Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Most of the next day is a fog.
York disappears the way he has a few times now since arriving from Chicago, but at least this time I see him go. I watch him drive off, much the same way I’m sure he watched me, only I’m certain he’ll return.
I bathe and nap and try to eat, but ultimately, I’m not functioning so well in the revelation of last night. The things I revealed and the things I learned have left me filled with concern.
There are still things York doesn’t know, things I’ve withheld, but I don’t think those things matter much anymore. There are also holes I can’t fill, things that aren’t adding up, things he never said that have left my mind twisting in the way that causes the headaches.
One thing that feels good is that I’m not walking on eggshells around him so much now.
After tomorrow though, if I survive this gala, survive this plan .
. . I must get out of here, get out of the country.
I need to get home, get my clean passport and identity, and go.
York is going to get recalled, and I’m going to get left in the dust. It feels terrible to acknowledge that, but it’s stupid to want him to stay or even fantasize that he might choose to.
A dead Director will be succeeded, and Raven will continue to be eliminated, and my file will pass down to the next in line.
York’s mission isn’t really me; it’s been to confirm what we have on Britain and seek retribution, and he thinks he needs me to do that.
Once that objective is reached, he’s going to disappear.
The death of the Raven program is in everyone’s best interest now, so he won’t stop it.
He might feel some obligation to me—might—but he’s not going to ignore orders for me.
I signed on the dotted line, and I did the dirty work .
. . The Director is going to meet his consequences, and one day I’ll meet mine, although I will outrun them for as long as I can.
After scouring the apartment, I find all the papers from the other night that were on the table, a laptop, and a few burner phones. Once I see the laptop isn’t connected to the internet and I can’t tether such a low-tech phone to it, I put it back.
I take my time going over each paper in the pile and committing it to memory.
It’s a mess of information that’s all out of order and some unrelated, including various account statements, real estate holdings in South America, shipping routes into Canadian ports, you name it, but I go over everything and then stuff it back where I found it.
The burner phone feels like an anvil in my hand. What I need is an internet connection to make sense of things, but I don’t have time for that, and as soon as I start hacking, someone is going to be alerted. I’m going to have to figure this out on my own steam.
The phone sits in my palm for a few more minutes before I turn it on.
When it boots up, I check the date, October 3, and then I type out the same message I’ve been typing since Vegas: 1007.
After I send it, I delete the outgoing and shut the phone off, stowing it in the drawer under the bed where I found it.
The deep rumble of the engine reaches me well before the car pulls in, and I wait, wrapping myself up in a blanket on the couch. There is nothing in his hands when he enters, and after hanging up his wet coat, he heads right to the kitchen and starts cooking.
I watch him as he moves around with ease, a slight crease in his brow like he’s got something on his mind, but otherwise, his face is blank. It’s always so fucking blank.
We eat in relative silence again, which feels foreboding after last night.
After dinner, the only sound is some quiet music that he puts on when he pours himself a drink, and I feel hesitant again in his presence.
There is a big part of me that wants to crawl into his lap and feel protected, safe like I felt that first night in the tent when he wrapped me up in his arms unexpectedly.
I haven’t felt secure in a lot of years, but I’ve had moments of it with him. Logic dictates that I shouldn’t get comfortable and depend on that feeling. It’s going to get ripped away. The only security I can rely on is the information in my head, because that is what is going to keep me alive.
But still.
I walk into the living room and sit, putting my head in his lap. He doesn’t stop me or shove me away like I prepare for. Instead, his calloused hand strokes my neck as he sips his whiskey, and I stare across the room in silence.