CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Looking at Grant, all I can think is that I have never seen anyone roast a marshmallow so blatantly against their will.
So we’re not camping, exactly. But when life gives you a countdown to attempted murder and a back-alley trash can fire, you might as well make s’mores.
Tonight’s diabolical menace is known (to Lesley) as the Tent City Terror, thanks to his charming habit of burning down encampments while their residents are sleeping.
Right around two a.m., he’ll approach this alley to find that its usual inhabitants have been mysteriously housed elsewhere, and the only ones left to kill are waiting to kick his ass.
For now, we’re leisurely hanging by the fire with the goal of appearing like we totally live here and totally don’t expect an attack, just in case he’s watching.
And if I could block out the city sounds, the cold concrete, and the knowledge that someone nearby wants us dead, I could almost enjoy this as much as any camping trip.
Grant, of course, could not. He’s miserable and jumpy and hates this, which I know because he keeps saying so.
“I hate this,” he mutters for the thousandth time as flames engulf his skewer.
“Cheer up,” I say, hoisting the marshmallows. “We have a whole other bag.”
“I mean this,” he says, gesturing widely around us. “Being bait. Sitting around helplessly until some psycho decides to kill us.”
“We are not helpless. Between the two of us, we now have seven years and a couple days of self-defense training under our belts. We could very well hold our own.” That’s what I’m choosing to think, anyway, since it’s not like we have another option.
In any case, I don’t think this was the rousing pep talk I meant it to be. Grant is gazing longingly at the fire as if he’d like to beat the Terror to the punch and throw himself in.
I try again. “Don’t you think it’s too early in the story for everything to go horribly, horribly wrong? We screwed up our first assignment. Doesn’t it just kind of make sense that this one works out better?”
“I think you’re confusing me with a clairvoyant,” he says. “I know crime novels, and I know story structure. That doesn’t mean I can exactly predict things. That’s kind of the whole point of reading, you know. Finding out what happens, because you don’t know it yet.”
I pop a gooey marshmallow into my mouth, speaking around it as I dig in the bag for another. “I disagree. Sometimes knowing how the story’s going to go is the charm.”
Grant’s frown deepens, which I didn’t think was possible. “Explain.”
I could tell him about my favorite books, how they’re predictable in the best way.
How you know the awkward chance encounter is really a meet-cute, the third-act breakup just a temporary misunderstanding.
The smooth-talking blond guy is usually the douchebag, and the rugged badass is the hero.
All the warm fuzzies of a real-life love affair, none of the heartbreak.
But if there’s one thing I don’t need tonight, it’s a debate over the merits of the romance genre.
I skewer a marshmallow and set it over the flames. “I’m just saying, not every genre is doom and gloom. Sometimes you read a book for a guaranteed happy ending. To know it’s all going to be okay, in a way you never can in real life.”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at me like I’m a sudoku puzzle and he’s trying to place a number. “Unfortunately for us,” he says, “I don’t think this is one of those books.”
“Don’t I know it.”
It’s almost funny, actually, comparing this to an Anna Matthews romance. They tend to have a much lower body count, at least in the literal corpse sense of the phrase. And the man I dragged along is less rugged badass and more anxiety on legs.
But maybe that’s a little harsh, I think, watching Grant absently rub his jaw.
I’m sure he’s someone’s idea of a romance hero.
I’d bet more than a few of his students have crushes on him.
That concerned look of his—in better times, I imagine it trends more toward inquisitive.
He seems like a good listener, someone who cares what other people have to say.
Sure, his wit may be more self-deprecating than the standard hero’s snark, and he may have an actual physiological allergy to excitement.
But he’s a good guy, I can tell that much.
Maybe even the best person to ever kill a man with a skillet.
The inferno where my marshmallow used to be interrupts my musing, and I let the whole thing drop into the fire. Grant wordlessly reaches into the marshmallow bag and hands me another.
It’s too bad, actually. I think I’d like to read about him, if he were in fact a fictional character. If he were in a different kind of book.
He rolls his shoulders. “Interesting that you said we screwed up our first assignment.”
“Yeah, well. I was feeling generous.”
He gives me a leveling look that melts away my ability to bullshit him.
“Fine,” I say, trying not to let any amusement show. “I could have been slightly more prepared on the alias front. I will keep that in mind next time.”
He nods. “And I’ll try not to obliterate the plan.” He says it in a way that makes me think, if I squinted, I could almost convince myself there’s a hint of a smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth.
“We have a deal,” I say.
He extends a fire-warmed hand, and I shake it. As the flames slowly dwindle, we lapse into a silence that no sane person would call comfortable, but maybe a little more companionable than before. After we’ve roasted our last marshmallows to cinders, Grant’s phone beeps our warning.
“I think it’s go-time,” I say.
“Ugh,” he replies.
He follows me to our tent and I zip it closed behind us. There’s nothing inside, just an eerie darkness and a thick air of suspense. Now the real waiting game begins. This might be the hardest part: a full hour of silence, pretending we’re asleep and unaware.
While Grant parks himself in the corner, I shake out my arms and stretch my legs, trying to stay loose and warm.
A familiar wave of anticipation radiates from deep in my chest, a feeling I’ve learned to savor.
Of course, it usually comes before a jungle zip line or a cliff dive—things I do for fun.
This is more than slightly different. But my body doesn’t seem to know that.
With little light and no sound but our breathing and the distant city hum, it’s hard to keep track of time. Maybe it’s been minutes, maybe hours. My only point of reference is that it’s the longest Grant has ever gone without complaining.
As if he can read my mind, Grant breaks the silence to whisper, “I still hate this.”
“Just think happy thoughts,” I whisper back. “Ice cream. Puppies. How cool it was when I Grand Theft Auto–ed your car.”
Even in the dark, I can make out the scorn in his sideways glare. “It’s not a verb. You didn’t grand theft auto my car; you committed grand theft auto.”
“No, no. I mean like the video game.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why the game is called that. Because in the game you commit grand theft aut—”
“Sshh.” I set a hand on his arm, listening. Somewhere nearby, a clock tower is chiming two—and along with it comes the soft, punctual sound of footsteps. A shiver skitters over my skin.
The steps grow closer and closer, until it sounds like they’re encircling our abandoned fire. Inspecting it, assessing the scene. Silence. Then they continue toward us—quiet, agonizingly slow—until they’re at our door. They stop.
There’s a hollow plastic pop, like the push of a lid, so quiet I would have missed it if I hadn’t been listening for it. A steady splashing, the stink of gasoline. Footsteps all along the front of the tent.
We wait, as discussed. Too early, and we risk another serial killer getaway. Too late, and we’re barbecued. The footsteps and the slugging of gasoline follow the tent’s perimeter, curving around toward the back. As the sloshing reaches behind us, I take a deep and quiet breath.
“Now,” I finally whisper, almost silently. Grant lifts a shaky hand and slowly unzips the door.
We step out, carefully avoiding puddles of gasoline, and have just enough time to creep a few feet away when a short bundled-up figure comes into view from behind the tent.
His back is to us and his head is bent as he carefully distributes gasoline from a red canister, stopping every few feet to drizzle it up the sides.
He turns the last corner, and I nod at Grant.
When the man sets the gas canister down and pulls a lighter from his pocket, I lunge.
He yelps as I send the lighter flying with a sort of double-handed slap. But he doesn’t cower. He’s small but agile, and when he whips around and shoots me a beady, feverish glare, I know instantly that this is no fleeing Pulverizer. The Terror is going to fight.
He twists out of my grasp. I dodge the elbow he launches at my face.
He trips me with the sweep of a foot. I tug him down by the hem of his grimy puffer coat.
He knocks over the gas canister as he hits the ground, and liquid glugs out of the spout, pooling around us in a noxious puddle.
He throws out a hand, clawing at the ground. I pin his arm.
“Lighter!” I call to Grant, and he darts forward to snatch it away.
My hands are slick with gasoline and my eyes and nose are burning, but somehow I manage to get the man on his stomach and cross his arms behind him. He must be flagging.
“Zip ties!” Grant searches his pockets to retrieve them, but he’s not quick enough. The man squirms and wriggles, slipping from my grasp. He twists around and as I catch one of his flailing arms, he pulls it to his mouth and bites into my wrist with jagged, rotting teeth.
“EW!” I shriek, even though this is arguably more of an OW moment. In that split second of shock and disgust, he escapes my grip and dashes to his feet.
The Terror wheezes as he whirls to face a petrified Grant.