Don't Let Go (19 page)

His eyes fell on the photos lining the walls: There was one constant in all of them. He drew a deep breath and started typing again.

“We should just go,” Noa urged.

“Last try,” Peter promised, typing in 4-1-06.

“Whose birthday is that?”

“Coco’s,” Peter said, pressing enter.

The light turned green, and the alarm fell silent. Peter dropped his forehead against the wall and said, “Damn. That was close.”

“Who the hell is Coco?” Noa demanded.

“Their dog.” Peter waved his good hand at the framed photo display. “Rick’s mom always throws this big party for her on April first. I remembered, because it’s—”

“April Fool’s Day,” Noa said. “I get it.” Warily, she closed the door behind her and stepped into the hall, dropping the backpacks to the floor. “How can you be sure they aren’t just out to dinner or something?”

“This is their winter place,” Peter explained. “Summers, they go to the Cape.”

“Right,” Noa said drily. “And what about spring and fall? They have houses for those, too?”

“Vermont and Florida,” Peter said without missing a beat.

Noa squinted at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Yup,” he said. “No one in their right mind buys in Florida anymore.” He limped down the hall toward the living room. The house smelled slightly musty, like it had been months since the windows were opened. It was immaculate, though, which worried him; a housekeeper probably came in on a regular basis.

Hopefully she wouldn’t show up today.

“All right,” he said, wincing as he stepped into the sunken living room. “Ready to play doctor again?”

Noa had halted at the end of the hallway.

Peter turned. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just . . . wow.”

He followed her eyes. The place was impressive. The living room encompassed both floors, with high-beamed rafters vaulting overhead. The furniture was top of the line, plush leather couches and chairs surrounding a huge fireplace. “Rick’s dad is a hedge-fund manager,” he said.

“I keep forgetting that you’re actually rich.” Noa turned in a slow circle. “So you used to come here?”

“Almost every year,” he said, somewhat apologetically. It was funny, over the past few months, he’d kind of forgotten how polar opposite their lives used to be. This house served as a stark reminder that for all intents and purposes, they came from different worlds. Different planets, almost. “Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m kind of in a lot of pain here.”

“Right.” Noa stepped closer to examine his arm. Gently, she took his hand and moved it slightly; even that small motion was agonizing. He hissed through his teeth. “Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I think I’m going to have to really pull on it.”

“You think?” he said in a strained voice.

“They have a computer here, right?” she asked.

“Upstairs, in Rick’s dad’s office.”

“Okay, wait here.”

He perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to regulate his breathing. The operation to remove the bug had been scary, but in some ways this was worse. What if she couldn’t fix it? Would he lose the use of this arm permanently?

He could hear Noa moving around upstairs, the sound of cabinets opening and closing. She came back down a few minutes later with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a prescription pill bottle in the other.

“Found this in the desk drawer,” she said, holding up the booze, “and this in the medicine cabinet.”

She handed him the bottle. He read the label: “Vicodin?”

“It should help,” she said. “Wash it down with the whiskey. And try to keep the mermaid comparisons to yourself this time.”

He popped a pill and took a swig to wash it down. Closed his eyes; man, it had been so long since he’d tasted real, top-shelf booze. His dad used to keep a bottle in a drawer, too. In fact, drinking out of it one night when he was home alone had led to all of this . . . the discovery of Project Persephone, meeting up with Noa . . .

In spite of everything, the memory made him smile.

“What?” Noa demanded.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Did you find anything?”

“A YouTube video.”

“Great,” he groaned. “That should be helpful.”

“It was, actually. Lie on the couch with your arm hanging down.”

He clumsily got in the right position; already, his muscles were tensing in anticipation. Noa cradled his arm in both hands, and said, “Ready?”

Before he could reply, she yanked on it. There was a loud snapping noise. The pain was excruciating, a hundred times worse than anything he’d ever experienced. He succumbed to a wave of darkness.

When he came to, Noa was sitting beside him on the sofa. She looked down at him with amusement and said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Oh, God.” His arm still felt sore, but in a different way; the constant sensation of a spike driving into his shoulder was gone. “Did it work?”

“Looks like it,” she said cheerfully. “Maybe I should become a doctor.”

“I’d like a break from being your only patient,” he groaned. “Your bedside manner sucks.”

She swatted his back. “You’re welcome, by the way. So are you hungry? I’m going to see if there’s any food.”

Peter’s head was still swimming, and he could taste the whiskey in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and said, “Go for it. I’m just going to lie here in agony for a while.”

Noa threw him a grin and pushed off the couch.

Peter found the remote and turned on the massive TV mounted above the fireplace. Clicking through, he found SportsCenter. He lost himself for a while in a Rockies game recap.

He must have drifted off, because when he opened his eyes, night had fallen. His shoulder still throbbed, along with most of the rest of his body, but the pain was manageable. And something smelled amazing; his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since their powdered-egg breakfast in Loki’s silo.

At the thought of Loki, he felt a pang. Without him, they never would have cracked that password. And he might have paid the ultimate price.

Trying to shake off the guilt, Peter eased off the couch and shuffled into the kitchen. Noa was standing over the stove, stirring something in an enormous pot with a wooden spoon. She dipped it in and took a bite, then turned and started at the sight of him.

“That bad, huh?” he said self-consciously, running a hand through his hair.

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling up. “Well, you could probably use a shower.”

Her hair was wet, and she was dressed in unfamiliar clothing: a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Both were too small, leaving her ankles and wrists poking out. She noticed him looking and said, “I found these in a closet upstairs.”

“Sure,” he said. “Rick’s sister’s stuff. She probably won’t even notice if it goes missing.”

Noa flushed. “I’m only borrowing them while our clothes are getting washed. I moved the car into the garage, too.”

“I wasn’t being critical,” he said uncomfortably. The kitchen was enormous, almost as big as the living room, but it suddenly felt small and cramped. “That was smart, moving the car.”

Noa shrugged, still looking nonplussed. “They might be looking for it.”

“Since when do you cook, anyway? That smells amazing.” He bent over to peer into the pot. The smell of beans and tomato sauce wafted out. He was half tempted to dig out a handful and shove it in his mouth.

“I can’t promise it’s any good,” Noa said in a muted voice. “Zeke used to say I was the only person he knew who could ruin chili.”

“Well, I’m starving,” Peter declared, trying to gloss over the awkwardness. She’d ducked her head, but not enough to hide the fact that her eyes had gone shiny. Even after all this time, one mention of the guy’s name and Noa went to pieces. He really hated that, even though it was unbelievably petty to be jealous of a dead kid. “I’d eat a shoe right now if that’s all we had.”

“Hopefully it’ll taste better than that.” She scooped some into a bowl and handed it to him. “Here.”

He blew on a spoonful to cool it, then nibbled at the chili. Through the steam, he saw Noa regarding him anxiously. “Is it okay?”

“Delicious,” he lied. Truth be told, it was bland and overcooked, but he was too ravenous to complain.

“Good.” She got herself a bowl and leaned back against the counter.

“So you’re hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s been a few days,” she replied without looking at him.

They stood in silence, polishing off the chili. Peter helped himself to another bowl, then Noa did the same. It suddenly struck him that this was the first time they’d been completely alone since Rhode Island. Peter was mildly perturbed to realize that he felt tongue-tied, like they were on a date or something.

But then, he’d never shared chili with someone in the aftermath of a crazy car chase.

“So, um . . . do you want to try going through the drives?” he suggested.

Noa shook her head firmly. “No way. I can’t think straight right now.”

“All right, then let’s do something brainless for a change,” he said, suddenly struck by inspiration. They’d spent months running and hiding. They could afford to spend a single night acting like normal teenagers.

“Brainless?” Noa raised an eyebrow.

“Sure. Let’s watch a movie.” Peter rinsed out the bowl before stacking it in the dishwasher. “Unless you’re too tired?”

Noa hesitated, then said, “I can’t even remember the last movie I saw.”

“It’s a plan, then.” Back in the living room, he dug through the Shapiros’ media cabinet. “Let’s see. What are you in the mood for? Action, comedy . . .”

“No action. I get enough of that in my everyday life,” she quipped.

“Yeah, me too. Oh, wait. Here’s one of my all-time favorites.” He dug out a copy of
The Princess Bride
. “Have you seen this?”

“When I was a kid, I think. I barely remember it.”

“Well, then you’re in for a treat. ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die,’” he intoned.

Noa gave him a blank look. “Is that from the movie?”

Peter groaned. “Seriously? Okay, we’re watching it.”

Noa took the case from him, frowning as she read the back. “I thought we agreed no action.”

“Trust me. This has nothing to do with our everyday lives.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were side by side on the couch watching one of Peter’s favorite scenes. In the middle of a swordfight with Inigo Montoya, the Dread Pirate Roberts, aka Wesley, switched his sword to the other hand, explaining, “I’m not left-handed, either.” Cracking up, Peter turned to check on Noa.

She was staring at the screen, completely enthralled. Even more startling, tears coursed down her cheeks. “Hey,” he said gently, hitting the pause button. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Noa hurriedly swiped them away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? Because they’ve got a lot of other movies. I can just—”

“I remember this,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was thick as she continued. “I watched it with my parents.”

“Oh.” Peter knew that Noa’s parents had died in a car crash when she was a kid; she’d been the only survivor. But she’d never talked about them before. He’d kind of forgotten that she’d ever had parents; she was so self-sufficient, it was easy to imagine her emerging into the world fully grown, wearing combat boots and toting a laptop.

But in reality, the people who were supposed to protect her had been ripped away. She’d spent her childhood shuttling from one bad situation to another, unwanted and unloved. Peter cleared his throat. “How much do you remember about them?”

“Not much,” Noa said in a small voice, still staring at the screen. “I remember my mom had hair like mine. She wore it really long, though. And she used to sing me to sleep every night.”

“That sounds nice,” he offered.

“Yeah. And my dad was really tall. Funny. He laughed a lot; they both did. That’s what I remember most—them laughing.”

Peter swallowed hard. All things considered, he’d been lucky, born into a family with a lot of money. But after his brother died of PEMA, he couldn’t remember ever hearing his parents laugh. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged again. “Yeah, me too.”

Peter tentatively reached out and took her hand. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him; but she didn’t push him away, either. They sat in the dark for the rest of the movie, holding hands. Noa even laughed at some of the sillier lines. It was the most normal Peter had ever seen her. He kept sneaking glances at her, wondering what she would have turned out like if her parents had survived. She was stunning, tall and willowy, with thick black hair and green eyes. He couldn’t picture her as the prom queen, but maybe she would’ve been the type to run the school paper. Or the girl who passed around petitions at lunchtime to save whales or monk seals or whatever cause she’d decided to embrace.
Like Amanda
, he realized, startled.

On an impulse, he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. At first, Noa stiffened. But a second later, her mouth opened slightly. She tasted like chili and mint mixed together, but not in a bad way.

Peter kept his eyes closed, focused entirely on the softness of her lips, the way they parted as he moved closer. He’d thought about doing this for months, ever since they first met in person. To be honest, he’d thought about doing a lot more, too.

But oddly, it wasn’t what he’d expected. The kiss wasn’t passionate, or sweet. The word
comforting
leapt into his mind, and he frowned.

Noa drew back and wet her lips with her tongue. Hesitantly, she said, “That was weird, right?”

“Yeah,” he agreed with relief. “Really weird.”

“Not bad, though,” she amended. “I mean, I’m not sorry we did it.”

“Me either,” Peter said, running a hand over his scalp. “It just—”

“Felt like kissing a friend?” she offered.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like that.”

“I know.” Noa sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Peter shook his head. “If we hadn’t, I always would’ve wondered.”

A long beat, then she admitted, “Me too.”

“So we’re good?”

There was a hint of sadness in her smile as she said, “Yeah. We’re good.”