Don't Let Go (26 page)

“I guess.”

“It’s just . . . I know I don’t have a lot of time left, no matter what my dad keeps saying. But I don’t want to spend it with someone who feels sorry for me. So if you’re going to be that way, maybe we shouldn’t hang out.”

She said it so frankly and sincerely that Daisy was taken aback. Ella gazed openly at her with pale gray eyes, waiting for a response. Daisy cleared her throat and said, “I get it. And to be honest, I don’t feel sorry for you.”

At that, Ella’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t?”

“Are you kidding? I would kill for your hair.”

Ella laughed again, and Daisy joined in.

“Hey, you want to see something?” Ella offered.

“Sure.” If nothing else, this beat sitting alone in her room, reading an article on smoothies for the umpteenth time.

“It’s in the drawer.” Ella nodded toward the bedside table.

Obediently, Daisy opened it—and caught her breath. Inside was a hairbrush, a headband, a bracelet, and a few other odds and ends.

Including an iPhone.

Daisy hesitated, her eyes shifting to the guard at the door. He was checking his watch with a bored expression. She quickly grabbed the phone and handed it to Ella.

The sick girl didn’t seem to notice her reaction. She was already skimming through the photo albums. “There it is.”

She held up the phone. There was a photo of her in a stunning gown, clinging to a tall blond kid in a tuxedo. He looked like the bully in every high school movie ever, but Daisy said politely, “Was that your boyfriend? He’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Ella sighed. She stared at the screen for a minute, then brushed a fingertip along her own image. After handing the phone back, she said moodily, “You can put it away. It’s not like anyone calls anymore. I don’t even know why I bother keeping it.”

“That’s too bad,” Daisy said, but her breathing had gone shallow.
A phone
. Obviously, there wasn’t one in her room; not even a TV, so she had no idea what was happening in the outside world. But with a phone, she could potentially get in touch with Peter and Noa. . . .

Unless that’s exactly what they want me to do
, she thought with a frown. Was this all some sort of elaborate trap?

Either way, the phone should have GPS; at least she’d be able to figure out where they were. Deciding, she palmed it, then slid the drawer closed. The guard glanced up at the noise and frowned. Daisy gave him her best innocent look and said, “So. Do you watch Real Housewives?”

They spent the next few hours talking about bad TV shows. Before Daisy knew it, Pike had returned. He stood there, beaming at them. “I knew this was a fantastic idea.”

“Ugh, Dad,” Ella groaned. “Enough.”

“I’m going to see Daisy out,” he said, bending to kiss her forehead. “If you’re well enough tomorrow, should I see if she can come back?”

Like I have a choice
, Daisy thought. A shadow crossed Ella’s face, but she nodded and said, “Yeah, that would be cool.”

“Wonderful.”

Daisy gave Ella a small wave. The girl returned it, but her face had already shut down. She turned her head toward the darkening windows.

Outside the door, Pike clapped his hands together. He still looked ecstatic. “So you enjoyed yourself?”

She shrugged, keeping her features composed. “It was fine.”

“My daughter is a very special girl,” he said seriously. “And she doesn’t take to just anyone.”

Daisy wanted to retort that Ella didn’t have much of a choice, since no one else was stopping by. But that felt unfair. Ella seemed pretty cool. In a different world, maybe they would have ended up as friends, even without the house arrest. Daisy lowered her eyes and asked, “So what’s for dinner?”

“Fettuccine Alfredo.” Throwing her a look over his shoulder, Pike added, “My men think it’s a bad idea to trust you with any more knives.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

P
eter basically carried Noa from the car to their motel room on the ground floor. She’d slipped into one of her deep sleeps, and as he dragged her across the parking lot she mumbled something about a fire monster.

They were at yet another crappy motel, right outside Springfield, Massachusetts. He shifted her weight, struggling to get the key in the lock. Even though she weighed a buck and change, the pressure on his still-aching shoulder brought tears to his eyes.

It was early afternoon; not his favorite time to check into a place like this, when people were still wandering around. But he’d driven seven straight hours, all the way from Buffalo, New York, with nothing but brief refueling stops. And each of those had been stressful as hell. Since he was paying cash, he’d had to go inside and deal with a cashier every time. He’d rushed through the transactions, keeping his hat brim low, avoiding eye contact, terrified of being recognized again. He’d switched out cars twice since leaving Colorado a few days earlier; they were now driving a beat-up Accord acquired at a mall on the outskirts of Utica. Still, he kept expecting to see flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

They’d been lucky; aside from that close call at the motel in Omaha, they’d made it nearly all the way across the country without incident.

For the first couple of days, it seemed like every television he passed had their faces flickering across it. But thanks to a massive chemical plant explosion in Texas, they’d finally been shunted to the media back burner.

Which didn’t mean they were safe.

Peter had been tempted to keep driving; they were less than two hours away from Boston. But he wanted to make sure the plan was airtight before walking into the lion’s den. And he’d rather face Pike on a full night’s sleep.

The key turned, and he forced the door open with his shoulder. Noa’s head lolled forward as he awkwardly dragged her across the threshold.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Peter twisted his head: A guy filled the open doorway of the neighboring room. Midthirties and burly, he was dressed in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that declared, “CHOKE: The Official Drink of the Yankees.” He clutched a can of beer in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other.

“Nothing,” Peter said, trying for nonchalance. “Just tired.”

“She looks sick,” the guy said skeptically.

Noa chose that moment to let out an anguished moan. Fighting to keep the desperation from his voice, Peter said, “We had a late night, and she’s got a wicked hangover.”

It sounded thin, even to his own ears. Noa’s skin looked waxy, and she was panting like a dog left in a car. Definitely not the symptoms of a typical hangover.

The guy took a gulp of beer and said, “Uh-huh.”

Turning his back on the guy, Peter maneuvered Noa into the room and dropped her on the bed. She landed lifelessly, like a giant doll. As he went back to close the door, the guy appeared on the threshold.

“What do you want?” Peter demanded, hating that he sounded like a scared kid. But the guy outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, he was covered in tattoos, and the bends in his nose testified to the fact that he was no stranger to fighting.

“I sure do like redheads,” the guy said as his eyes roved over Noa. “You mind sharing?”

“That’s my girlfriend!” Peter snapped, clenching his fists.

The guy smirked at him. “Yeah? ’Cause she looks roofied.”

“Get out,” Peter ordered.

The guy sized him up. Peter stood his ground, although inside he was quailing. This guy could toss him aside with one hand, get inside the room . . . and then what? It wasn’t like Peter could call the cops on him.

Throwing one last leer at Noa, the guy flicked his cigarette toward Peter, who batted it away, feeling the sear on his palm. “Whatever, dude,” the guy said. “I don’t get off on that creepy shit anyway.”

Sure you don’t
, Peter thought, relieved when the man stepped back. The guy sucked away at his can, peering at him over the top as he shut the door. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he asked, “I know you?”

Peter’s heart clenched, but he tried to sound dismissive. “No, you don’t.”

He slammed the door, locked it, and fell back against it. Noa stirred. Groggily, she opened her eyes and croaked, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he said, going over to her. “Just some jerk. You want something?”

She nodded and closed her eyes again. “Water.”

Peter got some from the bathroom, where he found cups wrapped in plastic; a pleasant surprise in a dive like this. Some of the abandoned buildings they’d camped out in were nicer than the motel rooms. He’d considered going back to those, but at least here the door locked, and there was a bed. He didn’t like the thought of dragging a semiconscious Noa into an abandoned slum; if they were attacked, there would be nothing he could do.

He brought the water to her. Noa gulped it down quickly, then fell back against the comforter. “Ugh,” she said. “This place smells even worse than the last one.”

“Well, we’re almost there,” Peter said. “No more motels after this.”

“World’s worst road trip, huh?” Noa commented.

Peter pulled off the ball cap and swiped a hand over his head: His hair was already longer, he should have remembered to take the shears from the Shapiros’ house. “Yeah, that’s pretty much become our specialty.”

The corners of Noa’s mouth tweaked up and her body started shaking; he tensed, thinking she was having another seizure. It took a beat to realize she was laughing silently.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said moodily. “Meanwhile, I get to do all the driving and deal with potential rapists. Man, that never gets old.”

“Sorry, Peter,” Noa said soberly.

Peter waved a hand, feeling guilty. She was clearly in enormous pain, and her vision still hadn’t returned. She had to be scared as hell. But she hadn’t complained once. “Don’t be. None of this is your fault.”

“I’m a little hungry,” Noa confessed after a minute.

“Yeah? That’s probably a good sign.” Peter’s eyes felt sore and gritty; all he wanted was to plop down on the bed and drift off for the next day or so. Instead, he dug a power bar out of his pack and placed it in her hand. “Here.”

Noa ate it lying down. Between bites, she said, “Stop staring at me.”

Peter started; how could she tell? “Sorry. I’m just zoning out. I’m pretty wiped.”

“So get some sleep. I’m guessing we’re sharing a bed?”

“’Fraid so. The presidential suite was booked.”

“Then come here.” Noa shifted sideways to make room for him. Peter pulled off his sneakers and eased onto the bed. They lay there in silence while she finished eating. When she was done, she tossed the wrapper to the floor.

“That’ll probably be there until sometime next year,” Peter commented, “based on what I’ve seen of the maid service.”

“Not exactly four star, huh?” Noa teased.

“Not even one star.” Peter closed his eyes.

He was surprised a minute later when she took his hand. Noa gave it a squeeze and said, “Thanks. For everything.”

“Stop that,” he grumbled.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like every conversation we have is going to be the last one. It’s getting old.”

A long pause, then Noa said, “I know I’ve been . . . difficult the past few months.”

“You’ve always been difficult,” he remarked. “I’m used to it.”

The old Noa would have punched him in the arm for that. She settled for digging her nails into his palm. “Ow!”

“You deserved it.”

“Are you really not going to let me sleep?” he groaned.

“You have to let me go, Peter,” she said softly. “Just call Pike and post the files. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want him to get away with all this.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad,” he said, drawing his hand away. “Because we’re following my plan now. We’re going to rest up here, get our strength back. Then I’ll call Pike and have him meet me at Back Bay station during rush hour. It’ll be crowded, and there are lots of ways in and out; he won’t be able to cover all of them. I’ll show him what we’ve got, and explain that if anything happens to me, it’ll all be released online. We won’t give him a choice: He’ll be forced to help you and Amanda.”

A long beat, then Noa said, “Wow. You came up with a plan.”

“Well, I kept waiting for you to do it, but you decided to sleep instead,” Peter said. “And we want this to be over, right?”

“Yeah,” Noa said. “Definitely.”

Peter watched her eyes move sightlessly back and forth. Her brow was creased. “What?”

“It’s just . . . risky.”

“I didn’t say it was perfect,” Peter grumbled. “If you have a better suggestion—”

Noa sighed. “I wish I did. It feels wrong, sending you in there.”

“Because you don’t think I can handle it?” Peter asked, bristling.

“Of course you can,” Noa said, sounding surprised. “It’s just . . . all this started because of me. I hate that you have to confront him alone.”

The fact that she trusted him to handle this meant more than she knew. His parents always acted like he was a liability. Before she got sick, Amanda sometimes treated him like he was a difficult child. Even Cody had acted like he was an occasionally pesky younger brother.

Of course, back then, they might have been right. But things were different now.
He
was different now.

Noa pressed balled fists to her eyes and whispered, “Dammit. Why couldn’t my eyes have held out for just a little longer?”

Tentatively, Peter reached for her. She shifted closer and tucked her head against his shoulder. For a second, he flashed back on their kiss. It seemed silly now, that he’d thought they could ever be more than this. Because this was enough. He’d trust her with his life. But not his heart; both of their hearts belonged to other people, and it was too late to change that.

“If I could take you with me, I would,” he murmured.

“I know.” Noa shook her head. “This is so frustrating. So what do I do, just wait here?”

“In this dump? Hell, no.” Peter had already thought that through, too; the main benefit of all the dreary hours spent driving was that he’d had plenty of time to pick apart every facet of this plan.

There were still a dozen ways it could go wrong, but he was trying not to dwell on those. “I got in touch with Luke, from the Northeast division. They have some sort of safe house in South Boston. I’ll drop you there first.”