“They won’t be thrilled with you. But they won’t turn you out when I explain.”
Austin shut his eyes and tried to process this cage of circumstances, whether any other way out existed. He saw again the barrel of Jason’s gun aimed at his head.
He opened his eyes and nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I don’t have all the facts right now, and you do. So … lead on.” For now.
11
Half an hour after Marcus kept down the peanut butter sandwich, Lee administered his first dose of Amoxicillin and Motrin. Half an hour after that, the back door creaked open. Marcus shifted against the pillow, eyes darting to the doorway.
“It’s Violet,” Lee said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
In the kitchen, Violet was stuffing cans of health-brand soup into a cupboard. A stiff-handled brown paper bag squatted at the end of the counter. One of the seams was half torn away from the handle. Clothes peeked out the top.
Violet looked over her shoulder. “I figured I should buy all the soup I could carry, in case we have to hide here for weeks or something. Or we can take them with us, if we actually leave Michigan.”
“Sam is adamant.”
“What about you?”
Lee shook her head. Over the last hour, the possibility had become less outlandish, but it meant the end of her clinic, her job at the hospital, her ties to … To whom? Sam? Chuck and Belinda? If Marcus needed Texas, Lee would go to Texas. As soon as he was well enough to travel.
“Just so you know.” Violet rubbed her thumb against her wrist. “If you blurted that out and then wondered why you said it, or … Anyway, I wouldn’t hold you to it. Bringing me, I mean.”
“If the situation forces fleeing and you wish to come, then you’re welcome to.”
It was nothing more than a practical invitation. Where would Violet go if not with Lee? To dissuade a gush of the girl’s gratitude, Lee dug through the bag of clothes. A week’s worth of boxer briefs and socks, a package of white T-shirts. One pair of black fatigue pants, two pairs of flannel sleep pants, and three pairs of jeans. Four long-sleeved men’s shirts, unadorned except for the buttons on the Henley. Several flannel button-downs and a zip hoodie, all of which could be put on without exacerbating broken ribs.
Lee might have believed Belinda stuffed this bag for an unknown patient sized large, if the clothes hadn’t all been so … Marcus. Even the colors of the shirts—she’d chosen black, brown, dark greens, blues, one in mustard yellow, one in brick red. No white, no pastels, no patterns.
Violet stood beside the refrigerator, watching her, rubbing her wrist with her thumb.
“You told her,” Lee said.
“You knew I was going to.”
“You said ‘only if it comes up.’”
“Right. It came up.”
“When you brought it up.” Exhaustion nearly buckled Lee’s legs. She leaned her shoulders against the wall. “Is she waiting in the car?”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Good grief, no. I said they can come tomorrow, not before noon.”
“Do they understand that he’s …?”
“I told them he’s hurt, and it’s bad, and he’s sick with pneumonia. And you’re taking care of him and he’s going to be okay.”
Lee pushed away from the wall.
“Lee, I get that you don’t want to deal with Belinda. Really, I do. But for us to let them keep grieving, even for a day, when we know. I mean, think how it was when they found out he was … I’m sorry, but I had to tell them.”
The kindness held a certain logic, and what was done was done. Lee had fifteen hours to prepare for Belinda’s barging in the door and dragging Marcus clear off the bed for a hug and crying all over him. Queasiness settled in her stomach. She returned to the bedroom.
“Marcus.” Lee waited for him to meet her eyes. “We have clean clothes. You can shower, whenever you’re ready.”
He absorbed that as if it were a new thought, glanced down at his filthy cargo shorts and bare chest, and nodded.
“You can rest for now, if—”
“No.”
Getting him up proved more difficult than she expected. Any way she supported him put pressure on his ribs, and he had almost no muscle strength in his extremities. When he finally made it to his feet, his right leg buckled. Had Lee not already been supporting most of his weight, he’d have collapsed to the floor.
“Your leg is injured?” she said when he tried to continue without comment.
He gritted his teeth and shuffled forward.
“Marcus, I can’t treat it if I don’t—”
“Knee.”
“How did it happen?”
“Not bad now. Stiff.”
The shower was only a stall, not a bathtub, so Lee set up the metal folding chair she sat on to debride Ray Donnelly’s ulcers. Marcus was silent as she lathered his hair, shoulders, and back with the cheap body soap on hand. Then he took over cleaning himself and rinsing off with the extending shower head. Lee set out underwear, the brown zip hoodie, and a green pair of sleep pants. By the time she’d helped him dress and struggle to his feet, all his muscles shook with fatigue. Lee recruited Violet to support his less injured side and positioned herself where she would least jostle the broken ribs. They reached the bedroom after long minutes, and he slumped down on the mattress. His breathing labored more than when he used to run the park path for miles.
The thought bridged the distance Lee had maintained for the last two hours between her nursing tasks and herself, as if she could be a nurse yet not be Lee. As if Marcus were a stranger brought in by ambulance and charted as John Doe. She’d massaged soap into his scalp and pretended no cowlick twirled at the base of his neck. She’d washed months of dirt and neglect from his malnourished frame and pretended not to remember the muscular power in his arms and shoulders. She’d helped him into secondhand clothes and pretended she didn’t know his favorite pair of jeans, threadbare and faded and loosely fitted.
She checked his knee once he was back in bed and found no swelling or heat, but his range of motion was limited. Flexion seemed to cause less pain than extension, but his jaw clamped hard when she asked.
This silence inside him—it wasn’t theirs. It didn’t hold safety or trust. She needed to understand it, but instead she kept blundering against it and stumbling away, cut by its edges. She had to index the questions he didn’t want asked and observe their answers for herself.
So she didn’t mention the new scars she’d observed while helping him dress—nearly a dozen of them, dime-sized puckers of skin. On his back, one near the old scar where he’d removed the Constabulary tracker. On his abdomen. On his chest, one below the right clavicle. These compared to no scar she’d seen before.
In minutes, he crashed to a deep sleep.
Violet appeared in the doorway, cradling a steaming bowl of chicken and rice soup. “Oh … I thought I’d see if he wanted to eat some more.”
“Let him rest.”
“Right. Guess I should’ve asked.”
“No, Violet, it’s fine.” A thoughtful, sensible thing to do, in fact. One reason Violet was suited to work with patients.
“Lee, are you … well, um …?”
The knock on the back door jolted Lee’s heartbeat.
Violet jumped. “Is it Sam?”
Bringing an emergency patient without texting first? He knew Lee was here, but he’d still follow procedure. He was Sam, after all. “I’m not sure. Wait here.”
Across the house, the doorknob jiggled, and then a key slid into the lock. Beneath the white blanket, Marcus’s legs moved. He opened his eyes, and one knee bent to push himself up.
“It’s all right,” Lee said. “Only Sam has a key.”
“Stay with him,” Violet said. “I’ll find out what’s up.”
She slipped from the room before Lee could protest. The back door opened, and Marcus clasped the blanket. Despite the flush of fever on his skin, he was one breath away from struggling to his feet, or trying to. Lee shook her head, and challenge stirred in his eyes. If someone unwanted breached that door, he wouldn’t simply lie here. She dipped her head once in comprehension.
We can still speak without words.
Violet’s voice punctured the quiet in the house. “He doesn’t come in here.”
Sam’s deep voice spoke quietly for a few seconds, until Violet cut him off.
“No freaking way, Sam.”
12
She was standing in front of him. Violet. Just like that. Honey blonde hair longer now, halfway down her back. Green eyes sparking. Curves filled out in the last four months. She’s eighteen now. And different. His Violet would never have folded her arms and planted her feet in the doorway, facing down Sam Stiles.
“Where’s Lee?” Sam said.
“What, you think she’ll let a con-cop in here? Especially right now. Come on, Sam.”
Violet said the man’s first name unthinkingly, must have said it hundreds of times. While Austin had chased dead end after dead end in search of her, in search of this ghostly network of people, Sam had known where all of them were. A slow simmer began in the pit of Austin’s stomach.
“Violet,” he said.
She stared up at him. As her mouth opened to answer, a woman rounded the corner behind her, coming from a hallway. Thirty-ish, taller than Violet, more skeletal than slender, with keen gray eyes and black hair cut just above the crew neckline of her shirt.
Lee Vaughn.
“Sam?” she said.
“We need to talk.” Sam propped a hand on the doorframe. “If Violet will let us in.”
“Is he a patient?” The woman’s eyes raked Austin up and down.
“No.” Violet’s gaze didn’t waver from Austin’s. “He’s a Constabulary agent.”
Even the woman’s breath froze.
“In fact, he’s Austin Delvecchio.”
The woman’s lips pulled back minutely, a quick glimpse of teeth, and her shoulders inched back, too, prepared to—what, tackle him? Had Violet told her everything?
Sam sighed. “First, hear me out—”
“Get him out of here,” the woman said. “Now.”
“He’ll be dead, Lee.”
“I don’t—”
“Because Jason Mayweather will kill him, because he’s the one who told me about Marcus.”
The very air seemed to absorb his words. Lee drew her hands behind her back and stepped to one side. “Violet.”
“But he’s—”
“Violet.”
Violet backed up, but the blaze in her eyes flickered higher. She faced Sam. “How do we know Mayweather threatened him? Because he told you? He’s probably a spy.”
Austin pushed past Sam, through the doorway. “Come on, Violet.”
“What? It wouldn’t be a new concept to you.”
“You think I’d turn you over to Jason after what he did to Brenner? You really think that about me?”
She glared at him, and he steeled himself against the sting inside. No, he didn’t deserve her acceptance, but this …
“Violet,” Sam said. “Austin’s in danger. I’m telling you that. Me. Not Austin.”
Violet’s gaze dropped to the floor, but she slowly shook her head.
Tension danced around these people like lightning bolts in a cloud. Austin’s teeth clenched, though no one here looked ready to throw a punch. Maybe he could end the debate. He dropped his bag on the floor and rolled up his sleeve. The bruise had started to throb in the last hour, but it wasn’t spreading.
Lee reached his side in moments. “Mayweather did this?”
“And this.” He tugged down his jacket collar. Violet peeked upward, then raised her head to stare at the blue and purple mottling his neck. “If Brenner’s here, ma’am, you don’t have to take my word on anything. Jason brought me to the house yesterday. Brenner will recognize me.”
Lee’s lips pressed together until they disappeared, further thinning her face.
No one moved from their positions—Sam and Austin just inside the door, Lee several paces further inside, Violet braced with her feet apart, an arm’s length from Lee. The air around them still crackled, and they all stood rigid in it, as if a sudden move might bring down the lightning.
“You’re a Constabulary agent,” Lee said, “no matter what’s happened between you and Mayweather.”
“No, I’m not. Not practically speaking. Arresting you means paperwork, which Jason would see. So even if I wanted to betray all of you …” Austin shrugged.
“Even if?” Violet said.
“What did I just say? I’m not giving anybody over to that guy, not even legally.”
“Not all Constabulary agents are like Mayweather,” Lee said.
“And it’s clear I can’t tell good cop from bad cop. If he hadn’t taken me into his confidence, I’d still be an admiring underling.”
“You don’t consider him an anomaly?”
“Someone trained him. Someone promoted him several times. He’s been an agent for almost seven years now, and in that time he’s worked with multiple colleagues. In all that time, these people either didn’t see what he really is … or they did see it. And did nothing.”
Lee angled to face him, and her movement dissolved the friction in the room. “How long ago were you attacked?”
Maybe that question meant a lifting of suspicion. Austin sighed. “A couple hours.”
“You need to ice this.” Lee took his wrist between her hands and tilted it, then pressed her thumb to each bone. He didn’t let himself wince. “I’d need an x-ray to be sure, but I don’t believe it’s broken.”
“It’s not,” he said, and she arched her eyebrows but didn’t comment.
She assessed the bruise on his throat, asked if his breathing was affected, asked if he’d sustained any other injuries. He almost didn’t tell her about his ankle, but letting it swell without treatment would be stupid. And pointless. This day had already pulverized his masculinity. One more blow wouldn’t make a difference.
“All right,” she finally said. “Come inside, both of you.”
Sam shook his head. “No time. This is it. You know it is.”
“It?”
“You have to run, all of you, tonight. Now.”
She shifted to stand like a soldier at ease, shoulders relaxed, hands behind her back. “We’ve discussed this.”
“And we’re done discussing. It’s time to move. Mayweather knows Austin is either hiding out or on the run. He’ll be watching the interstates as soon as he can put a plausible story together and mobilize enough agents. Once that happens, you’ll never get out of Michigan.”
Something like panic lit her eyes. “He can’t travel, Sam.”
“Lee, I want you to think about what will happen if he doesn’t. If Jason gets to him again.”
Austin had never watched someone pale before, not like this, anyway. Lee looked sick. She nodded and breathed deep, seemed to fortify herself from the inside out.
It hit him, what Sam was saying. Why Sam had brought him here. “You want me to go with them.”
“No choice,” Sam said. “You don’t have to live in Texas for the rest of your life. Just lay low there while all this crap explodes. Think of it as a protection detail. You’ve got a badge and a gun and you’re able-bodied.”
Protection. Yeah. No way Violet should be driving across the country with a sick, beaten man and a woman who could be made of twigs. He nodded.
Lee’s hands, held behind her back, fell to her sides. She nodded back. After a long moment, Violet nodded too.
“You’ll take my truck.” Sam jingled
the keys in his pocket. “I drove it for that very purpose. It’s got a cap, and the license plate won’t trace to any of you. We’ll throw everything we can fit in the bed, including the air mattress for Marcus. Until you get out of Michigan, Austin stays hidden with him. Then you can rotate drivers.”
The man had planned their entire trip. For the next hour, a sorting and packing frenzy ensued. They stocked the bed of Sam’s truck with everything from cans of soup to medical supplies.
It hadn’t taken long to figure out what this house was. Not really a house, not in furnishings, anyway. The spacious living room had been turned into something like a sickbay. Two air mattresses were set up along one wall, white sheets and white woven blankets tucked around them. On the other side of the room sat an actual medical exam table with green vinyl upholstery. Black market medicine. It was the only thing that made sense.
In the kitchen, Austin found Violet stocking a mini-cooler with ice and frozen gel packs.
“For Marcus,” she said without looking at Austin. “And your wrist.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to face him. Her lips pressed into a line of doubt, but her eyes held a depth of care that almost undid his resolution not to sweep her into his arms. The four months of distance evaporated as she stepped closer and tugged down his collar. She studied the bruise on his throat, then lifted her eyes to his.
For once in his life, he understood before he opened his mouth that words would ruin this. The memory of her taste, her touch, pulsed through him, and her eyes were wells of the same memories—except of him.
For about two seconds, he thought she’d let him kiss her.
Violet’s hand dropped to her side. She stepped back as if realizing how close they were.
Still nothing to say. He went back to work, adrenaline thrumming in the background of everything else. I’m leaving. My home. My work. My family. Not forever, but for now. If only he could call Esther and explain. She’d think he abandoned them.
Both Violet and Lee kept a duffel of clothes here, which probably shouldn’t have surprised Austin as much as it did. Something surged in his chest when he shoved Violet’s bag into the truck bed alongside his own. Sam had popped the hood and bent over the guts of his truck, inspecting before sending it on a cross-country trek.
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