(Blood and Bone, #1) Blood and Bone (22 page)

He coughs, and I can hear the death rattle. I pull out my phone, realizing I don’t know the address. Desperation and defeat fight for the top spot in my heart. I push off him, turning and running outside. I get to the street, dialing 911.

The operator asks me questions, but I shout at her, “1901 Fairview Avenue. A man has been shot. He’s a surgeon at a hospital in Seattle. He says it’s a stomach wound and he’s dying. Please hurry.” She shouts things at me, but I run back inside, scrambling with my fingers to find light switches so the emergency workers can see their way inside. I hit something and a door opens. I hit something else and light flickers in the back. It’s enough. I leave the door open and run to the flat. He’s still breathing. I cling to him, holding my hand over the wound.

He opens one bloodshot eye. “Why are your hands so cold?”

It makes me smile through the sniffles and tears. “They’re coming. I called for an ambulance. I told them you’re a doctor from Seattle and that you’ve been shot.”

He winces. “They’re going to be looking for me. My blood is at the scene where Randall is dead. They’re going to know I was hurt, and Rory knows I was a surgeon, doesn’t he?”

I swallow hard, nodding after a moment.

“You have to run. You have to leave me here.”

I shake my head but he pushes on me. “GO NOW!” His voice cracks.

I stand, backing away. “I can’t leave you.”

He pats his own chest. “You live in here. You can’t leave me, ever. A person’s heart can’t be given away more than one time. After that it’s not real. It’s forced. I gave you my whole heart, and you gave me yours. We don’t need anything else.” The sirens in the distance change the subject for us. “Go, now. Go to the place you hid from the monsters.”

I turn and run. I don’t look back. I can’t watch him die, and I can’t stay and get caught too. Rory will win. Our best chance is with me free to kill him. I won’t have any fancy way of doing it. I have only one way.

I take the car and drive as fast as I can to North Carolina. His cash is still in the car, thank God. I get some drive-thru food, suffer through it, and head for Pat’s house just as the sun starts to come up. I have no way to contact Antoine, but I have to assume he isn’t in on this. He’s innocent and yet guilty by association. He will give my aunt to Rory and let him kill her but just not know that’s what happened.

I park a block behind the house and run along the road, cutting through yards and hopping over fences, with a great deal of effort. I
imagine it was the reason I stayed so skinny, to make running and hopping fences simple.

When I land on the grass with a thud in Pat’s yard, I scan for any movement. I don’t cut across the grass but hug the perimeter. There is a sedan parked out front. It’s beige and has two guys in it. I almost roll my eyes.

I grab the hide-a-key from the planter and unlock the basement door. Slipping into the dark, I close the door and lock it. The shadows in the house remind me I’m scared of the dark. The ache in my heart reminds me I no longer care.

I hurry up the basement stairs, sneaking past the windows on the main floor and rushing the second-story stairs. I creep into Pat’s room, pulling down the attic stairs inside her closet.

The light from the morning sun fills the attic. It’s small and bright, with windows everywhere. I crawl up the stairs, pulling them up with me when I get inside. The space hasn’t changed. There are still Barbie bins and coloring books. The dollhouse is dusty and smaller than I remember it being.

I glance about, wondering where I would have hidden something up here.

A fuzzy memory sneaks in, reminding me of the time I wrote a love letter to Dawson Diego. He gave it back with a big X across the spot where he had to pick yes or no. I saved all my tears and humiliation for this spot and then hid the letter behind the wall. I turn, seeing the very spot. You had to crawl across the ladder, and only a small child would be able to make it across. It was my very first booby trap. I scoot along the ladder, not sitting on it, but am able to reach across it to the spot where the panel pushes back with ease. Clearly I never clued into the fact adults have long arms . . .

I pull a large manila envelope from the panel. It’s stuffed sort of full for something that should contain only a key.

When I open it up there is a ton of paperwork inside, all written in handwriting I don’t recognize. I don’t know what it means, but I’m guessing if I hid it, it must be important. I dig farther down, finding a key that looks nothing like a key. It’s got the handle part, but the end looks like it belongs inside a computer. I think it’s a high-tech key. It probably has a microchip in it—spies always say the word
microchip
like it means something. I honestly can’t say what a microchip is. I don’t even care slightly.

At the very bottom there is a letter. It’s written in my handwriting.

I don’t know who to address this to. I don’t know who will find it. A me in the future, perhaps.

My name is Andrea Olson. I have discovered my name is actually Samantha Barnes. Anyone who knows me dies. Everyone who loves me is lying. I have to write this to you because I am about to lose my memories again. Whatever you do, don’t fall for that one.

Trust no one. I made that mistake already.

There is a safe-deposit box in Turin, Italy, with some evidence in it. I went there, and before I could even get the box opened, a man tried to kill me. Something terrible is happening to me. I am covered in scars, and I don’t know who I am. There’s also a man chasing me. He says his name is Rory and he used to be my lover, but I don’t believe him. He makes my skin crawl. He keeps asking me to take him to my father’s house. If he did love me he would never ask that. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone when you leave for the security box. Just go there alone. I made the mistake of trusting Simon, my boyfriend. He’s a liar too, and I don’t think his name is Simon. I think it’s Benjamin Dash, but I’m not sure. Whatever is in that box, he wants it. So does
Rory. I wanted to find it and destroy it, so I could be free of them all.

I have no advice for you except to go and destroy what’s in that box. I have lost this battle. I am here to say good-bye to my aunt, but she isn’t here. I remember her and this house. I remember so many things that make no sense.

I hope you remember me!

I don’t know what to think of it. Clearly I didn’t get the whole story from Derek last time. I just panicked and went rogue.

The only intriguing part of the entire letter is that Rory and I have met before. He knew I was on the run with Derek? So his pretending to see me for the first time in years was all an act.

Of course it was. He acted so nonchalant when he met me. He didn’t run to me and hug me. He entered that office and was as cool as a cucumber. He was expecting me to be alive. He was expecting me to be with Derek.

I feel like I have more questions than anything. But I have one answer that I didn’t before. I need to go to the safe-deposit box alone. I contemplate opening the ladder and climbing down that way, but there’s a bad feeling inside me. My eyes glance at the window I always left from. It’s awfully high up, but I know I’ve done it many times.

Deciding it’s better to be scared of heights than it is to be caught by the two men in the sedan out front, I open the back window to the attic and climb onto the roof. Clinging to the envelope, I refuse to look anywhere but the place my feet have to go. I hurry down the back roof, hopping the two feet down onto the awning over the back deck. From there I walk to the end of it and jump. My feet tingle from the four-foot jump, and I could throw up if I gave it a second thought, but my heart is racing. I have brought the magical key of
doom into the real world. The key everyone wants is right here in my hand. If I get caught, I am screwed.

I hurry through the yards back to the car, fighting the terrible feeling I have that I am making a giant fucking mistake.

Getting to Italy isn’t hard. Getting out of the United States without Rory finding me is. I use the passport and credit card Derek gave me when we were going to Austria.

I choose JFK as my airport, assuming it’s so busy they won’t be looking for me there. I catch the red-eye out, completely exhausted and, oddly enough, comfortable with sleeping on a jetliner.

When we land my eyes are aching, my heart is broken into a thousand pieces, and my mind doesn’t stop wandering. But I drag myself from my seat and stumble down the aisle. Flight attendants smile and greet me, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about a single thing in the world. Derek is either dead or dying or sick. Binx is in a kennel, and he only ever lasts about a week. So I am on borrowed time with that one. Angie might be in danger. Pat is in danger. And whatever the hell is in that safety-deposit box is a risk I can’t afford anymore.

A man ahead of me has his iPhone hanging from his bag. I walk closer to him, wiggling my fingers and watching the phone. It’s a crazy idea but I reach up, slipping it from the bag, nudging him as I pocket it. He looks back, and I offer a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

When I get to customs in Rome, I smile and nod, hoping everything checks out for my new identity, Inga Deloncrae. My passport identity is an American from Maine. The man at the counter grants the seven days I require to attend the “business meeting” I am en route to Turin for. Italian men are easy when you smile and bat your eyelashes.

Once I’ve arrived in Turin, I am desperate to get back to the US. The cab ride from the small airport in Turin is short. I can’t nap
alone with a man I don’t know, but my eyes are burning, almost as badly as my stomach is aching. I need food.

The aching and irritability don’t end as we pull up outside of an unostentatious building. I have never seen a bank look like this before. It’s stone and glass and might have been fancy once upon a time, but the area seems to have become laden in graffiti and cars I wouldn’t assume were Italian. They’re definitely not Lambos.

The cabbie leans back, giving me a smarmy look. I slap cash into his hand, not certain how much I’ve given him, but by the smile it must be an all-right amount. That was the only perk to stopping in Rome—I was able to change my money and clear customs.

I get out, gripping the key and watching the people on the streets. The sun is in the middle of the sky, but the air is cold. In the distance, snowcapped mountains surround the city. It’s cold and blustery and not at all how I pictured Italy. I hurry up the steps, excited and anxious all at once.

When I get inside the marble foyer of the ancient-looking bank, warm air blasts me. I shiver with the chill I still have but walk to the front counter. A middle-aged and yet sensual-looking woman smiles at me. She asks in Italian if I have an appointment.

I shake my head, offering her Italian in return, to my own surprise. I explain that I just need to get into my safe-deposit box. She lifts a perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrow, explaining I will have to come back, as an appointment is necessary.

I nearly turn away, defeated and uncertain as to how long I will have to stay, when a man smiles wide, clapping his hands excitedly and rushing toward us. He embraces me, whispering in my ear in English, “Are you crazy?”

I nod against his cheek, almost relaxing into the scent of his aftershave. He smells like someone I know. He turns, telling the woman I am his special client, and drags me across the shiny stone
floor to an office. When we are inside he offers a chair. “Ms. Barnes, I thought we agreed that you would never come here again.”

I scowl. “I need to see inside the box.”

His gaze narrows. “Why? No good can come of that. It’s not an insurance policy if you take it out.”

“I just want to look in on it, check its safety and ensure it’s still intact.” I know this dark-haired man. I know him, but I can’t recall how.

He sits on the edge of the desk, looking down at me, sighing and nodding. “Fine, we go and look, and you leave. You never come back again. Your life is at risk just being here.”

What the fuck?

Who the hell am I?

I know I was a spy once upon a time, but an Italian banker is worried about me? Needless to say, I am completely lost, and yet satisfied, when he opens the door again and leads me down the long hallway.

“We have to be very careful; keep your head down.” He plucks my clothing. “At least you dressed incognito. No one here will recognize you.”

We descend a wide set of stone stairs to the basement. They make me nervous with their sharp edges and brilliant shine. They’re a deathtrap waiting to happen. I can feel my sneaker treads gripping the shiny floor, but he has on leather dress shoes. I’m terrified for him.

“They have been asking about you all over Europe. Searching high and low for three years. It’s been painful to see them struggle.” He’s joking and mocking someone I don’t know, but I smile and nod. He nudges me when we enter another corridor, this one much more glamorous looking. “You seem different.”

“I am. I’ve had three years of peace and quiet.”

He scoffs. “Right, like you and he could ever be peaceful.”

The fact I don’t know him or his name is driving me insane. I should have looked when we were in his office. A real spy would have looked. I am such a shopgirl.

He stops us at a giant room with frosted glass. “Do you have your key?”

I hesitate, almost not showing it to him, but the reality of the situation is that I must. So I lift it from my bra where I’ve been keeping it. He rolls his eyes. “Same Sam.” He pulls a key from his pocket, and as he walks toward the room with the frosted glass, the doors swing open. In the dim light of the chandeliers and sconces and rich colors, a technology such as automatic doors seems off. We walk to a machine in the middle of the room. He holds his key at the opening on the right and nods at me, staring at the one on the left. I hold my key out as he counts down, “One, two, three.” We push in at the same moment.