False Positive
Page 28
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Wednesday. Evening.
Nothing happened.
Devereaux struggled to his knees and gingerly picked up the vest. Something was wrong. The wires were real. So was the switch. But the material in the pockets? It wasn’t any kind of explosive Devereaux had come across before. He sniffed it, and realized what it was.
Play-Doh. The vest was a fake. It wasn’t dangerous at all.
Devereaux hugged his daughter. Thoughts and emotions were flooding over him in an irresistible tide, but out of the deluge one name kept screaming to him. Brian. Brian! BRIAN!
Who the hell was Brian?
No. What the hell was Brian?
There, on the floor, six feet away, lay the cuddly rabbit Nicole had been carrying. Devereaux raced across to it. He picked it up. Ran out of the garage. Flung it high over the roof of the Mercedes. And was knocked flat on his back when the C-4 packed inside it detonated.
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Thursday. Late Morning.
Everything’s broken. Everything’s falling down. Falling on me…
The man lifts the boards. He finds me. Reaches down. Grabs me. He’s going for my neck. He’s going to strangle me with something.
Another man comes. He has a long, narrow board. He puts it down, next to me. They roll me on my side. Slide the board under me. Tie me to it. Fix a mask over my face. Lift me up. Hold me high between them. The mask is scratching my face.
They carry me to a truck. Put me inside. Close me in. I start to fight. I must get out. But I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t see…
—
“Daddy?”
It was a girl’s voice. She was nearby.
“Daddy?”
What did she want? Who was she talking to?
“Nicole? Listen to me, sweetheart.”
It was a woman’s voice now. Alexandra Cunningham’s.
“Your daddy? He’s OK. He’s not awake enough to talk to you right now. But he will be. Very soon. Then you can come back and visit with him whenever you like.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
One Week Later
The sign on the billboard by the side of the road had been changed while Devereaux was cooped up in the hospital. There were no more angels on it when he came out. Or devils. Or pictures of any kind. The sponsors had changed their approach. Now they were just using giant blocks of text:
LIFE IS SHORT. ETERNITY IS NOT.
The owner of the food truck had followed suit. He’d dispensed with his illustrations, too, and had responded with a few words of his own:
LUNCH BREAK IS SHORT. OUR CHICKEN IS HOT.
Loflin had arrived at the pull-off before Devereaux. She was standing next to the hood of her Subaru when he got there, at exactly the time they’d agreed to meet. Two portions of the truck’s signature chicken were set out in front of her, ready for them to eat.
“This place is OK, I guess.” Devereaux took a tentative bite, still not fully forgiving the lack of pork or beef. “But I do like the idea of solving the serious issues in life by eating ’cue.”
“That’s easy to do, when the menu only gives you one option.” Loflin smiled, then broke off to chew.
“Maybe the owner believes in destiny.” Devereaux caught a trickle of stray sauce with a napkin. “Like Hindus, or whoever. Or your mother.”
“Maybe.”
They ate in silence for the next few minutes.
“How did it go this morning?” Devereaux looked at Loflin out of the corner of his eye.
It had been her mother’s funeral that morning. Loflin had come to the chicken truck directly from the service. She still had on her black dress, which was starting to cling in the afternoon sun, and she was self-conscious about the piece of hiking sock she’d used to disguise the electronic ankle bracelet she was forced to wear.
“As well as you’d expect.” Loflin dropped a bone onto her plate. “No one came. It was just the minister and me. But look on the bright side. I’ve finally found a benefit to having a psychopath for a mother. I didn’t have to spring for a giant wake.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“Don’t be. It would have been weird. It’s better for me to draw a line on my own. Now I can move on.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. A lot depends on how the trial works out, I guess. My lawyer’s optimistic, and he seems to know his stuff. Say thanks to Alexandra for hooking me up with him, by the way.”
“Will do.”
“If I’m not locked up, I was thinking about taking a trip. Around Europe, maybe. I need some distance. My mother’s gone, but she’s not gone. Do you know what I mean? She was a constant voice in my head, controlling what I thought and what I did for so, so long. For all my life, really Manipulating me. Keeping me off balance with psychological tricks. Now I need to learn how to be myself. How to make my own decisions. To figure out what I like. What I want. Who I am. I think I need to stay well away from here until I don’t feel like her hand’s always on the wheel, you know?”
“Do you think that’s possible? Can you escape something like that?”
“Cooper, are you testing me? Of course you can escape. Look at you. You’re nothing like your father was. Ethan wouldn’t be alive if you were. Nicole wouldn’t be. And look at me. Last time we passed this place, I was ready to help get you killed. But I didn’t. I left it late, admittedly, but I chose my own path in the end. Everyone does. Or can. Destiny’s not set, like my mother said it is. We’re all free to make up our own.”
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
Two Months Later
Alexandra Cunningham had told Nicole that Devereaux was her father when she thought he might die, following the explosion.
On reflection, Cunningham realized this made no sense, since she’d already told her daughter that her father was dead. Fortunately, Nicole took the apparent resurrection in stride. And once the truth was out there, Cunningham didn’t feel she should take it back.
Without consciously planning to, she had asked Devereaux over for dinner one night after he got out of the hospital. The evening went well, and she asked him over again one night the next week. And the next. Twice, the week after that. And so on.
Nicole seemed to like the direction things were heading, too. Devereaux appeared to be happy. He started to bring little gifts. Flowers for Cunningham. Outfits for Nicole’s Barbies. Increasingly nice bottles of wine. And while Cunningham would never have admitted it to anyone else, she was starting to wonder if she’d been wrong about Devereaux eight years earlier. Whether it could have worked out with him.
Whether it could still work out…
—
Cunningham had wrapped up lessons early on purpose that day and had sent Nicole outside to play. She was looking forward to the evening. She’d overspent on a new dress from Theodora—black, short, and clingier than anything she’d worn in ten years—and she was determined to make sure the meal was extra special, too. She was trying out a new recipe she’d found in Bon Appétit—steak and mushrooms in tequila sauce—and was scared she’d ruin it if she rushed.
Devereaux arrived bang on time. He sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and they chatted about everything and nothing while Cunningham put the finishing touches to the steak. He helped to roast the corn. He set the table, tactfully arranging the Sheffield silver flatware, which Cunningham had inherited from her mother, to cover the various scratches and dents that Nicole had made while playing with her dolls. And when it was time to eat, he went and called his daughter in from the yard.
Nicole was messing around in the far corner with a handful of her favorite Barbies. She turned and smiled when she heard Devereaux’s voice. Her hair was hanging in perfect ringlets. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her rainbow-striped dress was still mostly pristine.
She watched until Devereaux had gone back inside. Then she went to check on the two naughty Barbies. T
he pair she’d caught talking to the girl next door’s new Bratz dolls after she’d specifically told them not to.
She made sure that the twine securing their arms behind their backs was good and tight. She adjusted the manacles she’d made out of heavy-duty paper clips so they pinched a little harder around their ankles. Then she took a wooden cocktail stick and jabbed it into the first doll’s eye. She pulled out a nail scissors she’d taken from the bathroom and chopped off one of the second Barbie’s fingers. She was about to slice off its ear as well when she heard the squeak of the screen door opening, behind her. Nicole froze, fearing it was her mother. She wouldn’t understand…
“Hey! Where’s my little girl?” It was Devereaux who’d appeared on the back porch. “Put those dolls down. I told you—it’s time to eat.”
“OK, Daddy!” Nicole relaxed. She slipped the scissors back into her pocket and turned around, beaming. “I’m coming…”
For my parents:
Audrey and John Grant
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go to the following for their help, support, and encouragement while I wrote this book. Without them, it would not have been possible.
Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire; and the whole team at Random House.
Janet Reid.
Richard Pine.
My friends, who’ve stood by me through the years: Dan Boucher, Carlos Camacho, Joelle Charbonneau, John Dul, Jamie Freveletti, Keir Graff, Kristy Claiborne Graves, Tana Hall, Nick Hawkins, Dermot Hollingsworth, Amanda Hurford, Richard Hurford, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Martyn James Lewis, Rebecca Makkai, Dan Malmon, Kate Hackbarth Malmon, Carrie Medders, Philippa Morgan, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Gunther Neumann, Ayo Onatade, Denise Pascoe, Wray Pascoe, Dani Patarazzi, Javier Ramirez, David Reith, Sharon Reith, Beth Renaldi, Marc Rightley, Melissa Rightley, Renee Rosen, Kelli Stanley, and Brian Wilson.
Everyone at The Globe Pub, Chicago.
Jane and Jim Grant.
Ruth Grant.
Katharine Grant, Jess Grant, and Alexander Tyska.
Gary and Stacie Gutting.
And last on the list, but first in my heart—Tasha. Everything, always…
By Andrew Grant
Even
Die Twice
More Harm Than Good
RUN
False Positive
About the Author
ANDREW GRANT was born in Birmingham, England. He attended the University of Sheffield, where he studied English Literature and Drama. He has run a small, independent theater company and worked in the telecommunications industry for fifteen years. Andrew is married to novelist Tasha Alexander, and the couple divides their time between Chicago and the UK.
andrewgrantbooks.com
Facebook.com/andrewgrantauthor
@Andrew_Grant
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