Chapter 2
The fact that it hadn’t actually been that hard to convince the Marshal Service to let them return was playing on Abigail’s mind as they settled into the seats on the tiny aircraft that was apparently taking them back to Rhode Island.
John had resisted the hardest, but eventually, they had convinced him to call the main person on Bee’s case and make their argument. He had seemed particularly displeased to report that the word from higher up was in line with Bee and Abigail’s suggestion.
As he put it, they were all to behave themselves, but they were to return to Newport and go over the evidence they had gathered—or, as John had repeatedly emphasized—the evidence they had compromised.
“So, the service makes a habit of flying criminals around in private jets?” Abigail asked, “Taxpayers know about it?”
Byron’s brother looked over at her, his expression changing from that blank mask to mild amusement when he saw the teasing in her eyes.
“It’s hardly a private jet. I don’t think anyone who takes private jets would be caught dead on this thing.”
“You be polite about Suzette,” the pilot grumbled, “she’s worked harder in her life than all of you combined.”
Abigail grinned. She had decided that she liked the grouchy old man from the minute he introduced himself on the tarmac. Despite everything that had happened in the few months since she had come to Newport with the nebulous idea that she could finally figure out what had actually happened to her the night of the crash that changed her life, she still felt like she had a pretty good read on people’s characters.
“Can we talk, about stuff?” Bee asked John, nodding towards the pilot.
He nodded, “Sure, go light on the details, but he’s been with the service longer than anyone I know. Technically, this is his retirement.”
“Oh, right,” Bee said, eyeing the older man up and down.
“So, I was wondering,” Abigail said, “you were on the list, right? And your dad was photographed at my house… Did you actually spend time there when you were… I don’t know the word, extracted?”
John snorted, then held his hands up as if that undid his rudeness, “Sorry, it always makes me laugh to hear the way civilians talk about what we do.”
“Well what do you call it then?”
“Relocation,” he answered, “nothing fancy.”
“Mmhm,” Abigail said, “whatever. Anyway, my actual question?”
With a smile, Bee winked at Abigail—they had both warmed up very quickly to the idea of annoying John as a method of maintaining good spirits. Byron didn’t seem to mind and so they had pursued it full steam ahead.
“I did, apparently,” Bee replied, “honestly though I barely remember most of that time—I was a teeny, tiny bit stressed out.”
“I can sympathize,” Abigail said, smiling.
She had met plenty of other amnesiac patients before, but it felt different to have this weird shared history with someone who couldn’t remember but wasn’t actually a medical amnesiac. There was no way she could have explained it out loud, so she was glad that no one had asked her why she and Bee were suddenly as thick as thieves.
“I bet,” Bee said, “but I have to admit, I’m terrified of what this all might mean for me—if there’s a list, a record of me… well, there’s no guarantee that I’m safe. What if there are other records of where we went?”
John raised his hand like he was in elementary school. “There is no indication that any other information has been compromised; if there was, we would be at alarm level ten.”
“There was no indication before I made you aware of the list,” Bee said, “so forgive me if your reassurances that there is nothing else you don’t know, don’t exactly cut the mustard.”
He leveled his unreadable expression at her, but it didn’t seem to be as unsettling for Bee as Abigail found it. The pair locked eyes for far longer than Abigail felt comfortable with, her attention drawn away by the look on Byron’s face as he took in his brother.
Interesting, Abigail thought as she watched him.
There were plenty of differences between the two men but the similarities were what became most obvious when they were still. Their overall shape was different, but the way they held themselves was identical. John was leaner and looked more breakable, even though she could see he wasn’t scrawny by any means.
“Regardless,” John said, breaking first, “there is no reason to think your actual identity has been compromised. Your inadvisable conversation with your old friend made it sound like you weren’t in the state—am I correct? Good. You want to go back to Rhode Island, can’t imagine why, but your safety isn’t negotiable, so if you want to continue returning to Rhode Island, you should probably stop pushing completely baseless concerns about said safety—yeah?”
Was he hinting at her to shut up, or did he actually feel that she was safe? Abigail didn’t like that she actually couldn’t answer her question confidently. On the one hand, she would be glad if John was helping them against his better judgment—but on the other hand, his better judgment was probably right. Byron wasn’t arguing against going back. There had to be some comfort in that... right?
If he was concerned for her safety there was no way that he would be just quietly going along with everything...
She had planned on asking him directly the next time they were alone but that moment just hadn’t come. Somehow, someone had been with them every minute since they had suggested it that morning. It had been frustrating, but she had to admit that it was a tiny bit of a relief. If they were alone together, she would have to think or even talk about that kiss. She had managed to stop thinking about it but it always crashed back into her consciousness without warning. And Abigail just knew that it would be overwhelming if she didn’t have the sobering presence of other people.
“Did you hear anything back from London?” she asked, hoping that the change in subject would help diffuse whatever was going on between John and Bee.
John’s expression immediately softened, “Yes, and it’s like we thought—there has been absolutely no indication of a reason to be worried. Regardless, there’s a local lookout for law enforcement in the area and anything relating to these cases is on a red flag notification.”
She didn’t know what half of that meant, but it sure sounded reassuring. Plus Byron was nodding away like it was good news, so she felt like she kind of had to take it at face value.
“Right, good,” she said. “I don’t want to risk my girls or Liam. Or even his dad.”
The joke didn’t land but she didn’t care enough to try and revive it as the plane’s engine whirred and the pilot’s voice came over the speaker above her head.
“Cleared for takeoff, please strap in and stop bickering.”
The four of them briefly glanced at each other around the cabin and went about getting their sash belts fastened. As the engines started to whir louder, Abigail felt her heart start to beat faster. This was the smallest plane she had ever been on and it was making a lot more noises, which were all much louder than she was strictly used to. A loud bang and a whine made her jump. Her hand flew out and seized Byron’s wrist in a grip so hard it actually hurt her hand. Loud engine noises increased and she squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the plane accelerate and eventually leave the ground.
Count to ten, count to ten, she thought frantically, seemingly unable to make the jump between telling herself to count to ten and actually starting to count.
The plane dropped away from under her and she heard a yelp escape her, then a warmth closed over her hand that was latched onto Byron’s wrist and a rough thumb began to rhythmically stroke along her wrist. Dimly aware that this was probably Byron holding her hand, she felt the urge to withdraw her hand and pretend she was fine but she couldn’t bring herself to do it—it felt too good.
As the aircraft leveled out, the pilot’s voice joined them again: “Sorry for the bumpy takeoff, folks. Just a few air speedbumps along the way. The weather is looking good, but if you know what’s good for you, stay in your seat and strapped in even when it’s smooth—I don’t need any of you falling over and concussing yourselves.”
“Does your husband regularly take your children on far-flung holidays overseas and leave you in the States?” John asked.
Abigail jolted back to her reality and reflexively pulled her hand away from Byron’s wrist to wave off John’s comment, “I’m pretty sure you know exactly how many times every member of my family has left the country, and I’m absolutely certain you know that I am firmly divorced.”
Byron’s brother smiled and Abigail caught that hint of similarity between them again.
“Ah, you’re learning fast,” John said, chasing away any hint of goodwill his Byron-like smile had conjured. “Well, no need to worry; your ex-husband and children are safe. I would still recommend keeping them sequestered from the details of the matter until we can be sure as to the extent of the issue.”
“Ha! The extent of the issue…” Bee mocked, “so that’s how you’re calling this whole thing? An issue?”
Abigail watched the two of them eye each other again and decided that, honestly, she didn’t have the energy to deal with any of this today.
“I’m going to sleep,” she announced, “try to keep the fighting to a minimum.”
As she twisted in her seat to try and find a comfortable position to nap in, she caught sight of Byron’s slightly hurt expression. Reaching out towards him, she squeezed his wrist where she had clamped on.
“Sorry if I left a bruise,” she said quietly, “and thank you for... well, everything.”
Her heart was still racing from the takeoff, but it was somehow going even harder now as she willed herself to leave her hand on Byron’s arm.
With gentle pressure, he lifted her hand off his wrist, and her stomach twisted, thoughts racing through her head as she assumed he was either upset with her or that she had misread their kiss... you can misread a kiss, right? All her insecure thoughts stopped as he turned his arm over on the armrest and shifted his position before placing her hand right back down, this time so that they were palm to palm. He closed his strong hand around hers and gave her a squeeze. Without letting go, he closed his eyes and a small smile curled the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t bruise easily,” he said quietly, “let’s get some rest.”