The Unwilling(75)

“All the more reason.”

She laughed.

I got to the point.

“Listen, Becky. I need a favor.”



* * *



When I stepped from the phone booth, Chance was waiting. “She’ll help,” I said.

“She doesn’t have a car.”

“No, but Dana White does.”

I started walking, and Chance trotted to catch up. “You know that Dana White is not exactly our friend.”

“True.” I slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac. “But Becky said she only looks like a brittle bitch.”

“She actually said that?”

“Yeah.” I laughed a bit. “She did.”



* * *



Half a block from home, I saw Becky, as lovely as ever in a T-shirt, denim shorts, and the same white vinyl boots where I’d seen a safety pin in the zipper, standing at the curb by Dana White’s car. I stopped before I got too close, told Chance to get out, and drove on before Becky could get a good look at my face.

That part was going to be tricky.

My mother’s car slid into the garage as if it had never left, and I skulked out of the driveway in a half crouch. On the street, I tried to keep the limp out of my walk, but Becky already had one hand up to cover her mouth. Either Chance had told her what happened or she had better eyesight than I thought. Up close, I saw the shine in her eyes, though she hardened quickly.

“Let me see,” she said. “I can handle it.”

I removed the cap first.

“Glasses, too.”

I took off the shades, and Becky studied the cuts and the cruel, black stitches. “Chance said it was bikers.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you were asking questions about your brother.”

“He didn’t kill anybody.”

Becky said nothing.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you have a good heart.” She placed soft hands on my face, and kissed the places that hurt. “I believe I like you more now than ever.”

Her hands stayed on my face until Chance cleared his throat, making it awkward. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”

“What if I don’t want to go home?”

“You can’t come with us.”

“Because it’s dangerous?”

“Look at my face, Becky. Something like this could happen again, or something worse. I don’t even have a plan.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You should,” I said.

But she crossed her arms, unmoved and unmoving. “Do you want the car or not?”





27


Reece prowled the secret hallways, and could barely contain himself. The girl. The risk. All his life he’d been a careful man. Pros. Cons. Possibility. Reece did not believe in God, but if he had a religion, it would be this: don’t get caught. He measured his days by the discipline born of that religion. Target selection. Target acquisition. He could spend months making a choice and a plan only to abandon both at the slightest sign of risk to the secret life he’d made.

But that was before the girl.

X had said to wait, but Reece had not—he could not—and no scale in the world was large enough to measure that risk, not with X involved.

Still dazed by his own audacity, Reece checked the security feeds, verifying that the front gate had locked behind him and that the motion sensors were armed and active. The system was state of the art, designed and installed by an ex–Secret Service agent for a hundred-thousand-dollar flat fee, in cash and nonnegotiable. There were eighteen cameras on the grounds, another dozen in the house.

Leaving the monitors, Reece poured a glass of I. W. Harper bourbon. He was not a big drinker, but adrenaline was making him twitchy, and this particular bourbon seemed to help.

“The only bourbon enjoyed in a hundred and ten countries.”

It was a popular slogan, and his father had enjoyed repeating it. Reece could see the old man, now, the quick wink and the quick drink.

Hurry on now before your mother gets home …

A railroad engineer, he’d died when Reece was seven, crushed between two cars after an unfortunate fall. Reece’s mother had been strong enough to hold the family together, but she’d left him, too, killed by esophageal cancer when Reece was only twelve.

Finishing the bourbon, Reece left the security monitors, and followed one of the secret corridors that crisscrossed the north wing of his house. He had other places, of course—safe spaces of his own and others that X made available—but the north wing was for someone special.

Sara was the first.

At the next corridor, Reece turned sideways to squeeze between the wall studs and plywood. A single bulb gave enough light to see, but Reece didn’t need it. He knew every corner and turn, every room beyond the gypsum board, and every safe place to watch. It’s why he’d built the north wing in the first place.

The secret places.

The watching.

He imagined the rooms as he passed them.

Bathroom, bedroom …

The girl would stir soon, and he’d be there to watch and listen. He wouldn’t touch her, of course—not for days or even weeks—but the intimate moments mattered as much: the dressing and the self-care, the small rituals enshrined in the days and nights of women across the world.