Chapter 27 #3
Nearly there. My ears perk for sirens in the distance, but it’s impossible to know for sure with the cacophony of noise below. I turn back toward the window and slam it shut.
Trip’s shoulders and head materialize through the windowpane. “Elz?” His eyebrows pinch together, two vertical lines creasing between them. “You okay?”
Is he referring to the high-speed chase I’m currently a part of or the bomb his grandfather just dropped on me in the library? Either way, there’s only one answer.
“I’m fine.”
“Can I come with you?” Light reflects off his brown irises and they shift from hazelnut to toffee. How can light do that with a spirit?
“You should stay.” I tap my foot, still in a race against the clock. “Go talk to him. Sort your shit out. Who knows if you’ll have another chance?”
He nods and looks down at the metal lattice. “Yeah.”
“Plus, I need you for intel.” I chuckle, but it doesn’t relieve the tightness in my chest. “If Cynthia suspects anything, or if somehow I didn’t evade the cameras as stealthily as I thought”—I swallow—“a heads-up would be nice.”
I turn toward the fire escape, pins and needles tingling along my biceps as though it’s fallen asleep.
Trip’s arm is extended toward mine. “You’re going to be okay, right? I don’t want to leave you if not.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “I’ll come by your apartment later. I promise.”
I nod and turn toward the stairs, sprinting my way to the ladder and the crate beneath it.
—
Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. How many people do I need to put between myself and the Coldwell house before I’m no longer a likely suspect?
They didn’t teach this in law school. I push my pace for another block, hoping my sweatshirt and sweatpants give the impression of a casual jogger, not a thief departing a crime scene.
An empty alleyway appears to my left and I gratefully slip into it.
I turn and plant my back against the brick wall, sinking to the ground.
My chest rises and falls toward my chin.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing.
What a morning.
I press my fingertips to my forehead as though they will organize the thoughts swimming every which way like a group of fish in my brain.
I made sure my grandson knew to seek you out.
I yell and slam my palm against the ground, my voice quickly lost to the traffic sounds nearby.
He’s lying. Sure, my relationship with Carter is flawed—imbalanced sometimes, even—but never fake.
But you don’t show him every side of yourself.
Dammit. Both John Coldwells are in my head and I hate them for it.
I never once questioned the way I act around Carter before Trip began haunting me.
Doesn’t everyone adapt to some extent depending on the friends they’re with?
Do I smooth out my rougher edges? Maybe.
Changing my tone or demeanor is hardly the same as basing an entire friendship on a lie.
A friendship of fifteen years. Carter’s grandfather died a little over year ago.
If Carter was only friends with me to serve his grandfather’s wishes, he wasn’t under any obligation to continue our friendship these past months.
And yet, nothing has changed. He even asked me to escort his freaking fiancée around town.
I release the air from my lungs bit by bit. It’s a lie. Plain and simple.
There are two people who would know for sure.
I can’t ask Carter. How would I explain what I’ve learned? Tell him I spoke to his dead grandfather? That approach will require a well-constructed plan and some solid evidence first. I might be ready to show him more of my true colors, but not enough that he’ll think I’m crazy.
I pause. Why should I care if he does? Carter James Coldwell is supposed to be my rock, my best friend, my safe space.
The person who holds me when I cry, who steadies me when life turns upside down, as it always does.
But is someone really your safe space if you’re in perpetual fear of losing them?
I snort through the tears welling in my eyes and lean my head against the brick wall.
Maybe it’s time to stop living in fear. To rely on my own courage for once.
To hold myself if things go wrong. It’s time to finally ask him for the truth.
My only other option is Babcia. Pain spikes in my chest. I miss you, Babunia.
I’ve been so stupid. What would she say if she could see me?
I expressly disobeyed her and used the stone three times.
Her face appears behind my eyelids—gray eyes narrowed through crepe-paper skin, thin lips turned downward in a pink crescent—and I swallow a knot in my throat.
What other secrets has she kept from me?
Has anyone been honest with me? I squeeze my fist tight in my sweatshirt, a hot tear trailing a path down my cheek.
Doing the only productive thing I can, I pull the deck of cards from my pocket and shuffle through them, confirming that the king of hearts is there.
At least something is where it belongs.