“So, what happened to the girl?” she says as she sets the cup down and stretches her arms over her head.
Hunter’s eyes drop to the carpet, a tell of how much he cared for her. “Moved on. A guy serving time without a dime to his name wasn’t exactly the winning combination she was looking for. Plus, while I was inside, I lost a couple teeth.” He pulls back his lip to reveal a hole on the left side in the bottom row, explaining perhaps why he always grins to the right. “Went from ugly to real ugly real fast.” He half grins, concealing the gap.
Grace actually doesn’t find him ugly at all: a bit mangy with his untrimmed hair and scruffy half beard, but his eyes are a warm bronze, and he has an easygoing way about him that is very attractive, and again she is reminded of Jimmy.
“You okay?”
She shakes the thought away and says, “You should get those fixed.”
“Yeah, I’m working on it. Should have enough saved for implants by the time the rest of my teeth start falling out from old age.”
His sideways grin breaks her heart. She really likes him. He’s got what her grandmother called moxie. After all, he stole a car so he could see his girl. There’s something incredibly romantic about that.
“What time are you off?” she asks, an idea forming.
“Eight.”
“Perfect. Then I have a proposition for you.”
His left eyebrow lifts in curiosity as he squints with distrust through his right.
“I need to cut out of here with my baby but without the others.” She stops, waits for his reaction, and, when he gives none, continues. “The lady I’m with can’t drive on account of her ankle, so I’m thinking you might be able to give them a lift. I’ll pay you.”
“Where would I need to drive them?”
“I’ll leave that up to her.”
Reaching into her pocket, she peels off five one-hundred-dollar bills from the roll she placed there this morning and holds them toward him. “The beginning of your new-tooth fund.”
He gives her another lopsided grin as he takes the money, and as Grace makes her way back to the pool, she wonders how things might have turned out had Hunter not been caught, if he had gotten away with his joyride to see his girl, if his life might have turned out happily ever after, or whether guys like him and girls like her are destined for lives that simply don’t work out.
“Where have you been?” Mrs. Torelli says as Grace plops into the seat beside her.
Miles is now on Mrs. Torelli’s lap. He is bundled in his jacket, and she is clapping his hands in front of him, a game he seems to enjoy, and Grace wonders why she’s never thought of doing that.
Mattie has disappeared, and the boy is back in the pool. He stands on the step in his boxers and a sweatshirt, his face tilted up at the stars and his hands raised above his head as if trying to catch them or lift them.
“He’s special,” Grace says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Torelli snaps, and Grace realizes she’s taken the comment the wrong way.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean he sees things in his own way. Jeez, you’re prickly.”
“Me? That’s hilarious coming from you, Miss Warm and Fuzzy.”
“What did I do?”
“Nothing,” Mrs. Torelli huffs, still clapping Miles’s hands together but with so much force Miles is no longer smiling.
Grace blows out her breath and shakes her head, unsure what she’s done to piss the woman off other than to save her butt yesterday, this morning, and then again this afternoon.
Hunter walks from the office and into the courtyard to take down the umbrellas. One by one, he carries them to the shed beside the parking lot.
“Do you have a pen?” Grace asks.
“Front pocket of the diaper bag. Why?”
Grace ignores her. From the now very organized diaper bag, Grace takes out the pen and one of the bundles of hundreds.
She hesitates, her eyes catching on the gun, whose muzzle is sticking out between the diapers. She pulls Mrs. Torelli’s backpack closer and moves the gun from the diaper bag into the front pouch of the backpack.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Torelli says.
“I don’t like guns.”
“Well, neither do I.”
“Yeah, well, if you get caught with a gun in your husband’s name, it’s no big deal. If I get caught with it, it is. Did you call him?”
“Yeah. He’s fine. He has no idea the money’s gone. He played golf all day.”
Grace nods. It makes sense. The office is closed until Tuesday, and there’s no reason for him to go in. The FBI hasn’t arrested him, which probably means they can’t without the money.
She angles herself away from Mrs. Torelli.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Torelli says again, bending to try to see.
Grace shifts to further block her view.
“And you’re the one calling me prickly,” she says with a harrumph.
“You are prickly, and this is none of your business.”
25
HADLEY
Hadley watches as Grace sneaks quiet as a burglar into the motel office with the bundle of cash. She disappears into the back room, then returns a moment later, the bundle gone.
She doesn’t get this girl; she really doesn’t. At McDonald’s, Grace ordered two Extra Value Meals instead of three combos to save money, and now she’s giving ten grand to a motel clerk who looks like a drugged-out felon.
Grace returns to her chair.
“Why’d you do that?”
Shrug.
“That’s ten thousand dollars.”
Nod.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Not really. Not for a second chance.”
That’s all she says, as if that explains it.
Hadley stands the baby on her lap so he can try out his legs. He pushes against her with determination, and she smiles at his strong little will. A lot like his mom, she thinks with a glance at Grace.
She wants to ask Grace who gave her a second chance and why she needed it, but Grace has turned away, her gaze on the pool, making it clear, once again, she doesn’t want to talk. But then, a minute later, she surprises Hadley by saying, “Why did that woman we borrowed the car from say, ‘I hope you get there in time’?”
Hadley smiles. “I told her your husband’s unit was passing through Barstow and that he had never met his son. We were supposed to take your car, but the transmission blew, and we couldn’t rent one because your credit is bad and I don’t have a license.”
“You told her all that?”
“I had to tell her something.”
Grace nods, and again Hadley feels proud. It was pretty quick thinking, considering she’d needed to make it up on the spot.
“So, you’re heading to see family?” Hadley says.
“No family,” Grace says flatly. “Just him.” She thumbs her hand at the baby.
“What about your parents?”
“I never knew my dad, and my mom died when I was two.”
“Oh,” Hadley says, feeling bad for her. Hadley knows what it’s like to be alone. She’s lost both her parents, but at least she had them until she was an adult.
“Who raised you?”
“I’m going to bed,” Grace says, standing and holding out her arms for the baby.
“What about your husband?” Hadley says.
Grace practically wrenches the baby away as she says, “No longer in the picture.” There’s hurt behind the words, and Hadley bristles with anger at the man who caused it. She doesn’t know Grace well, but she knows her well enough to know she deserves a good man.
Grace stops at the edge of the pool. “What were you doing?” she says to Skipper, who’s now sitting on the steps making circles in the water with his fingers. “Earlier, when you were holding your hands up to the sky?” Grace holds the arm that isn’t holding the baby above her, the palm stretched toward the stars in imitation.
Sk
ipper lifts his face to look at her, the moon reflecting off his skin and making it glow. “Reaching out to my friends,” he says. “Coach says, no matter where we are, we all sleep under the same stars, so I figure if I reach out and they reach out, it’s almost like we’re touching.”
“Hmmm?” Grace says thoughtfully; then she tilts her face upward and closes her eyes, and Hadley wonders who she is thinking of.
“Who’s Coach?” Grace says when she stops.
“Frank Torelli,” Skipper says. “He’s not my dad, but he’s always kind of been my dad anyway.”
Hadley startles, the words piercing her heart as she is reminded of what she has left behind and that not all of it was bad.
26
MARK
Mark’s plane lands at two thirty in the morning. He considers driving to the field office, but driving there will take time he’s concerned he doesn’t have. These women have slipped past them twice, and he doesn’t intend for it to happen again.
Fitz called a few minutes ago with good news. The group was spotted at a restaurant in Baker, California, a blip on the map a couple of hours outside Las Vegas.
Fitz might not be cut out to be a field agent, but he’s a hell of a deskman, and when this thing is over, Mark is going to recommend him for a promotion. While Mark was in the air, the kid called every hotel and restaurant from Barstow to Las Vegas, astutely deducing that, with kids in tow, the group would have to stop. And he was right. The manager at the Denny’s in Baker served the group dinner; then she delivered pay dirt when she told him that, after they’d finished, she’d seen them walk to the motel down the street.
This case might be salvageable yet. The money’s been gone just over a day, and the chain of possession is still intact and should hold up in court. It was a good decision to fly out here. No more mistakes. Bring the women in, recover the money, get sworn affidavits from them that the money was taken from the Aztec Parking offices, find out whether they’re involved in any way, and case closed.
As he pulls from the rental car lot, he calls the Las Vegas field office and requests backup. By the time a team is assembled and mobilized, they should be about an hour behind.
He checks his watch. That shouldn’t be a problem. The women are probably asleep. He’ll keep an eye on things until the team arrives, and then they’ll wrap this up. He should be on a plane and headed back to DC by tomorrow afternoon.
He presses the accelerator, feeling a rush in his veins. These days Mark’s position makes him mostly a strategist—an academic who approaches investigations from behind a desk, almost as if solving a puzzle, figuring out the most efficient strategy for extracting justice, then organizing a task force to carry out his game plan. But before he took this job and moved to DC, he’d been a field agent, and he’d been good at it. And there are times when he misses it, his pulse ticking one notch faster as he closes in on his prey.
If they try to make a break for it, he’ll take them in himself. He feels himself almost wishing for it, already hearing the congratulations and feeling the pats on his back as he marches them into the field office. Of course he’ll act like it’s no big deal, like he does this sort of thing all the time.
He could use a morale boost. It’s been a rough couple of months. He thinks of the dog he’s promised Ben. Maybe he’ll even get a promotion out of this, with enough of a raise to afford a house of his own, one with a yard.
He opens the window to let in the cool desert air, the night full of promise and the exhilarating rush of things about to change.
27
HADLEY
Hadley stands in the shadows at the edge of the motel, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill. The smoke of her cigarette drifts into the predawn light, and she watches as it spirals away.
She couldn’t sleep, worry and guilt plaguing her thoughts. She’s concerned about herself and Mattie, but mostly it’s Grace that had her tossing and turning and unable to close her eyes. Finally, she gave up and came out here to sneak a smoke.
Who helps someone they barely know? Risks her future for no reason other than out of the goodness of her heart? Hadley thinks of all the people she knows, wondering who else would do that, and the only person she comes up with is her friend Melissa. Melissa is good like that, but she’s the only one.
Knowing Grace has no one makes her feel that much worse for the danger she’s put her in. She is all Miles has, and none of this has anything to do with them. Hadley never should have asked for her help.
She blows out an angry stream of smoke. Hell, she shouldn’t have taken the money in the first place. This is what she gets for trying to take control of her life: a great big kick in the teeth.
Tomorrow she’s going to straighten things out. Grace and Miles need to take the van and go, get as far as possible from Hadley and whatever or whoever is chasing her. Hadley will figure her own way out of this mess, or maybe she won’t. Either way, she’s not going to put Grace in any more danger. Enough is enough. This whole thing has gotten way out of control.
She wonders if she should turn herself in, throw herself on the mercy of the FBI, and if there’s a chance they’ll put her and Mattie in witness protection if she testifies against Frank. The problem is she doesn’t know anything. She didn’t even know the money they took was dirty or, truthfully, what that even means. Each time she thinks of the words dirty money, it makes her want to take out a scrub brush and go to work washing off the bundles of cash.
She grinds her cigarette into the dirt with her crutch, then lifts her face and sees a car approaching from the direction of the Denny’s. She’s been out here an hour, and it’s the first car she’s seen.
She glances at her watch: 4:26. The car drives slowly, its tires barely moving, and she thinks it must be a weary traveler looking for a place to stay. But then, a few hundred yards from the driveway, the headlights go out, and she watches as the car glides silently to a stop in front of the motel’s office. Hadley’s skin prickles as a man steps from the driver’s seat. He is dressed in slacks and a sport coat, his tie loose at the neck, and he doesn’t look weary in the least. Medium height and broad like a bull, he walks boldly through the door, like a man used to being in charge and who is on a mission.
Through the glowing window, she watches as he rings the bell on the desk. A second later, the kid who manages the motel walks from the back, rubbing his eyes. The man pulls something from his front pants pocket and holds it out for the kid to inspect, and the kid’s shoulders sag as he nods.
Hadley glances sideways at the door to her room, then beyond it to Grace’s. There’s no way to get to either without being noticed.
Heart pounding, she looks down at the backpack at her feet.
The man returns to his car and pulls it beside the pool so he’s in the shadows but directly in front of their rooms. Then he rolls down his window, reclines his seat, and stares. Waiting.
28
GRACE
Grace slept like a rock. Despite her stress, her exhaustion was so complete her eyes closed before her head hit the pillow. Miles woke once for a bottle, then, mercifully, went back to sleep, and so did she.
She rubs the sleep from her eyes and considers again leaving a note for Mrs. Torelli and again decides against it. There really isn’t anything to say, and she doesn’t need to leave behind any more evidence that might incriminate her. The FBI is after Mrs. Torelli, not her, and hopefully, it stays that way.
She glances at the clock and is surprised to see it says 4:32. She set the alarm for 5:00. A second later, she realizes the ringing that woke her isn’t coming from the clock but rather from the phone beside it. She snatches the receiver.
“Grace?”
“Hunter?”
“An FBI dude showed up a few minutes ago,” he hisses. “He’s out front, in his car. He’s alone, but I think he’s waiting for others.”
Instant panic freezes her, like she’s fallen through the ice and is suddenly drowning in frigid water. Sh
e looks at Miles on the bed, his arms flung over his head, and her regret chokes her.
“Thanks,” she manages before hanging up, knowing the risk Hunter took in calling.
She creeps to the window, careful to stay out of view, and peeks through the slit in the curtains, blinking once before charging for the door.
“Mrs. Torelli, what are you doing?” she says, stopping short of the parking lot, her hands raised as if the gun Mrs. Torelli is holding is aimed at her. Which it’s not. The gun is pointed through the driver’s side window of a small black car, a car she assumes has a federal agent in it.
“Grace, go!” Hadley screams, the gun wobbling dangerously with her frantic words. “You and Miles. Go. You need to get out of here.”
“Okay, Mrs. Torelli. It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” Mrs. Torelli screeches. “None of this is okay. You shouldn’t be here. None of this has anything to do with you. You have to go.”
Mrs. Torelli is twenty feet away, but Grace can see the tears and mucus running down her face, drips of wetness streaking her cheeks.
Grace takes a tentative step toward her as a man’s voice from inside the car says, “Mrs. Torelli—”
“Shut up!”
Grace freezes.
In as calm a voice as Grace can manage, the words sounding like they’re coming from outside her body, she says, “What do you say we put him in the trunk while we figure this out?” It’s the only idea she can think of, panic running through her as she watches Mrs. Torelli’s body convulsing and the gun hiccuping with it.
Mrs. Torelli doesn’t exactly nod, but her head twitches around her eyes, and Grace takes that as consent. Slowly, hands still up, she moves toward the car.
Pebbles dig into her bare feet, and her sweats ride low on her hips, in danger of falling down because the tie has come loose, but her focus is entirely on not making any sudden movements that might get the man shot.
Through the window, she can just make out his silhouette, a burly shadow sitting like a statue. When she reaches the passenger door, she says, “I’m going to reach in and grab his keys.”
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