Pierce #2
She looks at it, as if she’d forgotten its existence. She drops her hold on it and shoves her hands beneath the table, staring down at the white tablecloth as if she’s trying to read words that don’t exist.
She doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m supposed to be putting her at ease. I switch to a safer topic. “What was the best vacation you went on as a kid?”
She slowly looks up, blinking twice before responding. “Disneyland.”
“Why?”
Her shoulders relax, and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Aside from the fact that it’s the happiest place on earth?”
I raise my drink. “That’s definitely… an opinion.”
She exhales. “I was six. My mom loved it as a kid and was so excited to take me. She showed me all the secret sites, took me on all the best rides, and got me a churro at every stop. I puked on the teacup ride, but it was worth it because she bought me my very own princess dress.”
I bet she still owns it. “Sounds like a good mom.”
“She was the best.” She swallows, and I mentally slap myself. It was a dirty trick to get her thinking of her dead mother, but also necessary to keep her calm so this little getaway goes off without a hitch. At least she has some fond memories of the woman who raised her. I can’t say the same.
“Did she have freckles like you?” I ask, the barest hint of flirtation lacing my words.
“More.” Thea grins, and just the sight of her smile sets me at ease. “She used to tell me that each dot was a stamp of love because God took longer to make us.”
A sweet sentiment. I can already picture Thea telling her own child that story someday.
A soft smile graces her lips as she fingers the bracelet again. “She loved to paint, and painted my portrait once a year. She’d study my face for hours, making sure she got all my freckles right.”
I can picture a woman much like Thea, laughing as she painted the most beautiful little girl in the world. I clear my throat… and the image from my mind.
“The bracelet…” Thea starts, then swallows, starting over. “My mom didn’t wear much jewelry, she never remembered to put it on. So for Mother’s Day four years ago I took her to get matching permanent bracelets. It was my way of feeling closer to her while living away from home.”
Ah. I lean back, my conscience taking a whip to my stomach.
“It’s a reminder of her when I need her comfort.” Her words falter and I fear she will cry again. Maybe it’s because I’m allergic to emotion, but I hate seeing her sad.
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“I’m glad you did.” She gives me a soft smile, but the edges are still lined with the grief she carries. “You’re the only one who has.”
I don’t like that no one else, specifically an ex, never recognized her pain.
A large plate with a small portion of steak and potatoes is deposited in front of each of us, pulling us to less sorrowful ground.
Thea continues to tell me stories of all her past vacations with her parents while we eat.
I stay silent, enjoying the stories from her happy childhood more than I care to admit.
It’s nice to hear someone talk about their life that way.
It’s obvious those experiences shaped her into the woman she is.
Just like my experiences shaped me. For better or worse.
By nine, Thea is back to her quirky and slightly oblivious but endearing personality, offering me more details than were utterly necessary about her trip to Ensenada when she got food poisoning.
And the trip to Hawaii where she nearly cut off a toe.
There seems to be a common theme in her vacations. Catastrophe.
I wish this one had been different for her.
Thea’s eyelids sag as she finishes her last bite of chocolate cake. Her head dips, and she jerks, still half chewing and half sleeping.
I stand and come to her side, helping her out of her chair. Her body nearly falls into mine.
“I’m sorry.” She yawns. “I’m so tired. It must be the time difference.”
Or the trauma. Or was she drugged again? No. I watched everything that she was given. I even insisted on water bottles instead of glasses.
“I’ve got you.” I ease her to my side and walk through the nearly empty dining room with her. She’s half asleep as she walks, leaning into me more with each step. When we finally make it to the stairs, I scoop her into my arms. I can walk faster this way. That’s the only reason.
Maybe I like the sweet smell of her perfume dancing around me as we walk… her soft breaths blowing tufts of blonde hair off her lips.
Maybe I like caring for someone.
The thought hits me out of nowhere. I certainly didn’t inherit that from my mother, but it’s been true as long as I can remember. Until I left everyone I knew.
Holding this woman in my arms, I have an ache in my chest from what could have been.
Thea yawns, her head lolling back, her eyes cracking open. “Why me, Pierce? Why is all this happening to me?”
I ache to give her an answer to her question. “I wish I knew.” I keep walking as she falls asleep once more.
I squeeze us through the tiny halls until we make it back to the room. I swipe the card and then have to sidestep to get through the door. My elbow and hip hit the doorway, but after a lifetime of pain, I don’t feel a thing. Perhaps that numbness is something I should talk to a therapist about.
Too bad it would be a conflict of interest to divulge this to the one in my arms.
I flick the lights on to make sure there are no unwelcome visitors in our little hobbit hole.
Content, I put her in the bed where the blankets were already bunched up from her nap. I tuck her in, then finish my five-second search of the tiny room before dead-bolting the door and jamming a hanger into the crack, twisting it to make sure no one enters.
I plop down on the other side of the bed and kick off my shoes, then get out my phone. I access my encrypted email. Two new emails, neither from Mr. Smith. My stomach clenches at the sight of a message from the Russian.
I hesitate a moment before clicking on it. The message is short and to the point.
Bring me the drive, or there will be problems.
I curse. Things just went from bad to worse. I never informed him I didn’t receive the drive, and now he thinks I stole it. I hurry to send him a response, but the damage may already be done. What if he sends someone after me? That’s the last thing I need.
I don’t know this Russian guy, but there’s a reason I was the go-between man. Maybe Mr. Smith was afraid of him. Maybe that’s why he changed his mind. I won’t know until he answers my messages. If he ever does.
I open the one from Noah, hoping for some good news.
It’s not.
The message from Noah is equally short.
Still working to ID the dead guy, but I thought you’d want to see this.
I click on the attachment.
It’s an article containing the same blurry photo of Thea and me rushing from the hotel, along with the headline: Suspects in a Murder Investigation.
Great.
It’s only a local police broadcast, and they don’t have our names. Only this grainy image, but even that is enough. Once it’s on the internet, it becomes incredibly more difficult to erase. I should have left Thea when I had the chance. Now she’s a wanted fugitive.
How could I ever leave her in such a helpless position? If Thea could poke around in my brain, she’d say my need to save her stems from my complicated childhood.
She might be right.
Thea moves in the bed, bumping me with her foot, and her snoring picks up. Even in her sleep, she’s the least inconspicuous person ever.
She’s my mission now. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe and out of harm’s way.
I plug my phone in and lay on top of the covers beside her. The room is pitch-black and utterly silent except for the snoring. I fear I won’t be able to fall asleep. I shouldn’t fall asleep with the trouble on the horizon, but the barely noticeable rocking of the boat takes me in an instant.