Chapter 24 | Kincade
The message came at dawn. One text on the burner phone. Three words.
Move. Today. North.
Then GPS coordinates.
I didn’t text back. I didn’t need to.
I’d stood near the door all night, waiting. Now, I glanced up into the bedroom where she’d slept. Curled on her side. Finally. After she’d stopped shaking. And the nightmares had stopped waking her.
It seemed cruel to wake her. Staying felt like suicide.
If Silas said to move, I had to move. I couldn’t wait.
I pocketed the phone then turned toward the bedroom.
But she was already standing in the doorway in the borrowed clothes, bare feet. Awake. Eyes clear. Back straight. Like she’d never slept at all.
I never heard her move.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
“Another place. Someplace safer.”
She frowned. “I doubt there’s anyplace safe for me.”
The words cut deep.
She said it like it was a fact. Like she’d been thinking it through while I thought she was sleeping.
I glanced at her bare feet. We were running on borrowed time.
“Let’s go.”
She didn’t argue. She followed me out the door.
We stepped into the predawn morning as the sun bled across the cloudy sky. Outside, the building looked like what it was—dilapidated, abandoned, forgotten. Boarded-up windows in adjoining units. Graffiti on exterior walls. Peeling paint on doors. Cracked sidewalks with weeds pushing through.
At least the car was still where I’d parked it.
“God, this place is charming. Should we lock the door?” she said.
The sarcasm was so familiar it hurt. It was the first time she’d sounded close to herself.
I glanced back. She stayed close giving the place a once-over with a look of disdain.
There was a way back from this. There had to be.
Down the concrete steps from the second landing to the first, and then I realized broken glass littered the parking lot.
“Wait—” I started.
“I got this.”
She picked her way through all the broken glass like it was choreography she’d done a thousand times. Perfection. Unflinching.
I stared.
“You going to open the door or what?” Her hand was on the passenger side handle.
I clicked the lock on the remote. She was already in the seat by the time I got to the driver’s side.
I pulled out the burner phone and checked the GPS coordinates, then started the car and punched them into the onboard navigation. She kept her gaze on my hands, watching as I put it in reverse.
“Silas?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Her gaze shifted from me to the navigation screen, watching as the arrow pointed us toward the destination.
“We’re going north?”
“Yes.”
“What’s there?”
“No idea.”
“Hm. Fun,” she said. Then she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
As I pulled onto the road, I checked the mirrors, watching intently as we left the ramshackle suburban area behind and merged onto a highway heading north toward forested terrain. No one following us. Arrival time: two hours.
Wherever Silas was sending us, it was remote. Off the grid.
Silence settled between us. She stayed quiet. I listened to her regulated breathing. She wasn’t sleeping. She was controlling it.
Then she said, “I don’t want to be this person.”
I didn’t answer right away. What could I say that didn’t sound like a lie?
“I know,” I said.
I wanted to tell her she wasn’t that person. That she was still her. But that was false comfort neither of us needed or wanted right now. I didn’t know how to fix this. Neither did she. It was a minefield we’d have to navigate together.
I kept driving.
At some point, she dozed off.
About forty-five minutes from the destination, she snapped awake with a sharp intake of breath and pitched forward, head dropping to her knees.
I hit the brakes, started to slow, aiming for the shoulder.
“No,” she said, voice muffled. “Keep going.”
Then she reached for me, searching. I gave her my hand. Her fingers closed around my palm, nails biting into skin. She dragged in a deep breath, expelled it, then sat upright. Her face was drained of color.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t be.”
She pressed her free hand to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. The headache. Whatever they’d done to her, it came with a price, and she was fighting it.
Her gaze drifted to her hand on mine. She dragged in another breath, released it, as if trying to center herself. Then relaxed her grip but didn’t let go.
“It’s never going to stop, is it?” she asked. “The nightmares.”
I didn’t know the answer to that.
She let go, placed her hand in her lap, and focused on the road ahead.
“Why are you still here?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You could have left me behind.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You should have,” she said. “I’m damaged.”
Something cinched hard in my chest.
“You may be damaged,” I said, “but you’re mine.”
She didn’t respond. She turned her face toward the window. Watched the world flash by. Her shoulders sagged.
Relief.
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
We arrived at a cabin so far off the beaten path and so deep in the woods, no one would find it unless they knew where to look.
Silas’s plan.
I parked, and we both stared at the small, nondescript building that looked like it had risen from the forest floor into existence. Rough-hewn log walls. Windows on either side of a wrap-around porch. One stone chimney rising from the roof.
“Well, this is quaint,” she said. “How long will we be here?”
“As long as it takes.”
Whatever that meant. Long enough for them to stop hunting us? Long enough for her to recover? Long enough to figure out the next move?
She nodded and pushed open the door, stepping out into the late morning air.
I followed her up the steps. She moved aside.
“Key?” she asked, glancing around as if it would announce itself.
Silas hadn’t said. I checked the door frame, the window frames. Nothing. No welcome mat to hide it under. No obvious rock.
“Is it unlocked?” she suggested. “I mean, it’s not like we’re in a high-traffic area.”
I stopped searching and looked at her. She was focused on the front door, then her gaze shifted to me. She shrugged.
Worth a shot.
I reached for the knob, twisted, and pushed. It opened.
“I’ll go first.”
“I assumed,” she said.
I stepped inside and paused. Musty—closed up too long. But clean otherwise. Moving deeper, I saw Silas had thought of everything. Keys on the coffee table. Kitchen stocked. Clothes for both of us.
She was inside now, looking it over. Her gaze moved from one place to the next, assessing.
“Silas did all this?” she asked.
“I told you he has special skills.”
“I’m glad he’s on our side.”
Then she crossed to the sofa and sank into it. Her head dropped back against the cushions, eyes closing.
“I’m so tired,” she said.
Not physically. I heard it in her voice. The bone-deep exhaustion of someone who’d been running on adrenaline and fear too long.
“Sleep,” I said. “I’ll keep watch.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask what I was watching for, or how long we’d stay, or what came next. She curled onto her side, pulled her knees up, and let go.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
I stood there watching her, this woman who’d navigated broken glass barefoot and faced down nightmares and still found the strength to ask if we should lock the door of a condemned building.
Mine.
Damaged or not, she was mine. And I’d burn down anyone who tried to take her from me again.