CHAPTER EIGHT #2
I don’t answer—mainly because I don’t know—and decide I’ll just figure it out as I go.
I reach across him and brace my hand against the door.
As carefully as one can while careening down the highway at ten zillion miles an hour, I squeeze in front of him, trying my best not to obstruct his view.
The SUV is lagging behind, far enough to put a pause on the shooting, but it’s only a matter of time.
I take the wheel, pushing Grant’s hands out of their perfect ten o’clock and two o’clock positions, then nudge his foot off the gas pedal with my own.
“Can you get out?”
Grant tsks as he squirms awkwardly behind me. “I’m trying,” he grunts. “Your butt’s kind of in the way.”
“Sorry, if I’d known we were doing this today, I would have brought my smaller butt.”
He finally manages to scooch gracelessly out of the way and topples over into the passenger footwell, a long-limbed, cursing tangle of a person. Finally, he rights himself, and the swap is complete. I breathe out a triumphant whoop.
“You have to admit that was pretty awesome,” I say while Grant gets situated and picks up the gun. “Almost as awesome as when I—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” There’s an edge of warning to his voice, but when I glance dubiously at him, I almost have to laugh. He may be holding a gun, but the glare in his eyes and firm set of his jaw are way more or I’ll flunk you for the semester than or I’ll use the weapon in my hands.
I swerve into the passing lane so Grant has a better line of sight to the SUV, which is gaining on us to the right.
He fiddles with the gun, pulling things apart with a sense of reluctant know-how, then exhales forcefully and looks relieved.
Or as relieved as one can look, fleeing a gunman in a dead man’s car.
“Thank God,” he says. “It’s not loaded.”
“Why is that thank God, Grant?”
“Because I don’t want to shoot anyone, Roxie,” he snaps back.
I’m trying to put more distance between us and the SUV, but there’s a semitruck in the travel lane and a red convertible crawling along ahead of us, a MEEMAW’S TAXI SERVICE sticker and six stick figure children adorning its bumper.
“MOVE!” I bellow, leaning on the horn as I tailgate the convertible. Its driver merely flips me off, her fluffy white hair blowing in the wind.
My heart drops into my stomach at the sight of the SUV creeping up alongside us. Grant mutters anxiously with his shoulders screwed up to his ears, holding the gun as if it were even capable of doing anything.
The SUV pulls up neck and neck with us, but just as I’m bracing myself for the worst, its driver’s scowl drops into a look of surprise and he lowers his gun. He rolls down his window.
“PULL OVER,” he shouts over the rush of wind.
“NO!” Grant and I yell back.
The man frowns as he shouts again, something that sounds like OR ELSE I’LL SHOOT YOU. Even inaudible, the words send chills down my neck.
And then, with a grunt of effort, Grant does something incredibly stupid and incredibly well timed: he flings the gun out the window. The man ducks to dodge it, swerving away in the process and leaving just enough room for me to cut back over to the travel lane.
We’re flying toward the exit and I can hardly believe it. We’re actually going to make it out of here, or at least off this godforsaken highway. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a rush like this before.
Then there’s another loud bang. Our car jerks and veers toward the shoulder, out of my control.
“What the—”
“They blew the tire,” Grant grits out, his hand braced against the ceiling.
The car skids off the highway. Grant yells like he’s on a roller coaster to hell as we spin wildly along the curve of the off-ramp. I careen onto the main road and just barely manage to take the first right, which turns out to be … a fenced-in apartment building parking lot. A complete dead end.
There’s a screech as the SUV pulls in behind us, caging us in.
The silence in the car is thick. Neither of us moves.
“What part of the book would you call this?” I ask Grant in a low voice.
“The part where we’re fucked,” he says.
Car doors slam behind us, and I turn to see the man and the woman walking slowly in our direction.
For deeply suspicious characters, they’re shockingly casual.
Funky, even. He’s wearing a tailored blazer over a teal zebra-print shirt, unbuttoned at the top, while she has pink hair and matching neon combat boots.
With a bracing breath, I reach for the door handle.
“What are you doing?” Grant hisses. “You’re not supposed to get out of the car!”
“That’s for traffic stops. Pretty sure there are no rules for fictional villain confrontations.”
“But—”
“I am not dying in a wannabe murderer’s crappy car,” I say. “Stay here if you want.” He thinks about this for a few seconds, looking faintly green, then tucks one hand inside his blazer and reaches for the door with the other. “What are you doing?”
“Maybe they’ll think I have another gun,” he says in a harsh whisper.
We open our doors at the same time and meet around the back of the car.
“Don’t come any closer,” Grant calls shakily to the man and woman.
They amble to a stop, and only then do I realize the man’s hands are empty.
He holds his palms out in a show of goodwill and then flares out his jacket, revealing that his gun—and its twin—are holstered, one at each hip. Something about him rings a bell to me.
“Sorry about the damage to your car,” he calls to us. Everything about him, from his British drawl to his relaxed stance, drips nonchalance. “Just wanted to get your attention.”
“We won’t hurt you, promise,” assures the woman, her own London accent bright and chipper.
I suddenly feel a lot more empathetic about Grant’s skepticism of me last night. “Car horns get people’s attention,” I snap. “It seemed more like you were trying to kill us.”
The man chuckles, gesturing to his guns. “What, with these? These are just Higgins and Wiggins. They’re not for killing. They’re only for emergencies and drama.”
“Really? Is that why you yelled Pull over or I’ll shoot you?”
“Also literally shot at us several times,” Grant points out.
“No, no,” says the man, sounding borderline impatient. “I said I’m not going to shoot you. I wasn’t really aiming for you, just wanted to stop you getting away. And now I’m especially glad I have.”
He lifts his sunglasses up to rest on his head and gestures to the woman beside him. “This is Lissa Rhea, my assistant.” She beams at us and waves. The man plants his fists on his hips, striking an almost comically arrogant pose. “And you can call me Burns.”
“You can call him Lesley,” Lissa tells us, then flashes him a cut the bullshit look. “You can’t pull off Burns, babes.”
He lets out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’m Lesley. Lesley Burns. Detective Lesley Burns.”
He smiles at me, and that’s when it clicks. An icy current darts down my spine.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re the library guy.”
Grant shifts in my periphery, still reaching into his jacket. “Who?”
“The guy Jack knew, who let us into the library. He works there. He’s not a detective. He’s an accomplice.”
Lesley chuckles. “And what a testament to my undercover work that you think so. I do hope you’ll review me on Yelp. But no, I was not helping Jack, and I don’t work there.”
“Yes, you do! I saw you. You had a badge and everything.”
He reaches into his pocket for something. “You mean this?” He tosses it at me and I snatch it from the air.
I peer at the words printed on the card, slightly off-center, and read them aloud. “‘Boxton Pubic Libary’?”
Lissa sighs. “Best I could do on short notice. Anyway, no one notices the little details in the moment.”
Lesley grins at me. “You certainly didn’t. Jack didn’t.” I fling the name tag back, aiming for his face. To my dismay, he catches it handily. “Tell me, where is the backstabbing bookish bastard?”
I square my shoulders. “He was given a one-way tour of Ipswich Bay,” I say, trying to sound threatening even as Grant audibly shudders. But Lesley and Lissa just look impressed.
“Right on,” says Lesley. “Listen, much to discuss, and we’ll get to it all. But I assure you, we’re on your side. We’re trying to take these arseholes down.”
Arseholes, plural? An uneasy feeling snakes through my gut.
Grant shifts on his feet, but doesn’t move his hand. “Who are you with, MI5?”
Lesley frowns. “Er, not strictly speaking, no.”
“FBI?”
“God, no.”
There’s a pause. Grant takes a steadying breath laced with dread, as if he knows the answer to his next question could be the end of life as he knows it.
“Are you,” he asks slowly, “a quirky private detective in over his head and desperately in need of our help?”
Lesley’s face lights up. “Bang on! Well done.”
Grant drops his empty hand from his jacket and turns toward me.
“Fine,” he mumbles, resigned. “We’re in a novel.”