Page 90 of The One Who Won’t Get Away
Nick nodded.“He won’t ever get out.Not with what they found in the backyard or the surviving victim locked up at his place.”
I glanced at the wall behind Nick’s head, where the photos crowded together in a patchwork of memory.A lot of pictures had been dusted recently.A few were slightly off kilter, as if someone had picked them up, put them back, but didn’t have the energy to make them perfect.
Nick’s mother reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed.He stared at the spot on the table where Nick’s badge sat, face down.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, hating myself for how useless it sounded.
Sandra looked at me with eyes that had probably seen a thousand apologies already.“You don’t have to be sorry, dear.You did nothing wrong.”
For a while, we just sat there, the only sounds the tick of the kitchen clock and the distant hum of a lawn mower.Sandy served us banana bread, even though neither of us ate it, and Nick’s dad got up to pace the length of the room, hands jammed into his pockets.
I couldn’t help it—my brain started filling in the gaps, building stories out of every object in the house.The throw on the couch was hand-knitted, probably from a church bazaar.The end tables had little nicks at the corners, kid-height, years’ worth of collisions.The bookshelf was lined with battered hardcovers and a few Reader’s Digest volumes, their spines faded to beige.
The last time I’d been in a house like this had been my own parents’.I remembered my father’s obsession with keeping the windows streak-free, how my mother cut chicken leg quarters into small pieces and used exactly five so each of us would get a little meat in our plates.I remembered the day they died for the awful sin of walking on a sidewalk while someone was trying to assassinate a businessman.
Well, businessman was probably the wrong term.There had been some noise about the guy being a mobster.
I pressed my palm flat to the mug, letting the heat seep through my skin.My finger traced the rim, over and over, a nervous tick I’d never managed to break.
Sandy caught the movement, and her lips curled into a sad smile.“Is that a tattoo?”
I looked at my wrist, realizing the stars were on full display.“For me and my sisters.”
And suddenly, I didn’t want to be here anymore.I wanted to be with Ljuba and Vera at the safe house.They were my safe place.Hell, they were my everything.
But it wasn’t about me.Nick needed support, so no matter how much I wanted to escape his sweet, welcoming parents, I’d stay put.
Nick cleared his throat again.“We can’t stay long.Nadya needs to be in protective custody.And I need to be in New York to make sure the everyone responsible goes down.”
Sandy nodded.“Isabella wasn’t abused by only one man?”
“I don’t know, but he wasn’t the only one who attacked Nadya.”
Sandy let out a strangled noise before asking me, “Did they hurt you?”
I shook my head.“Not in recent years.Nick made sure of that.”I finished my tea in one long gulp, then set the mug down with a click.“Thank you for the tea, Mrs.Santana.”
She waved the formality away.“Sandy, please.”
I smiled, but it felt thin.
Nick’s dad clapped his son on the shoulder, then surprised me by reaching out and giving my hand a warm, rough squeeze.“Take care of each other,” he said.
“We will,” I promised, and almost meant it.
Nick took my hand as we left, not letting go until we got back to the motorcycle.
***
NICK VEERED OFF ONTOa gravel side road that dead-ended in woods so dense you could smell the moss even through the exhaust and helmet.He slowed the bike and coasted into a clearing, killing the engine with a practiced flick.The silence after was massive, so loud it rang in my ears.The only sounds were the soft ticking of the engine cooling off and the crush of pine needles under our boots.There were no houses around us.
“We walk from here,” he explained.
We left the helmets on the bike, and Nick led the way.I walked by his side, hands linked like we were afraid the other would vanish.The path was muddy, churned up by tires and rain.I almost slipped once, but Nick steadied me with a squeeze.There was a weird comfort in being here, at the edge of the world, where everything else was stripped away.
We climbed a small rise, and at the top, I could see the safehouse.It looked like every rural cabin in every horror movie: wood siding gone gray with age, one lopsided porch light casting a circle on the steps, a metal roof flashing dull in the dusk.But there were details you only noticed if you knew what to look for—new locks on the door, fresh footprints, the faint glint of a camera lens above the eaves.
Nick stopped, turning to me before we reached the porch.He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words got tangled up in his throat.Instead, he just stood there, jaw flexing, thumb brushing the side of my hand.
