Chapter 27
Ella
“Absolutely not!”
“Dad—”
“No, Ella. You’ve gone through something traumatic and you’re still dealing with that. Going off on your own is not wise!” He paces the living room. Motor tracks his movements, like watching a slow and angry tennis match. “It’s dangerous.”
“Dad, it’s an Airbnb,” I say. “There are neighbors close by; there are—”
“Then book one near here!” he says. “You don’t need to go hours away to write. You told me you can write anywhere.”
“And that was true before, but maybe it isn’t now,” I say. “I know you’re worried, but I need to do this. This weekend made me realize that being on my own is a good thing.”
He stops pacing, and Motor shakes his head, clearly dizzy. My dad puts his hands on his hips. “Take Matilda.”
“Dad, no.”
“Take me!”
“No.”
“I’ll stay on the other side of the house; you won’t even know I’m there.”
I sigh and rub my head. “I have to move on from this sometime. I can’t be scared forever.”
He sits next to me. “Ella, as much as I didn’t like the guy, you watched someone you cared about die in front of you.” I look away. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
I wish I could tell him I’ll be safe. I wish I could reassure him that I’m not going to be alone, that the person who can protect me the most will be with me the whole time.
“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Motor.”
“You’re taking Motor?” he asks, looking at the dog. “Oh, well … I mean, he could stay here.”
“Dad!”
“What? He has a routine!”
I laugh. “You just said you don’t want me to be alone, but you won’t let me take my dog?”
“Our dog,” he says. “But yeah, of course, you can take him. I’ll just write you out his schedule—”
“Text it to me, you control freak,” I say, standing up and grabbing my purse.
“Wait, you’re going now?”
I’ve sprung it on him, but that’s the only way this will work. I have to get out of the house and on the road before he—
“Send me the listing, and the address, and the name of the owner, and the—”
—Before he does that.
“I will,” I say. “But check-in is in a few hours and the owner will be waiting, so I have to go.”
He follows me out the door. “You have your pepper spray?”
“Yes.”
“Gun?”
“Yes.”
“Phone charger? Credit card?”
“Yes, yes. Motor, hop up.” I open the passenger door and Motor jumps in, tail wagging.
“Remember, you call me anytime. And … I could just come with you, check the place out, then leave!”
I get into the car and open the window. “Dad, you’re being unbearable right now. I love you; I’ll be fine. Kiss me goodbye.”
“… but—”
I point to my face aggressively. He frowns and kisses my cheek.
“I’ll call you when I get there.”
I set off, anxious to reach my destination and for these next few weeks to fly by. And hopefully, by then, this will all be over.
The question is, what will all be over?
I’m agreeing to be part of a murder, aren’t I?
I could play ignorant, and I know the law well enough to know that would work—how was I supposed to know that the man who “kidnapped” me was also planning a murder?
But I don’t just have to convince the police. I have to convince myself.
My dad is a cop. I’ve grown up around cops. The law was life in my house, and I’m breaking one of the most important laws there is. Taking a person's life is serious, regardless of what they’ve done to deserve it.
But it’s too late now, because I’m pulling up outside the Airbnb, and Gable is leaning against his car, already looking annoyed.
“Does your watch work?” he asks.
“Does your smile work?” I snap. “Quit bitching at me!”
He taps his wrist. “I’d like to get there today, if possible, Gibson.”
“And I’d like to remove your head with a butterknife, but here we are!” I lug my suitcase from the trunk. He doesn’t help; he just looks bored as he watches me struggle. “Don’t worry; I got this. No need to offer a hand or anything.”
“Good. I’m not your chauffeur.”
“God, you’re such an ass.”
“I’m here to keep you alive, not happy.” He watches me throw the suitcase into his trunk. “Why do you need so much stuff?”
“You said to pack for hot and cold!”
“Yes, not a fucking fashion show.”
I’m going to kill him. I’m not even in the car yet and I’m already close to kicking him in the balls. How am I going to survive a month?
And it just gets worse.
He doesn’t play music in the car, and we argue over that, too. How can someone plan a car journey and not have music?
“The navigation says nine hours,” I whimper. “No music for that long? What are we going to do? Talk?”
“Nope, we’re going to sit quietly.”
“For nine hours?”
“Get your laptop out. Write some shit.”
“I can’t type in a moving car. I’ll puke.”
He groans. “Why couldn’t Asher have fallen in love with someone else? A nice, quiet lady with no attitude? A nun?”
“You have a month of me. Be nice or I’ll do this.” I lean close to him.
He frowns and leans away. “Do what?”
“Stay as close to you as humanly possible,” I whisper, moving closer.
“What … get away from me.”
“I’m not touching you. What’s the issue?”
He pushes me back into my chair. “Listen to music on your phone!”
Oh fuck. Oh fuckity fuck.
“Oh no.” I snatch up my purse, searching through it, underneath the straw wrappers, snacks, and tampons. “I’ve forgotten my headphones; we have to go back.”
“We are not turning back for headphones.”
“I can’t survive without them! I need them to work!”
He glares at me and reaches across, pulling open the glove compartment. A pair of headphones stare back at me.
“I thought you don’t listen to music?”
He shifts in his chair. “They’re not mine. They’re Asher’s.”
The atmosphere switches from annoying to depressing so fucking quickly. I stare at the headphones and realize I have absolutely nothing of Asher’s. Not even a T-shirt I borrowed. Just the note from the bookshelves.
I don’t even have a picture of him.
I close the glove compartment slowly. “Maybe we should just sit in silence.”
The drive isn’t slow, but it is tense. We’re both likely lost in thoughts of Asher, but I don’t want to talk about him, not again. I enjoy having Gable close, despite his attitude, but the pain is leaking back into my system. I need a little break from the grief, so I opt to sleep most of the way.
I’m dreaming of that night, like I always do, lost in the sticky blood and flood of tears, when a voice pierces the darkness.
“Gibson.”
It seems to come from nowhere and everywhere, blurring the image of Asher’s face as he holds me.
“Gibson.”
I scrunch my nose, and a hand on my knee has me jolting to the side. My heart almost leaps out of my throat as I open my eyes to darkness, and Gable beside me in the driver’s seat. We’re not moving.
“You’re so fucking skittish.”
I place my hand over my rattling heart. “Sorry, I’m not over finding out twenty-seven people tried to kill me!
” I glance around at the parking lot we’re in.
The dusty road is dark, a neon blue “VACANCIES” sign from a motel reception offering the only light.
It’s an L-shaped building, the office at the end, and a line of rooms with peeling doors ahead of us.
A short, battered deck wraps around the place. It looks like a thing of nightmares.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’ve been followed,” Gable says.
My throat dries, and I croak out, “What?”
“I noticed a car following us a few miles back, so I’ve changed direction. They’re going to follow us here, so I need you to listen to me carefully,” he says, his dark eyes reflecting the neon light. “I’m going to get us two rooms—”
“No, don’t leave me alone!”
“I’m not going to,” he interjects. “I need whoever followed us to think you’ll be alone, but I’ll go around the back and climb through the bathroom window. They’ll break in. I’ll stop them.”
Somehow, I swallow, but it’s like oil over dust. “Stop them. You mean … kill them.”
In the dark, Gable nods, and I let my head drop back against the seat.
How did this become my life? It feels like I’ve been thrust into one of my novels, and I suddenly feel very fucking sorry for my characters. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s murder, Gable.”
“And?”
I drop my hands to my lap and stare at him. “I have morals, and a conscience and … all the other things non-assassins have!”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s you or them.
Is that really a difficult choice?” I chew my lip in silence, a war in my heart.
My dad would tell me to call the police, stay safe, and follow the law.
But I can’t, can I? “Gibson,” Gable says, and my gaze meets his. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
My lip trembles. “But … I’m bait.”
“Very annoying bait,” he says and gets out of the car.
I scramble to follow him, Motor on my heels, and I cling to Gable’s arm as he gets us two rooms. Pressing my forehead into his bicep, I breathe through the nausea I’m quickly becoming accustomed to since my life was infiltrated by the Flynns.
I need to remember all these emotions for the next book I write.
If I survive long enough to write it.
“Gibson, you’re puncturing my very solid muscles,” Gable mumbles as we walk toward our rooms, our footsteps echoing across the aged wood decking.
“Sorry.” I claw my hand off him, and he unlocks one room and nods for me to go in.
It’s simple. A double bed, a desk, an oversized chair. The carpet is well-worn, the pattern long faded and darkened with dirt and cigarette smoke that seems to have clung to every fabric surface.
“Motor.” Gable whistles, and the dog hops up onto the bed. He points at the animal. “Don’t die.” The dog shifts from paw to paw, panting excitedly, like he lives for the damn thrill.
As Gable turns to leave, I squeak, “Aren’t you going to tell me not to die?”
He shrugs and leaves.
Bastard.
As the door closes, I sit on the bed. The springs groan under my weight, and I place my hand on Motor’s back. “This is scary.” He sniffles my face, and I like to think he’s reassuring me, but knowing Gable’s dog, he’s probably making fun of me.