Chapter Thirty-Five
Jules and Lucy slip out of the hotel, which is easier than anticipated.
They told Jack’s colleague, a young agent from the field office named Madison who is staying in the adjoining room, that they were in for the night.
Madison took them at their word. She told them not to leave the room.
To call her room if anyone knocked on their door.
In the lobby, Jules spotted the agent who trailed them today. The guy was easy to evade since he was distracted, chatting up the young woman working the hotel’s check-in desk. Not exactly the A-team working surveillance for Jack.
They shouldn’t be doing this. What if he’s out there, watching … But something has her mesmerized, following Lucy like she’s the Pied Piper. They twirl through the revolving door and into a cab stationed out front.
Lucy examines a sheet of paper she’s pulled from her bulky handbag. She reads an address to the cabbie.
The cabbie eyes them in the mirror, tilts his head in a you sure? gesture.
“Go,” Lucy says.
The cabbie grumbles but starts driving.
“Where are we going?” Jules asks.
“You asked what makes me feel better and I want to show you.”
Jules’s skin is prickling with anxiety. The alcohol is wearing off. “I think we should go back. Jack will be pissed if we—”
“You say you want to be you again,” Lucy challenges. “You say you want to feel normal.”
“This isn’t normal.”
“Just trust me.” Lucy has a gleam in her eye that is unsettling.
Jules exhales loudly. Trust me. Does she trust Lucy? Her mind jumps again to the scene of Lucy opening her college acceptance letter and she feels for this woman, the girl she used to be.
They drive for ten minutes without a word. “What’s that?” Jules finally says, gesturing to the papers Lucy is scanning again.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Lucy cocks her chin to the cabbie. Like she doesn’t want to say it in front of him.
Jules’s shoulders tighten. This is a bad idea. She feels like she’s on a runaway train but, weirdly, doesn’t want to jump off.
They make their way to a neighborhood in South Omaha.
“You can drop us at the corner,” Lucy says, pointing.
There, she pays the cab driver and then looks around.
It’s an ugly area with a check cashing store, a used car lot, a liquor store.
Everywhere is closed except a gas station up ahead, fast-food places in the distance.
Lucy looks at the street signs and heads away from the strip and down a dark road.
Jules follows after her. “Where are we going?” she asks again, this time with more energy. They’re in a derelict residential area. It’s a nice night out but no one’s out walking the dog or taking a stroll. It’s not that kind of neighborhood.
She’s craving a drink now. Her body trembles at a thought: If he was watching them today, followed them to the hotel, he could have followed them here. But no cars are around. No one seemed to tail the cab.
“There it is,” Lucy says, “number two forty.” She points to a small house with its porch light off. She makes for the front door.
“Lucy, wait.” Jules plants her feet. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on. Who lives there?”
“I’ve been fucking this cop,” Lucy says.
Jules scrunches her face. “This is a cop’s house?”
“No. He has access to this new database where they keep track of sex offenders.”
Jules doesn’t like where this is heading. “Whose house is this, Lucy?”
Lucy doesn’t respond. She instead marches to the front door.
Jules chases after her, but by the time she reaches Lucy, she’s rung the doorbell.
Jules’s heart is pounding now, sweat skating down her side. The porch light is off, but there’s light from a television through the front window, a shadow of movement inside.
Jules considers running, diving into the ragged shrubs lining the front of the house. But it’s too late, a man has opened the front door.
He’s thin, wears a polo shirt, looks like he could work at a bank or insurance company.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Drew Hawley?” Lucy asks in a friendly voice.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“I think we found your wallet on the street. Your license had your address.” Lucy rifles through her bag.
The man comes out on the porch. “Thank you. But I’m afraid it isn’t mine.” He pulls a leather wallet from his back pocket and displays it.
“Oh my gosh,” Lucy says, her hand still in her purse. “But this one had your ID in it and—” Without finishing the sentence, Lucy rips her hand from her bag and sprays the man’s face with something.
He screams, puts his hands over his eyes.
Jules feels a slight sting in her own eyes and realizes it’s residue from pepper spray.
Everything is in slow motion now. Lucy kneeing the man in the balls, him crouching over, her bringing down her elbows on his head. She’s kicking him on the ground now.
Jules doesn’t scream, doesn’t move. She just watches silently as Lucy kicks the man in the face with her heavy black boot.
Lucy finally stops, catches her breath. The man is in a ball, groaning.
“That’s for the ten-year-old you molested.” Lucy looks at Jules standing there in shock.
Then the strangest thing happens.
Jules starts kicking the man herself.