Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(21)

He told me to walk away, so I am doing just that.

But as my feet hit the pedals and I fly past the hotels and restaurants, up past the llamas and past my house, I realize I am not just walking away. I am trying to escape.

I need the Bluffs; I need to see them, to feel their power, and soon I am there. I tuck my bike behind a bush, haphazardly locking it in place. I want to leave the backpack with the laptop, but I can’t. I shift it onto my back as I descend the wooden stairs, my hand gently touching the railing now and then, a grounding.

I reach the bottom and look up behind me, the stairs climbing as if to the sky. The rocks are hard under my sneakers; I stumble a few times as I get my bearings. I walk along the bottom of the Bluffs, the water dancing toward me, the sound soothing my troubled thoughts.

How could I do it again? Before, it was different. We were young and crazy and in love, and he had a plan that would make us rich. I wasn’t in it for the money. I was already rich; it was my father’s money, I had earned none of it. But I wanted him to have what he wanted, and I wanted to make it happen. To show that I could. I didn’t think of the consequences. So I hacked into the bank’s system and wire transferred money to accounts I’d set up all over the world. From there I transferred the money again and again. He gave me usernames and passwords – I never asked where he got them, didn’t want to know – and Tracker gave me the way in to the system; he still thought that part was all me. I kept Tracker safe, or so I thought.

It was when the FBI showed up that we had to run.

I shiver in my fleece, a brisk wind sweeping across the water. I spot the ferry in the distance; it’s on its way. Steve is probably at the Town Dock now, waiting.

He said there are others who are coming. But he’s been here for five days now, and I’ve seen no sign of anyone else. He always had a habit of overdramatizing. It’s possible he’s just saying that because he wants me to do the job.

He is as vulnerable as I am, so if they really are on my trail, they will find him, too. He can’t afford to stick around, and it doesn’t seem as though he is in a hurry.

I am rationalizing. I am talking myself out of it. But as I do, I feel the weight of the laptop in the pack against my back. Its lure is beyond anything I have felt, even here. I have tried so hard to stay away from it, but disappearing for fifteen years to an island has not meant I do not still dream about it, my fingers on the keyboard, the codes, the passwords, the elation of knowing I’ve gotten past a firewall, through a portal, cracked a system.

He is right. I am like a kid with an ice-cream cone. And I have not completely changed.

I am embarrassed about this. And now I find myself tempted to go back to where I started: huddled in front of a computer screen.

I hear voices carried on the wind, and I turn to see an older couple wrapped in fleece coming down the steps. It’s time to go, but something bright catches my eye. I lean down and pick up an iridescent white stone. It is smooth in my palm, and I close my hand over it, feeling its magic.

I shove the stone in my pocket as I make my way back up the steps, past the couple, giving them a nod and a quick hello, but not stopping even though they seem as if they want to ask me something.

I don’t have time. I need to give him back his laptop and send him away. I just hope he’ll let me.

I am not prepared for Veronica. She is pacing in front of my house, her arms hugging her chest, her hair flying in the wind. I was not going to stop, but I have to when she sees me and lifts her hand up in a short wave.

I ride up to the house and lean the bike against the side. ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Can we go inside?’ Her usually bright face is dark and drawn; her eyes skitter around behind me. Something has her rattled.

I open the door, drop my backpack on the table and offer her a cup of tea.

She shakes her head. ‘No, not now.’

I am even more perplexed and worried. I lead her into the living room and indicate she should sit in the rocking chair, which she does. The squeak of the chair echoes against the walls as I settle on the couch, my legs crossed. I am wound as tight as she is now.

‘Your friend,’ she starts, then swallows hard and smooths her hair back as though she has just realized that it’s windblown.

I wait.

‘He came by. Your friend, I mean. Came by the gallery. He was looking for you.’

‘We had a fight.’ I figure it’s easier to lie a little.

‘He said so.’

I’m not surprised. He can’t tell anyone, either.

‘He was a little desperate. Wanting to find you, I mean.’

I force a smile. ‘It was a bad fight.’ I try to look apologetic. ‘I’m sorry he bothered you.’

She worries the cuff of her sleeve, unplacated.

I lean forward, closer to her. ‘What is it, Veronica? What’s upsetting you?’

She leans forward, too, so our heads are almost touching. ‘He had a gun.’ It is whispered, frantically.

I sit back, trying to be nonchalant. ‘A lot of people have guns, Veronica.’

‘He had it under his arm, in like, a holster. Like on TV or something.’ Her voice is trembling.

I try a small smile on to alleviate her worry. ‘It’s OK. He’s with the FBI.’

I don’t mean to tell her this, I immediately regret it but it seems the only way to calm her down. It works. Immediately, she straightens up, the worry no longer etched in her face, a curious smile beginning.