Page 59 of Rooke
I step on a piece of paper and skid, but I manage to keep my footing. My heart is a trip hammer in my chest, thundering, racing out of control. Glass crunches under my feet as I reach the front door, then I’m racing down the steps of the brownstone, my lungs prickling from the cold.
I slip again, only this time it’s on ice. I stumble, scrambling to grab hold of something, to remain upright, but there’s nothing. I clutch at thin air, and then there are hands on me, clawing at me, grabbing at my jacket. I scream, alive with fear, alive with terror, trying to rip myself free of the person who has just caught me and stopped me from falling over. I can’t, though. He has me tight. He pulls me up, presses me tight against his body. A familiar smell washes over me, a smell that hits me like a wall of pain. It’s not stale coffee and cigarettes though. It’s Tom Ford aftershave. It’s seven years of marriage and a dead son. It’s deceit and disappointment and cheating. It’s my ex-husband.
******
“What are you doing here, Andrew?”
I still haven’t regained myself. I can’t slow down my erratic pulse; my heart seems determined to burst its way out of my chest any second now, and no amount of deep breathing appears to be helping. Andrew stands in front of me on the sidewalk, looking very much like himself, which is to say smug, arrogant and pathetic all at once.
“Why do you think I came?” he says, frustration thick in his voice. “You didn’t respond to my letter, and then boom! I see you on national fucking news, the victim of a serious hostage situation. You didn’t think I’d be worried? You didn’t think I’d want to know that you were safe? Goddamn it, Sasha. I come back here and the house is wide open. I was about to call the cops when you come flying out of the place like a goddamn lunatic.”
I press my fingers into my forehead, closing my eyes. “I don’t have time for this, Andrew.”
He gives me a hurt, wounded look now. The same one he gave me the night he told me he had fallen in love with someone else and he was moving to Texas to start over. Likehewas the kicked puppy, and I had no right feeling sorry for myself. “I know you might not believe it, Sasha, but I do still care about you. You were the mother of my son.”
I choose to pretend he didn’t just say that. I pull my jacket tighter around my body, scanning up and down the street. There are no signs of the guy who attacked me at the museum. That means nothing, though. He could be hovering in a doorway somewhere, ready to come at me the moment I walk by. I am really unhappy about Andrew being here, but damn. Walking with him to find somewhere safe to wait for Rooke is better than walking there alone. I look at him, holding eye contact, probably the longest I’ve done so in three or four years. “Do you really want to make sure I’m all right?”
He has the audacity to look stung. “Yes! Of course I do. Jesus, I’m not a monster.”
Heisa monster. He went and had another son and called him Christopher; it doesn’t get any worse than that. I just raise my eyebrows. “I need to get to Ali’s place. Will you come with me?”
Doubt flickers across his face. Ali tore him a new one when he left New York. I can imagine how unappealing the thought of seeing her again must be. “Seriously?” He shoves his hands into his pockets, letting his head tip back as he groans. “Fine. But I’m not going inside.”
“I didn’t ask you to. Come on.”
I don’t explain why I’m still limping a little as I attempt to speed walk away from the house. I don’t tell him who I’m texting as I message Rooke and give him Ali’s address. I tell him nothing. If I did tell him that we’re probably in danger right now, he’d undoubtedly bail and run away all over again. That’s just how he handles his shit.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ESCALATE
ROOKE
I get the address. It’s close to Sasha’s place, within walking distance, so it shouldn’t take her long to get there. Jake calls me as I’m burning across the city in a stolen Nissan Skyline. Not the most inconspicuous car I could have taken, but fuck. You do what you gotta do.
I almost don’t pick up the phone, but some sixth sense tells me I ought to. I make a habit of never ignoring my gut. My friend sounds stressed the fuck out when I hit the green answer button. “Rooke? Where are you, man?”
“Running errands.”About to fucking kill a man.“What’s up?”
I swing the car through a left-hand turn, trying to force myself to slow down. If I get picked up now, I’m in serious shit. “Well. A guy showed up at the house. He was asking for you. I let him in, and then he proceeded to beat the shit out of me. He’s currently holding me at gunpoint. He says he’d like it if you came home now.”
“What? What guy?” A rolodex of potential assholes spins wildly before my eyes. It could be one of many people, but now? Today? The timing is off. This has something to do with Casper. Has to. Jake makes a hawking spitting sound, then a pained grunt echoes down the phone.
“He says…his name is Jericho.”
What the fuck?Jericho? I only left him a couple of hours ago. Why the fuck would he be at my house, assaulting Jake? “Put him on the phone,” I snarl. “Put him on the phoneright fucking now.”
There’s a rustling sound, and then a familiar, heavily accented voice in my ear. “Cuervo. I am not a happy man. I had to drive over here. You know how much I hate to drive.”
“Explain what’s happening. Explain why you’re at my house, laying hands on my friend.” I have never fucked with him before. I have never screwed with his shit. He’s made a big fucking mistake screwing with mine right now. I don’t care how crazy he is; I don’t care how many people he’s murdered. He is going to fucking bleed for this.
“Oh, you know. It’s all a coincidence really. I love a good coincidence.”
“Jericho—”
“See, you came to the shop before, and I was busy, was I not? I was in the middle of something. I was working on a guy in the pit. He told me something very interesting after you left. He said he knew you. Said you spent time together in juvi over at the Goshen Secure Center. Imagine how upset I was when he said you were released early…for working with the cops.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never worked with the cops. Never.”
