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."
Behind me, at the stove, Aubrey stops mashing potatoes, turning slightly to look over her shoulder at me. Too many different emotions flicker in her eyes too fast to grasp all at once. "Evette, I'm happy to help, and so is Malcolm. We wish we could do more." The same disappointed expression from this morning sinks over her face. She gives a small, sad smile and turns back to mash potatoes. Her sad smile bothers me.
Careful not to drip on the floor, I carry the strainer over to the pot she has already filled with water and set on the stove beside her.
"How are you holding up?"
The question comes as such a surprise, I'm stunned into fumbling around for an answer as I jostle the broccoli into the steamer basket. "I'm okay. I mean, I'm good. I just have a lot on my mind." I mean, I'm riding an emotional roller-coaster.
"David seems to be in good spirits, as usual. How about Mister Trip?"
"He's fine." I haven't seen him since this morning. He shut himself away in the office for the majority of the day. According to Dax, who slipped in around noon to grab his laptop cord out of his backpack, Trip was trying to sleep.
Aubrey glances in the direction of the office. Apparently, she's been paying attention. "Do you think he'd eat in the dinning room tonight?"
A laugh almost leaps out of me, and I choke it down, because she's not joking. Her expression is sincere when I look up at her. "Well, I'm not sure." Looking away, I start towards the dishwasher, open it up, and stick the strainer in.
"I would like him to," she says, "especially if it's you guys' last night here."
"I tried to get him to eat breakfast and dinner with us yesterday, and he's not..." How do I put this? "... sociable. You know. You've tried talking to him."
Aubrey gives a slow, gentle shake of her head. "It's just nerves, I think. He seems to try."
Back at the stove, I place a lid over the pot, trapping in steam. I give no comment.
"I hate the thought of him being cooped up in there all day and night. If he doesn't come sit with us, that's okay. He can eat alone if he chooses." She sets her potato masher down and wipes her hands on the towel hanging on the stove handle. "But I think he should know that I would like if he joined us at the table." She reaches over and grabs the bottle of wine that has been left breathing on the counter. "Do you like Merlot? Would you like a glass?"
"Um, yes, please."
"I'll pour you some." Turning to the cabinets beside her, she swings one open and starts taking down wine glasses, five in total. "I'll pour some for Trip, too. Would you take it to him for me? Maybe let him know dinner will be ready soon, and I'd like him to join us at the table?"
Dark red wine splash up the side of a glass, then another. None of that last part sounds like the greatest idea. But I don't want to be rude. Or a coward.
"I'll see if he'll come out."
Aubrey hands me two glasses. "Thank you, Evette. And thanks for your help with the broccoli."
"You're welcome."
This is stupid.
Grudgingly, I tread to the office, and, with a little trouble and quite a bit of noise, I nudge the door handle with my elbow.
It's extremely quiet, once the door is shut behind me.
The clock across the room ticks, making me hyper aware of my elevated heart rate. The lamp on the computer desk is on, beaming onto cherry wood, glaring over rain-spattered windows, barely glowing over Trip. I can just see the outline of him. He's laying on the couch, one arm slung over his head and the other covering his face.
—do not approach him. Find somewhere safe, and call nine-one-one—
Sighing deep through my nose, I draw closer, side-stepping between the pull-out bed and couch. And I slow to a stop, standing over him. He doesn't move. His breathing is normal, calm. Almost too calm.
"Are you asleep?" I ask, sounding loud.
"No."
Gingerly, I sit down on the the mattress and rest the foot of one glass on my knee, taking a gulp from the other. The wine is bold and velvety on the way down. A long lapse of words ensues, about ten agonizing seconds, as I think of something to say. "Do you want to hear the latest update on the news?"
"What is it?"
"There's a one hundred thousand dollar reward out for you." I shrug, even though he doesn't see it. "I would call in, but there's a twenty-five thousand dollar reward out for me, and one for Dax, too, so I'm not sure how that would work out."
He moves his arm from his face. I can't see the ice in his eyes, or maybe they're electricity. It's too dim in here to tell. They only gleam. His voice, though, sounds tame. "Is that wine?"
I find it difficult to look at him now. Nodding, I raise the glasses, flashing them in the lamp light. "Aubrey wants you to eat dinner in the dinning room."
"So she sent you in here with wine."
In the middle of taking another sip, I nod again. "She's persistent. Maybe even more than you. She wanted me to tell you she would like you to join everyone at the table, but you can still eat alone if you choose to be a jerk." Just silence. He only stares. My nail taps against my glass a couple of times. The need to fill the dead air is overpowering. "Is it a good idea to give you alcohol and invite you to sit with the family?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know. I think you might break something else."
Again, he falls silent, and I'm starting to think maybe I should back off, stop poking the bear and trying to get a rise out of him. He's not giving anything back, which is concerning. But then he hoists himself up to sit on the edge of the couch, across from me, practically right beside me. Pretty close. His voice is unreadable now. "Can I have my wine?"
"Have you had alcohol before?"
"Does it matter?"
"Just a simple yes or no."
"Yes."
"Oh." Not just a simple yes or no question after all. Like a landslide, a million more questions pour into my head, but I don't press on. I hold out his wine. "Here."
He takes it by the stem, clicks the rim against my glass, and downs the whole thing like a shot, in one swallow.
I gape at him. Faintly, I can hear him lick his lips.
He clears his throat. "When will dinner be ready?"
"Huh?"
He doesn't repeat himself.
"You just downed a whole glass of wine."
His gleaming eyes turn on me. "What exactly are you afraid of?"
Propping my elbow on my leg, I let my face fall into my palm with a huff. A curtain of my hair shields me from him. "If you go out there," I say, "and you're inebriated, and you get angry, and you snap, you could accidentally—"
"I've never accidentally killed anyone." Trip pauses a beat, as if he didn't think before he actually said that.
"Doesn't sound very reassuring."
He doesn't argue.
"Fine. Whatever." I straighten up and lift the wine to my lips. "It's your choice. If you cause another scene and make Aubrey call Government on us, it's your fault. If you hurt anyone, it's your fault."
"Understood."
I stop, lowering my glass without taking a sip. And I turn my head, slowly. "Trip, are you already drunk?"
"No." He's staring at me. "Are you?"
My eyes flutter from him to my wine. I hold it up in the air to catch it in the light. I've already gone through half the glass, and I'm drinking on an empty stomach. No wonder I'm feeling a little buzzed.
Resting the glass on my knee again, I look away and watch the rain hammer down on everything outside. Soundless lightning flares miles and miles away. My chest and neck are flushing.
Upstairs, footsteps plod down the hall, and somewhere, Noah squeals with glee. I glance at Trip, and his eyes flash my way.
I exhale slowly, letting my eyelids fall shut, blocking out the world. "Are you going to be alright out there?"
"I can handle it."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"I was just kidding about you being a jerk if you stayed in here."
"You said the same thing yesterday."
"Well," I say, wrapping a curl of my hair around my finger, "that was before..."
"I thought we weren't bringing it up."
"I'm not bringing it up." I quieten, thinking and then debating on how to broach this topic. "Why are we leaving tomorrow?"
"You told Dax why."
"He swears Government won't find us here. Do you think they could?"
"You answered that too."
"I want to hear it from you."
Trip's shoulders rise and fall as he sighs, heavily. He turns his head away. "This place might be our safest option. But that doesn't mean we should stay."
"Because?"
"Like you told Dax, it's possible Government could find something connecting him to these people. He said himself there could be something, and they'd have to dig. They will dig. There's no way to gauge how much time we have here. I'm not taking any chances."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"I want to hear it—"
"Because I don't want another dead family on my conscience." He tilts his head, fixing his eyes on me once again. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes."
"Satisfied?"
"I wish you would have just said it."
He draws silent.
My mouth clamps shut.
The clock ticks.
I can't come up with anything to blurt. Nothing is coming to mind. And the flushing in my neck starts to creep up my jaw to my cheeks. I take a slurp of wine, and when I lower the glass, I change the subject to something that will segue into getting out of this room. "Are you really going to have dinner with us?"
"Yes."
"You're drunk, aren't you?"
"No."
"I don't believe you."
I hear a light huff. A light, quick huff through his nose, and my gaze snaps to his face. Did he just laugh?
He stands up.
I stand up, too. Suddenly. Either because I'm tipsy and unsteady or I don't realize how close he is to me—my arm brushes against his. Skin against skin, for a millisecond. And a light shock sizzles through my blood stream. Causing me to freeze. In the same instant, those gleaming eyes switch, lock on my face.
Even though it's dark in here, I feel like he just turned a spotlight on me.
I hold his stare. "Trip?"
He doesn't answer right away, maybe waiting for me to go on, maybe deciding whether to speak. His voice is low, smothered when he finally does. "What?"
The door swings open.
"Guys, dinner is—"
Trip and I both jolt. Quickly, automatically, I take a huge step back, far away, crossing an arm over my chest. Staring at us, Dax, slowly, distractedly, closes the door behind him, and stops, hand splayed on the wood.
I wasn't quick enough. I stepped away too late. I wish I had downed my wine when I had the chance. Right now, I feel like drowning in it.
"Whoa," Dax says.
I keep my voice down, keep it steady. "I came in here because Aubrey asked me to—"
"Yeah, I know." The grin on his face won't allow his jaw to close. He can barely contain himself. "You were asking Triple out for dinner." I rake a hand through my hair. And Dax bursts enough for a chuckle to slip out. "It's not what it so looks or sounds like, huh?"
"Dax, seriously."
"Enough, Dax." Trip's eyes flash towards him, but they've been boring down on me this whole time.
Face falling, Dax shuts up.
Now, we're all serious. And I realize I don't want this seriousness hanging in the air either. Skirting around the pull-out mattress, I start towards Dax. "You said dinner is ready?"
He bobs his head.
"Trip is eating at the table."
Eyes bulging, Dax looks at him.
"He's drunk. Excuse me." I reach for the door, and Dax hops aside, out of my way.
"He's what? You're what, Triple?"
"I had a nightmare last night, about killing a kid."
Door half open, I stop in my tracks, stop breathing.
Wagging his head back and forth, Dax finally asks, "I'm sorry, what?"
"Thought I would just say it."
"He is drunk." Stunned, Dax turns to me. "Holy shit. How much has he had?"
But I don't answer. I don't even acknowledge I heard his question, or anything else. Wordlessly, without looking at either of them, I leave the room.