Page 69 of The Americana Playbook

I shake my head, as if he can hear me say no.

“Parker? Are you?—"

“I-I’m here.” I blow out an exhausted breath, and press a hand to my chest. My heart feels like it might burst straight through.

“What happened?”

“I just want to go home.” Like my panic, the tears behind my eyes pool fast and furious. I feel for my keys, but realize they’re in my bag I left with Samuels. “I…I need to find my keys.”

“I don’t want you driving.” Fitz’s voice is rough. “Where is Samuels?”

I look around. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“I don’t know!” Every bit of my energy is occupied by the fight or flight mode this alarm has enveloped me in. Every cell in my body is telling meRun. You’re not safe here.I try to get my mind to take control, because there’s no one to take me. I’m alone.

All that fails when the lights of another SUV pulling into the lot catch my attention.

“Fitz?” I swear, I hear him hold his breath just as I do. But then I let out a sigh of relief when Agent Samuels steps out of the vehicle.

“He’s here. I-I need my keys,” I announce to both of them.

“No, you’re not driving,” Fitz says.

“I’m fine, I?—”

“I’m coming,” Fitz promises. “I need an hour, maybe less. I need you to stay put.”

He doesn’t understand I don’t want to stay here for another minute. Ican’t. “No,” I whine. “I want to go home, Fitz, please?—"

“Samuels.” I’ve never heard this kind of menacing tone from Fitz. I’ve also never felt more comforted by something so threatening sounding. “Have your colleague drive my car home. You bring my fiancée backsafelyin the SUV.”

Immediately, I object. He doesn’t get it. “Fitz?—”

“Don’t hang up.” There’s torment in the sound of his sigh. “Keep the call open.”

“I don’t really feel like talking,” I admit.

“You don’t have to,” Fitz says. “You’ll just know I’m with you.”

It takes more than an hour and a half to get back to Boston. And even though I say absolutely nothing the entire ride, Fitz keeps letting me know he’s there.

I’m here. I’m with you.

At 2:17in the morning, I give up on sleep. I gave up on Parker—or waiting for her to talk to me—hours ago.

Between Parker’s lack of eye contact, and curt answers, it was almost a laughable attempt. But there wasn’t anything funny about how panicked she sounded on the phone earlier. I could tell by her breathing there wasn’t just something that scared her, but something that made her scared to tell me about it.

I guess it’s a cruel realization of what they mean when the pot calls the kettle black.

Untangling myself from my sheets, I leave my room, carefully finding the stairs I’m not used to going down in the middle of the night in an apartment that’s dark except for a faint light coming from Parker’s room.

Before I’ve taken two steps down, I pause, gripping the banister as she walks toward the kitchen and front entry of the apartment.

For a second, I don’t think anything of it. She could be thirsty. Or hungry. Or bored.

But the lights in the kitchen don’t go on. Instead, I hear a gentle click. My chest tightens and I wonder if she’s left in the middle of the night. But then there are two more clicks and Parker quickly returns on the same path she took and goes into her bedroom, shutting the door.

---