Grace takes her time strapping Miles in the back, climbs into the driver’s seat, then reverses from the parking spot. When she turns to look back through the windshield, a smile creeps onto her face and she points through the glass.
Mattie follows her finger, and together they watch as the large boy tests the crusted mud of the salt flat with his toe to see if it’s safe to take a step. Deciding it is, he steps forward, and his right foot sinks to his ankle. He tries to pull it out, but the suction pulls him off balance and he falls forward, his left foot plunging into the muck to his knee.
Mattie laughs, and Skipper yells, “Look. Look at him. Look, look, look,” his finger pointing as he bounces in his seat.
The boy flails his arms to hold his balance, then yells something to the younger boy, who still stands safely on the bank. The boy shakes his head, and the bully screams at him, losing his balance in the process. He nearly falls backward, then overcompensates and falls forward instead, his arms disappearing into the cesspool to his elbows.
Mattie laughs harder, and Skipper bounces so hard the whole truck bounces with him. Grace puts the truck in gear and drives toward the exit. She lived in Georgia until she was nineteen, and she knows a mud bog scorched dry when she sees one, the crusted surface disguising the muck that lies below.
As they roll past, Mattie lowers the window and yells, “Look, Skipper, a pig in the mud!”
The boy looks over his shoulder, a grief-stricken expression on his face, the desert mountains behind him—a truly majestic sight.
“Home run,” Skipper says. “Way to go, Trout. Home run.”
“He’s calling me a fish?” Grace says to Mattie, who’s still smiling ear to ear.
“Trout, as in Mike Trout,” she says. “Your nickname is now Trout. It’s an honor. Skipper doesn’t just give anyone a nickname, and he definitely doesn’t give out names like that.”
36
HADLEY
They have hobbled back to the office and are again tangled, the ACE bandage caught on Hadley’s crutches and forcing her to cling to the agent as he tries to unsnaggle them. He is trying hard to be a gentleman, and she is very naughtily making that impossible, a recklessness brewing inside her she hasn’t felt in years.
Purposely, she stumbles into him, landing in such a way that his bound hands are forced to catch her by the waist, his palms burning against the exposed sliver of skin between her blouse and skirt. Quickly, he shifts them away, which makes her giggle for what a Boy Scout he is—a man the opposite of Frank, respectful almost to a fault.
She has no idea what has come over her. She feels a little crazy. Perhaps from hunger. Is that a thing? Or perhaps it’s the prospect of being arrested that’s sent her off the rails. She has no idea. All she knows is she is done being good, playing by the rules, and hoping, somehow, it will all work out.
“Stay still,” he orders, and she obeys, staying put as he weaves the bandage in and out, lifting her arms and moving her legs, his face screwed up in intense concentration.
She braces herself on his shoulders and hops over the ACE bandage, moving in such a way that her breasts brush beneath his nose, knowing this is a part of her anatomy he has been trying very hard to avoid, his eyes catching and then snapping away, which she finds very amusing.
A boob man. She has always liked boob men, or she used to. They’re usually very appreciative of a woman’s curves and are willing to spend lots of time admiring them.
He bends down to unwrap the bandage carefully from her ankle, and she laces her hands around his neck as if needing the support, her breasts pressed to his ear.
“You know,” he says, “I could overpower you right now?”
She giggles, a high, girly laugh. “I dare you,” she says.
“To escape,” he clarifies, flushing red. “I could overpower you to escape.”
She leans in a bit closer. “Of course, if you did, and Grace came back, she might just shoot you.”
“True,” he says, “but at least I’d go out in a blaze of glory.”
He maneuvers around her, and she maneuvers with him, undoing the progress he’s just made.
“Stay still,” he orders.
“What’s your name, Mr. Blaze of Glory?”
She feels him hesitate, unsure whether to give his first name or last. “Mark,” he says, and she gives a silent cheer.
Marcus? Markham? Or just Mark? she wonders. Spelled with a c or a k? Mark Wahlberg. Mark Twain. Mark Sloan from Grey’s Anatomy—Mr. McSteamy. She smiles.
“There,” he declares, stepping back to admire his work, the ACE bandage now draped like a loose snake between them. He smiles triumphantly, believing he has done it and is therefore now safe.
She hops toward him.
He steps back.
She hops with him.
“Hadley—” he says when he runs into the wall.
“Mark,” she interrupts, the recklessness bubbling over and making her feel drunk.
He opens his mouth to go on, but her lips on his stop him. It’s an awkward kiss, his bound hands pressed to her sternum as her neck cranes to keep them connected, his mouth frozen open as hers clumsily pushes against it.
He forces space between them. “Hadley—”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“But—”
“No,” she says again, tears filling her eyes and causing him to drop his to the floor between them.
Then something extraordinary happens. She is on the verge of losing it, her emotions teetering somewhere between despair and desperation, when his hands rise to cradle her chin, and he leans in and brushes his lips against hers. She knows it is only meant to be a kindness, a consolation to soften the blow of his rejection, but beneath the touch, hunger pulses. She feels it, ache and neediness that match her own, and when she wraps her hands around his neck to pull it closer, he loses the battle and his mouth molds to hers.
When he pulls away, shame blazes in his bright-blue eyes.
“It’s only us,” she says, setting her fingers against his lips to stop his protest. “And it’s only this moment.”
She has no idea where the words have come from, but they feel right, too much terror behind her and in front of her to think about, creating a vacuum in time and space so all that exists is him and her and now.
She sets her hands on his chest, then kisses him again. And when she slides her hands down and begins to unbutton his shirt, he lets her. She pulls it from his shoulders, and it falls halfway to his elbows before getting stuck because of his binds.
He looks down, and she looks down, and they laugh.
He bucks and leaps and spins trying to break free, and she laughs harder, and he laughs harder, both of them cracking up until they’re doubled over with their fit.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “Bend over.”
He does as she says, and she grabs his shirttail and yanks it over his head, turning the shirt inside out and causing it to land in a tangle on his wrists.
“Brilliant,” he says, flapping his elbows like a duck to show off his freedom.
Then they are kissing again, but having more fun with it now, the shirt dangling between them and reminding them of the humor. Awkwardly, they remove the rest of their clothes as best they can, and she is aware how ridiculous they must look, his shirt stuck on his hands, her shirt and bra dangling on the ACE bandage between them, his pants and boxers bunched at his ankles, and her skirt gathered at her waist. But frankly, she doesn’t care. For fifteen years, the only love she’s known has been from a man who terrorized her, and now she is with a man she’s known less than a day but who is caring, gentle, and kind.
When they come together, it is strangely ordinary, and yet both of them are aware how remarkable it is, like it is the most natural thing in the world.
It ends too quickly, and she feels how disappointed he is in himself, though she is not disappointed in the least. He was hungry, like she was hungry—two people starved so long it was i
mpossible to show restraint.
It was beautiful, she wants to say, but she knows how corny that would sound.
He rolls off so he is on his back, his chest heaving. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m a little out of practice.”
She shifts so her head is on his shoulder. “Really?” she says, tracing circles on his chest. “You’re a little out of practice making love to a woman in a sweltering trailer in the middle of the desert with your hands tied?”
He chuckles and leans down to kiss the top of her head. It’s such a strangely familiar thing to do, and again she’s surprised how comfortable she is, like she has known him her whole life, or more like she was meant to know him her whole life but they have only just now met.
“Well,” he says, “I can honestly say I’ve never done that with a suspect before.”
“Captor,” she corrects.
“Right. Captor.”
It should be funny, but something in the word deflates the moment.
She runs her finger over the scar on his left shoulder. The broiled skin trembles beneath her touch. “The war?” she asks.
“Football.”
“Linebacker?”
“Mascot.”
She smiles, then pushes onto her elbow and leans over to brush a kiss across it. When she lies back down, he wriggles closer and takes her fingers in his.
“So, you live in Las Vegas?” she says.
“DC. I moved there two years ago.”
He tells her about his life, and she tells him about hers. He grew up in Boston, played football for Notre Dame, served in the marines, then started with the FBI. He beams when he talks about his kids, Shelly and Ben, his love so big it fills the room, and she feels his hurt when he talks about his marriage, like somehow its failure is a reflection of his character.
He tells her he’s supposed to see them tomorrow, and that he and his son are going to pick out a dog. She tells him about Prince Charles and how bad she felt about leaving him behind. She knows she should not be upset over such a trivial thing as a pet, but Prince Charles was with her most of her marriage, and he helped her through the worst of times, and she can’t help but feel like she’s abandoned him after a loyal life of service.
He asks about Mattie and Skipper and a little about Frank, though it’s obvious he already knows a lot and has very strong opinions about him.
“Why didn’t you leave before?” he says when she finishes telling him about the pizza incident the night they left, a confession that felt like both a betrayal and a relief. It’s the first time she’s ever told anyone the truth about her marriage.
“I believed in love,” she mumbles, feeling foolish. “In marriage.” She shakes her head. “We were a family, and . . . I don’t know, I guess I just sort of believed in the idea that you stick it out—you know, through thick and thin—and that love is permanent, flaws and all.”
He tenses, and she wonders which part offended him, the fact that she stayed so long or that she could be so naive.
“Hadley,” he says after a long minute, “I need you to listen to me—”
“Don’t,” she says. “I just want to lie here. Please.”
She feels his reluctance to let it go, but mercifully, he stays silent and they return to quiet cuddling.
She drifts off, and when she wakes, he’s looking at her. “Now Grace is really going to shoot me,” he says.
Hadley laughs, a blush of pride blooming at the thought of Grace discovering what she’s done, almost hoping she does, feeling a little like a gladiator after a conquest in the arena. Then she thinks of Mattie and Skipper, and the thought is obliterated.
Suddenly panicked, she pushes herself up and grabs for her clothes. Her shirt and bra are tangled on the ACE bandage, and she has no idea where her panties have gone.
Mark manages to pull up his pants, but he is completely at a loss as to how to get his shirt back over his head. She gets her bra on, then scrambles to help him flip his shirt right side up. She is still tugging it over his shoulders when the sound of tires on gravel rolls toward them.
“Shit,” she says, abandoning his clothes and focusing on her own.
She’s buttoning the last button on her shirt when the car stops. Forgetting she’s tied to him and that her ankle can’t hold her, she leaps for the door.
Mark dives, and his body lands between her and the ground with a grunt. Before she can right herself, the door opens, and she looks up to see Grace, her arms loaded with bags.
She looks down at them and sniffs the air, and her eyes grow wide. “Are you kidding me? Tell me you’re kidding me?”
“Kidding about what?” Mattie says, stepping up behind her, Miles in her arms.
“Mattie, wait outside,” Hadley says quickly as she pushes off Mark and stumbles to her knees.
Grace closes the door, locking Mattie out; then she storms to the desk. “You do realize he is trying to arrest you?” she says, setting down the bags. “His job is to lock you up, put you behind bars, incarcerate you.”
Hadley staggers to her feet, Mark helping her as best he can with his bound hands.
“An eight-by-ten cell,” Grace continues, “with a cellmate named Bertha.” She practically bounces the water bottles off the desk as she slams them down. “A woman who bites the tails off rats and who names her toenail clippings. You do get that, don’t you?”
Hadley looks sheepishly at her through her brow, her cheeks warm, and Grace looks like she wants to slam the flashlight she’s holding over Hadley’s head. Then her frown deepens, and she shakes her head and harrumphs, but the harrumph lacks oomph, and Hadley thinks she might actually be a little pleased for her. Then she harrumphs again and returns to unpacking the groceries.
Hadley unties her wrist from Mark’s and, with apology in her eyes, reties the loose end to the desk, double and triple knotting it.
His eyes hold hers, pleading with her to reconsider, and she quickly looks away.
Grace pulls a Subway sandwich from the bag and holds it out. “I figured you must be hungry. Turkey and swiss on italian, lettuce only, hold the mayo.”
“Do I really come off that boring?”
Grace’s eyes slide to Mark. “Not anymore.”
Hadley smirks, and Grace flicks an annoyed look at her, which only causes Hadley to smirk wider, a grin she can’t seem to wipe away, unable to believe she did what she did.
Grace carries a second sandwich to Mark. He opens his mouth to say something, but Grace cuts him off. “Open your mouth for any reason other than to eat this sandwich, and so help me, I’ll leave you with nothing but water and granola bars.”
He snaps his mouth closed, and Hadley mouths, “Sorry.”
While Hadley eats, Grace rebinds Mark to the desk using zip ties, twining them together in such a way as to form a thick rope that chains his right wrist to the desk and leaves his left hand free. Then she moves the supplies she bought so they’re within his reach.
She bought enough food for a week, along with two dozen bottles of water, magazines, an air mattress, a sleeping bag, a pillow . . . and a bucket. Hadley looks at the bucket curiously; then, when she realizes what it’s for, she cringes and looks away, unable to face Mark, knowing she is a part of this.
“This isn’t going to end well,” Mark says as they’re leaving.
For a moment, Hadley is concerned Grace might make good on her threat and leave him with nothing but granola bars. Instead, her back still turned, she nods and says, “You have kids?”
“A boy and a girl.”
“Then you understand,” Grace says, and she continues out the door.
37
GRACE
The only station they can get on the radio is country, and Mattie is in pain, her hands pinned to her ears as Grace and Hadley belt out “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy).”
Hadley has the worst voice Grace has ever heard. The woman is completely tone deaf, with a kazoo implanted in her larynx. It makes Grace incredibly happy. Hadley might l
ook like a million bucks, but her voice would scare off dogs . . . cats, mice, roaches.
Miles babbles along. It turns out the kid is a country music fan. And so, even though it is the witching hour, time for his nightly meltdown, he is happy as a clam, gibbering and jabbering along to the music and kicking his feet.
The doctor said eventually the colic would work itself out, and he would stop having fits, but it’s been going on so long Grace had given up on it being true. She’s not certain if he is simply outgrowing it or if it’s the change in circumstances that’s triggered the progression. Whatever the case, she is extraordinarily grateful. It’s as if a giant burden has been lifted from her chest. Because, though the doctor assured her she was not to blame for her son’s misery, it felt like she was, and so, ever since she became a mom, she’s felt like a failure. And now, it’s as if suddenly she is passing muster.
Dropping the Torellis in Bakersfield didn’t work out. Mostly because Grace is an idiot. She missed the exit, and by the time she realized she’d missed the exit, she was so far past it that she just kept going, and she’s almost convinced herself it was by accident.
The problem was that at the time she was supposed to be exiting, everyone was asleep, conked out from their predawn start. Hadley was passed out against the window, not twitching or talking. Miles was snoring in his car seat, with Skipper’s baseball hat gripped in his little fist. And Skipper was curled on Mattie’s lap, Mattie flopped on top of him.
Had any of them been awake, Hadley, Skipper, and Mattie would probably be on a train right now headed for Omaha. But they weren’t. They were all peacefully asleep and not being annoying in the least. Then the exit came and went, and it was too late to turn back, or at least that’s what Grace told herself, her guilt niggling at her each time she looks at Miles and realizes again the danger she’s put him in.
She sings louder, and Hadley matches her as Mattie cries, “Child abuse!”
Grace’s back aches. The truck’s seats have no lumbar support, and the entire drive she’s been slouched, causing her muscles to cramp and her back to spasm. They are driving through the mountain town of Mammoth, the radio now crackling with eighties rock and roll.
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