Page 13 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
Frustration builds in me. I threw away whatever scrap of a life I had left. Sector is probably sniffing around my apartment right now. God only knows if they’re going to trail me here, if they’re going to make some deal with Marion to bug my room, if I’m destined for a black site in a matter of days.
I have toknow. Even if I can’t blow this whole conspiracy wide open, I at the very least need to know I’m right before I spend the rest of my life rotting in some damp cell. I bolt forward, toward Wyatt, grabbing the sleeve of his flannel.
“You obviously know something,” I snap, that rubber band inside me stretching, my bodyalwayschoosing to fight when flight would be so much smarter. “Tell me.”
He looks at me with equal parts horror and surprise before yanking his sleeve out of my grasp. “I don’t know anything about good wineries,” Wyatt says, too loudly, the words overly enunciated.
“What the fuck,” I reply, throwing my hands up. “I didn’t say shit about a winery. Could youpleasejust look at this and tell me what you think, or at least help me find an internet café?—”
I’m talking, but Wyatt’s attention is trained over my head, his eyes narrowed, lips pursed with concentration. I don’t know what he’s looking at, and I don’t care. I just need thisonething, justonemore breadcrumb. I don’t need him to do me some big favor or do more than give me the simple shred of my next stepping stone. It would take him two goddamn seconds.
All at once, Wyatt sweeps around me in a surprisingly lithe movement, considering his size. Suddenly, I’m pinned between the side of his truck and the muscular frame of a strange man I just yelled at.
Good job, Alice. Blackbird Hollow is going great.
“Get in the truck,” he hisses, gesturing wildly at the passenger door with one hand.
I stare at him, my heart beginning to race. “Are you insane?”
“Get. In. The. Truck,” Wyatt repeats in a low whisper. I stare at him, and slowly—too slowly—realize he’s not threatening me.
He’sbeggingme.
Alarm sweeps through me, and I shift my weight to peer around his side. “No, don’tlookat them,” Wyatt pleads, sounding exasperated more than anything. “For fuck’s sake. Just get in the truck.”
I stop, looking up at him. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, his eyes a distracting deep brown, the shade of tree bark gone damp with rain. I just met this man a few moments ago. I’ve only been in this town for a few hours. No one knows I’m here, except maybe Sector. No one who cares about me even knows I left the city, which means no one knows to look for me if I go missing.
“Okay,” I find myself saying, because nothing matters more to me than a chance to unravel the government’s biggest lie. I’ll risk anything. I’ve already given up nearly everything, haven’t I? “Fine.”
I reach for the handle, yank the door open, and climb into the truck.
Chapter 8
Wyatt
From the second she came hightailing it out of the office, I knew she was going to be trouble. Nobody on Earth walks with that kind of purpose who isn’t a bushel and ten of vexation. Fallon and Caden both walk like that. Hell, I probably walk like that, but I’ve never given much thought to it before now.
When the black sedan pulls into the parking lot, I clock them, but Little Miss Has a Question doesn’t, despite knowing a whole load of shit she probably shouldn’t. Now I’ve gotta wonder why that is and get her the hell out of here before she does more harm than good. Two agents get out of the sedan, both dressed like agents. Cheap suits. Ugly black ties. They look like they’ve been cast in a pre-Reformation sci-fi flick. This is why it’s hard to take Sector seriously.
Ye Gods, she is still blathering on. “I don’t know anything about good wineries,” I say, trying to inflect some intention into my words so she’ll take a damn hint.
“What the fuck,” she screeches, throwing her hands up. “I didn’t say shit about a winery. Could youpleasejust look at this and tell me what you think, or at least help me find an internet café?—”
She’s gonna talk forever, I realize. The Sector goons haven’t looked over here yet, but they’re gonna, and I’m here loading up salt while she talks about Them. Using the F-word and everything. My mind goes blank as I move. Typically, I like to ask before touching anyone I don’t know, but we’ll be in a cell before anyone can snap if she keeps this up, so I compromise my morals and pin her against the truck.
This makes her mad as a hornet, and I can’t say as I blame her. If we get out of this, I’ll apologize. To her and myself, because fuck all if she’s not the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen get so flustered. I feel none of my usual awkwardness. Instead, my heart thumps, sticky and hot, threatening something I don’t like to think about much.
And then the agent looks our way, and that mind-bending flip my stomach was about to do stops and something near panic sets in. “Get in the truck.”
She stares up at me, eyes wide with rage. “Are you insane?”
“Get in the truck,” I whisper, slowing down my words so she’ll really take my meaning.
Finally, she seems to understand what’s happening. Seems to realize I’m not trying to kidnap her and that more is going on in this parking lot than her yammering on about aliens and Them.
“No, don’tlookat them,” I hiss as she tries to crane her body around me. Trouble, trouble, all the way down.Why can’t one godsdamn woman in my life be easy?“For fuck’s sake. Just get in the truck.”
She stares up at me like she’s assessing how likely I am to murder her and then says words that send a flood of relief through me—“Okay. Fine.”—and climbs in.
