Eight
"Elise—"
"Now!" I was already moving toward the window, peering through the curtains. The street looked normal, but that didn't mean anything.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Hank.
Where are you?
I typed back: Maple Street. Come alone
My mother grabbed her bag and headed for the door. "We're not going through the front."
"But they said—"
Outside, I could hear an engine approaching fast. Too fast for the residential street. I peered through the window and saw a black SUV with tinted windows rolling slowly down Maple Street.
"Back door," I hissed. "Now."
We ran through the kitchen and out into the small backyard. The fence was low enough to climb, but my mother wasn't as young as she used to be. I boosted her over, then vaulted after her, landing hard on my knees in the neighbor's garden.
Behind us, the sound of splintering wood.
We ran through backyards, ducking behind sheds and garden walls, my mother surprisingly strong for a woman in her sixties. My lungs burned, but I didn't slow down. Couldn't slow down
"This way." Hank said.
He was leaning out of his truck window, engine running, face grim. No questions about why I was running through suburban backyards with a woman who looked like my twin. He just opened the passenger door and waited
I helped my mother into the truck, then climbed in after her. Hank was already moving before I'd closed the door, tires squealing as we pulled away from the curb.
In the side mirror, I could see black smoke rising from the direction of Maple Street. They'd burned her house. My childhood photographs, the life she had built without me.
All gone.
My mother was crying silently beside me, staring at the smoke. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn't know how. How do you comfort a ghost who turns out to be flesh and blood?
Instead, I looked at Hank's face, stern but yet very attractive as he focused his attention on the road.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, "Don't thank me yet," he said. "We're not safe. Not even close."
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I stared at them as we sat in Hank's truck, my mother quiet beside me. The cut on my palm throbbed where I'd scraped it climbing through the fence. Blood had soaked through the torn piece of shirt I'd wrapped around it.
"Almost there," Hank said, his voice calm despite everything that had just happened.
Almost where? I wanted to ask, but my throat felt tight. Every few seconds, I kept seeing flames in the rearview mirror. My mother's house burning while we ran like criminals.
"This is your place?" I asked as we packed In front of a building.
"It belonged to my grandmother." Hank parked the truck and turned off the engine. "Nobody knows about it. We'll be safe here tonight."
Safe. The word felt strange. I hadn't felt safe since finding Sadie's body on my beach three days ago. Maybe longer than that.
My mother climbed out of the truck slowly, like she was moving underwater.
I put my arm around her shoulders. She felt small and fragile, nothing like the strong woman who had raised me until I was thirteen. Nothing like the person I'd built up in my memory over all these years of thinking she was dead.
"We'll figure this out," I told her. "I promise."
But I wasn't sure how. What did you do when your past caught fire and the people trying to kill you had resources you couldn't even imagine?
Hank unlocked the front door and led us inside. The cottage was small but clean. A living room with a stone fireplace, a tiny kitchen, stairs leading up to what looked like a sleeping loft. Everything was covered in dust except the kitchen, which looked like someone had used it recently.
"Sit down," Hank said to my mother, pulling out a chair at the small kitchen table. "I'll make some coffee."
She sat heavily, her hands folded in her lap. The same hands that had braided my hair when I was little. Helped me with homework. Held me when I had nightmares.
I walked to the window and looked out at the ocean. Somewhere out there, people were probably still searching through the ashes of my mother's house. Looking for our bodies, maybe.
"Let me see your hand."
I turned around. Hank stood behind me with a first aid kit. Not the basic kind you buy at the drugstore, but something more serious. Military looking.
"It's okay," I said. "Just a scratch."
"It's bleeding through the bandage." He nodded toward the couch. "Come on. I'll fix it properly."
I sat down, mostly because I was curious about this side of Hank I hadn't seen before.
He unwrapped the bloody shirt piece carefully, examining the cut. His hands were gentle but sure, like he'd done this many times before.
"This needs stitches," he said.
"No, just wrap it up."
"You want it to get infected?" He was already pulling out a needle and thread. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
"Where did you learn this?"
"Navy." He cleaned the wound with something that stung. "Did some medical training before I moved to other work."
"What kind of other work?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he focused on threading the needle with steady hands. I watched his face, noting the small scar near his temple, the way his jaw tightened when he concentrated.
The first stitch pinched, but his technique was smooth. Professional. I found myself studying his arms as he worked. Strong forearms covered in tattoos. Military symbols mixed with other designs I didn't recognize.
"There." He tied off the last stitch and wrapped my hand in clean gauze. "Keep this dry for the next few days."
His fingers lingered on my wrist for a moment. I could feel my pulse beating against his thumb. Could see from the way his eyes darkened that he felt it too.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He released my hand and stepped back. "We should all try to get some sleep. Tomorrow we need to figure out our next move."
"Get some rest," he said looking at me. "Both of you. I'll keep watch."
I helped my mother up to the loft, where there was a small bed under the slanted roof. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline.
But I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I fhelt Hank's hands on my wrist, gentle and careful.
After an hour of staring at the ceiling, I gave up and went back downstairs. Hank was sitting by the window, looking out at the dark water. He'd changed into jeans and a black t-shirt that showed off more of his tattoos.
"Can't sleep?" he asked without turning around.
"Too much thinking."
"That'll get you in trouble."
I sat down in the chair across from him. "Those tattoos on your arms. They're not just Navy, are they?"
He glanced down at his forearms. "Some are."
"What about the others?"
"Family things."
A chill ran down my spine. "Hank—"
"That's not my real name."
"What is your real name?" I asked
"Antonio," he said quietly. "Antonio Torrino."
Before I could ask what that meant, headlights swept across the front windows.