Chapter 131 131

Chapter 131 131
Sara frowns. Behind her, Geneva freezes. “Dad?” she asks as she floats closer to me. “You’re going to Dad?”

“He’s a politician now, isn’t he? A wannabe one, at least. He’s got contacts. People who might be able to help.”

“That’s a long shot,” June,” Sara warns in a measured voice.

“Long shots are all we have left.”

Just then, the car pulls up in the drive. I turn and stride towards it. Both Sara and Geneva trail after me outside. “You’re not going alone,” Sara says firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

“Me, too,” asserts Geneva.

Sara grabs my arm and forces me to stop and look at the two of them. I see four bright spots of fire looking back at me. They mirror my own. My heart swells with—well, with something.

Love: of course.

Pride: maybe.

Determination: without a fucking doubt.

Sara crosses her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t a question,” she says, mimicking my words with the tiniest hint of a smirk at the corner of her lip. “Either we’re coming with you, or I’m strapping your ass to a bed until Kolya gets home. Your call.”

Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

48

JUNE

It feels good to be on the move. It feels good to do something.

My plan would have to be ten times better before I’d call it half-formed. I have no idea if Dad will even agree to help me. And even if he wants to, I’m not sure he’ll have the means to.

But I’m done sitting and waiting to be saved.

So yeah—motion is good, in whatever form I can get it. But as we pull out of the drive and embark down the highway in search of a Hail Mary, the fire I felt back at the house begins to dim. Geneva and Sara are silent in their seats, and the only sound is the hum of the road under our wheels.

Until a siren scythes through.

I check my rearview mirror. Red and blue lights revolve on the top of a police cruiser closing down on us from behind. I slow to a stop at the side of the road, but my pulse is pounding like a warning drum.

Something’s out of place.

“Should we go back?” Geneva asks.

“I don’t think we can,” answers Sara. “Not until we see what he wants.”

I roll it down and look at the approaching officer innocently. His eyes are obscured behind mirrored aviator lenses, his cheeks scabbed over with three or four days’ worth of beard. With the just-rising sun lighting him up from behind, he’s mostly silhouette.

But that’s not what’s bothering me. What’s bothering me is the scent of patchouli oil dancing in and out of my nostrils. It’s there and then it’s gone again, vaguely familiar like a word on the tip of your tongue.

What is that smell from?

“Little early to be driving around so fast, isn’t it, ladies?” the officer asks, giving me a smile that makes me want to lean away from him.

I shrug. “We’re all early birds. Is there a problem?”

“There’s been some complaints of disturbances in the area,” he says. “So we’re just doing random checks, making sure everything is okay.”

That strikes me as odd, especially given the hour, but I just smile and nod.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID,” he continues. “From all three of you.”

My stranger danger radar is tingling. Apparently, so is Sara’s, because she leans in towards me to address the policeman. “Is that really necessary, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, ma’am, yeah, it is,” he says gruffly. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He walks back towards his car where another cop is now standing by the passenger door waiting for him. My frown drags lower.

“Something’s just off,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “I feel like I’ve seen that cop before. Both of them, actually.”

And that’s when it hits me. The smell. The beginning of this nightmare. On the night Adrian and I fought, when he slapped me and stormed out, when I woke up to knocking on my door and answered it to find a uniformed officer on my door, I’d drowned in the scent of patchouli oil.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, grabbing my phone.

“June? What’s going on?”

“What’s happened?”

I don’t answer either one of them. Instead, I type in what I hope is a coherent text message. I’m still typing when something gets chucked through the window streaming smoke. The gas smells strong and thick. It promises oblivion.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I hold my breath and press send before the darkness overwhelms me.

49

JUNE

I feel the notes before I even hear them. It’s the most beautiful feeling. The kind that makes you feel like you can fly if you just jump high enough.

There were moments when I danced when I felt that kind of intoxicating weightlessness. Like this time, gravity might just shrug its shoulders and let me keep going up, and up, and up.

And for a moment, lying here with my eyes closed and my mind open, I feel a vague reverberation of that exact feeling. I’m close to soaring, if only I can get enough momentum.

I used to be able to do it. So why not now?

Then I feel the pain race up my leg and I remember why: I’m not the woman I used to be. I’m not a dancer anymore. I’ve been broken and scarred by this life of mine. I’ve cried and bled. I’ve been through so, so much.

Maybe, though, this is where it all ends.

I can still hear the music, though. The soft melody of piano keys being played. Which means I wasn’t dreaming. Not that part, at least.

My head spins feverishly as I open my eyes and adjust to the brightness. I’m on a bed, but it’s not one I recognize. I turn my head to the side without lifting it from the pillow.

And I spot him.

Adrian sits at the piano bench, spine tall, playing softly. How many times have I watched him just like this? It all feels so familiar that it makes me want to cry.

I struggle slowly upright, my hair tumbling over my face, and the world shifts into its proper position.

He’s not wearing his stained green jacket anymore. The cuffs of his dark, long-sleeved shirt are pushed up to his elbows and his hair is combed back, though he’s left his beard as it was, untamed and unruly.

He glances to the side and gives me a shy smile.

Then he keeps playing. And strange as it may seem, I keep watching. Until the last note uses up what’s left of its voice and fades away into the silence.

When he finishes, he turns on the bench to face me. He looks at me eagerly, as though he’s waiting for a compliment.

“You look beautiful,” he says finally when I don’t offer anything up.