. They may be watching me already. If they know I’m alive, I am dead woman running. If they don’t, I have a narrow window to escape before they return.

It takes me less than five minutes to cross the half acre of preserved land that borders my house. It’s the longest, hardest run of my life. There is no cover in the marsh. Just thick, unwieldy underbrush to push through and pockets of muddied water. My backpack slaps hard against my spine as I move. I feel my left shoe come untied and I have to flex my foot hard to keep it from falling off altogether. I’m breathing so hard my lungs feel like they’re on fire. The smell of ash hangs heavy in the air.

I’m halfway across the marsh when a car backfires on Dune Road. I throw myself down into the muck. For a few seconds, I lie still. An egret lifts up into the air, unfolding its wings overhead. Daylight is breaking: a bad sign. I can see a column of smoke rising from in front of my house. The air smells like burnt metal and rubber. Someone will see it; someone will call the police. Soon, cop cars and ambulances will descend on this corner of Dune Road. They may already be on their way.

I get up, keep going. When I reach the other side of the preserve, I take a deep, grateful gulp of air. Then I force my way through the neighbor’s hedgerow; I emerge behind the garage. It doesn’t appear as though anyone is home. The windows are dark; there are no cars in the drive. I grab the garage door and manually hoist it up. No alarm sounds. Inside, there is an old station wagon, the keys tossed casually on the driver’s seat.

I let out a shaky exhale. Thank God for small miracles. My odds of survival just went up.

I slide into the driver’s seat and put the keys in the ignition. As I adjust the rearview mirror, I catch sight of myself. My right eye is purple and swollen, like a boxer’s after a fight. A cut at my hairline wells with dark blood. I hadn’t even noticed it. I reach up and touch it, and wince when my fingers feel a sliver of glass pressed beneath the skin. My fingers probe my scalp. There’s clotted blood there, too. I have a dull ring in my ears and I’m starting to feel woozy. Light streaks in front of me. I close my eyes for a second, willing myself not to lose consciousness.

My eyes pop open. I have to go. Light glints off the glass embedded near my hairline. I extract it with my nails, groaning aloud as I do. I blot the blood away with my sleeve; the blood is coming hard and fast now, and I have to stop it. I slip off my T-shirt and tear one sleeve off at the seam. I wrap the fabric as tightly as I can around my head, my eyes welling from tears as I do. Bursts of light pop in front of my eyes; the pain is blinding. I put the car in drive. I don’t have time to worry about a few cuts and bruises. Lee is dead. If I don’t move, I will be soon, too.

Before I pull onto the street, I take the SCPD baseball cap that Lee lent me at the crime scene and slap it on over my makeshift tourniquet. My head screams with pain, but I need to cover myself. It’s hardly a disguise, but at least my face is partially obscured. I’m also driving someone else’s car. I’ll have to write the neighbors a nice thank-you note when this is all over. Thank you for letting me steal your car. Please enjoy this bottle of scotch.

I’m almost to the Westhampton Bridge when I hear sirens. My pulse escalates. I have to fight myself not to press down hard on the accelerator. The speed limit here is an excruciatingly slow thirty-five miles an hour. I flip on the blinker and make my way onto the bridge, just as an ambulance squeals by me, heading east on Dune Road.

My phone is vibrating on the passenger seat. I lean over and turn it onto speaker.

“Nell!” Sarah shouts into the phone. “Where the fuck is Lee? Everyone is on the ground waiting for him. We’re ready to go. I’ve been calling him and he’s not picking up.”

“He’s dead.” My words come out heavy and slow. As I drive through town, my vision starts to blur. I blink back what I think are tears; I realize quickly that it’s blood. I drive straight through a red light, only half-realizing what I’m doing. I should pull over. But then I hear sirens again—maybe a block or two away—and I sit straight up and drive.

In and out. Keep breathing.

“He’s what? What happened?”

“Car bomb. In my driveway.”

“Where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m in Westhampton Beach, less than ten minutes from the airport. But I need to go to Brentwood. I have to get Luz.”

“You go straight to the airport, do you hear me? Straight there. Sam is there. He’ll keep you safe. I’m going to send out the teams now. We have to move.”