Chapter Thirty-six

                                    

                                          
There is now a one hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading directly to Trip's arrest. The evening news anchor's face keeps popping in my head—perfectly gelled hair, insanely white teeth, expression passive. 
                          
"—one hundred thousand dollar reward—" 
                          
Twenty-five thousand dollars for me and Dax, each.
                          
My stomach is still in knots.
                          
"Frankly, we're dealing with a psychopath." The news pulled up grainy footage of the stairwell in Dax's apartment complex, of Trip beating the hell out of that Force agent at the fire exit door. He was so fast, they had to slow footage down. And he was still just a blur. 
                          
The video played, in loops, always cutting away right before Trip pulled the trigger, while an investigator working under Ralston spat over the phone. "He's killed four police officers, four. He's nearly killed three more. He's stolen three cars—one of those a Government-issued vehicle—and he brutally attacked and nearly killed a Government Official. This terrorist, this psychopath, needs to be stopped."
                          
Actually, Trip has killed seven men. He's, practically, stolen four cars if they had included mine. He knocked out Eye-brow-piercing guy at that gas station. He also kidnapped me and a Government employed computer hacker. And they can't find him.
                          
I draw in a deep breath. 
                          
All I can think of is how, in just hours, we'll be driving back into the City, into the lion's den. 
                          
The stupid news anchor's face pops in my head again. "Officials warn he is armed and extremely dangerous. Use caution. If you see him, do not approach him. Find somewhere safe, and call nine-one-one immedi—"

                          
"It's really raining out there." Aubrey's voice jolts me out of my thoughts and back into the kitchen. She must have heard the running water and noticed my inattention to the broccoli I've been rinsing for far too long, because she hasn't attempted to make small talk until now.
                          
When I came out of the living room to get away from the incessant chatter on the news and insisted on helping with dinner, even though there wasn't much to help with, I thought it would take my mind off everything. But I feel worse than I did sitting in front of the TV screen. 
                          
Cutting off the water, I look through the window above the sink. 
                          
The heavens have finally opened, and the world is swallowed in more gray—nothing. I glance through the french doors in the dinning room, where Malcolm is tending to the grill on the back porch, under the overhang. A gust of wind sprays his raincoat. "Poor Malcolm."
                          
Aubrey laughs, mirthfully. "Oh, he wanted to grill tonight, despite the rain and the cold. Next thing you know, he'll be coming in here, rattling on about some idea he has for another story."
                          
I play stupid. "He's a writer?"
                          
"Yes, he's working on a few books."
                          
I shake the broccoli out in a strainer and pause over the sink. Now is the time to say it, now or never. "Thank you, Aubrey, for letting us stay. You've been too kind to us." Now that it's said, it feels so out of place. 
                          
"It's no problem at all." She doesn't sound fazed. "We've got the room, and we don't mind the company."
                          
Would you turn the three of us in for a hundred fifty thousand dollars?  
                          
I want to ask, out of both humor and fear. Chances are, she and Malcolm have seen or heard something about us from the news, the radio, or the internet by now. I don't know what they think or believe. "Really." I look over my shoulder. "I mean it, thank you."