Chapter 27
RILEY
I wake up, and Vaughn’s side of the sofa bed is empty.
For a moment, panic shoots through my veins like an electric shock—the memory of the penthouse suite in Vegas, the empty pillow, the vanished man. But then I hear his voice outside, muffled by the thin wooden wall of the garden shed, and my pulse steadies.
I pull on Vaughn’s T-shirt, which smells like him, and open the door. Cool morning air rushes in. The Thompsons' garden lies in the early light—wet grass, rosebushes with dewdrops, a robin on the garden fence.
Vaughn is standing by the Mercedes, talking quietly with Valentino. When he sees me, he stops the conversation. His face is tense. He has his I-have-to-tell-you-something-unpleasant face on again.
But before he can say anything, Valentino walks toward me. He holds out a small box.
"For you," he says.
I open the box and see a new smartphone. A prepaid device, the kind you can buy at any gas station.
"This is—"
"A new phone," Vaughn says. "Prepaid, unregistered, untraceable. I thought you should have one." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "In case you want to call someone. Or need to."
I stare at the device in my hand. Since the night in Vegas, I haven't had a phone.
No internet, no news, no contact with the outside world.
And now a phone lies in my hand, and I don't even know who I would call. My old life has no contacts I miss. No girlfriend who’s worried.
No colleague asking where I am. Only a father who lied to me for twenty-seven years.
"Thank you," I say to Valentino.
He nods and goes back to the car. I look at Vaughn, who is standing by the hood watching me.
"You’re giving me a phone," I say. "No conditions?"
"No conditions."
"I could call the police."
"You could."
"I could call my father and tell him where we are."
"That too."
"But you’re giving it to me anyway."
He leans against the Mercedes and crosses his arms. "You’re not a prisoner anymore, Riley. You haven't been since the safehouse. If you want to leave, you leave. If you want to call, you call. That’s your decision."
I study the phone for a while longer, then slip it into the pocket of my jeans and say, "I want breakfast. With my parents. In a real restaurant. With pancakes."
For the first time this morning, he smiles. "Pancakes sound good."
***
The diner is called Rosie's and is located on the main street of the small town, ten minutes from the Thompsons'. Red faux-leather booths, Formica tables, a waitress named Brenda who calls everyone "Honey" and refills coffee before the cup is half empty.
The four of us sit in a corner booth. Loraine next to me, Howard opposite, Vaughn on my other side. Valentino waits outside in the car—he declined to come along, claiming he "wasn't hungry," which is likely just his discreet way of saying he doesn't want to intrude on our privacy.
I order blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. Howard takes scrambled eggs with bacon, and Loraine a fruit salad and toast. Vaughn orders black coffee and a large portion of pancakes.
Breakfast is perfect in a way I didn't think possible. Loraine tells us how she started as a young nurse in Portland, in the ER, where she once had to treat a man who had driven a screwdriver into his thigh because he "thought the YouTube video was clear enough."
Howard tells us about life as a school janitor—about clogged toilets, about kids who stick gum under every available chair, and about a boy who once put a live lizard in the faculty room trash can.
I laugh until my eyes water and maple syrup ends up on my chin. Vaughn wipes it away with his napkin, a gesture so casual and tender that Loraine looks at us and smiles, as if she’s understood something we haven't even voiced ourselves.
At some point, between the second coffee and the third round of pancakes, Loraine says, "How long are you staying? The guesthouse certainly isn't a luxury hotel in Las Vegas, but we thought maybe you'd..."
She trails off because she sees Vaughn's face.
There it is again, that tension that rarely means good news.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
Vaughn puts down his fork. He looks around the diner—Brenda is refilling coffee at the counter, an older couple is studying the menu, no one is paying us any attention. Still, he lowers his voice.
"We can't stay much longer," he says. "Riley, your father signed the contract. Legally, everything is settled. But his new head of security—a man named Dominic Cross—has picked up our trail. He identified Valentino's car on gas station cameras and knows we headed north."
Loraine's smile vanishes. Howard puts his arm around her.
"Who is this Cross?" Howard asks.
"Ex-military. Special Forces. Then private security. He's good at finding people who don't want to be found." Vaughn looks at me. "We have maybe one day before he narrows down this area."
My stomach knots. The pancakes suddenly feel like lead.
"But you said Richard signed," I say. "The deal is done. Why would he send someone?"
"Either he's playing a double game—signing the contract while letting Cross continue to keep all options open. Or Cross is acting on his own because he takes his job too seriously and doesn't accept that the mission is over."
"Which is worse?"
"Both are bad. If Blackstone is behind Cross, then the contract isn't worth the paper it's printed on. If Cross is acting alone, then we have an ex-soldier operating off the leash with nothing to lose."
Silence at the table. Brenda's cheerful voice drifts over from the counter: "More coffee, Honey?" No one answers.