Page 43 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
“Should I keep looking?” A pause. “Jefferson said he’s already looked through the house. He has the housekeeper looking again, but he seems sure they’re not there.”
I climb into the back of the trunk, between a row of black duffel bags. What are in these? They’re heavy, that much I know. I tug one on top of my body, hiding myself—and praying there isn’t some kind of grenade inside.
“He said there was a delivery this afternoon. Some fancy shit from a farm east of Tanglewood. She must have known the driver or communicated with him beforehand.”
My eyes close, praying it’s enough.
“We can check the farm, but if she had a plan, he could have dropped her anywhere.”
Something touches my foot, and I almost scream. Penny climbs into the trunk beside me, a serious look in her eyes and twigs sticking out of her hair.
What are you doing? I form the words with my mouth, no sound.
She doesn’t answer except to tuck her body beneath a duffel bag like mine. She smells like earth and fresh air, which means she’s been out in the hedge with me all this time. God.
“I’ll head back to HQ,” the man says, his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he rounds the vehicle. We stay deathly still as he approaches the trunk. The pause sounds like thunder in my ears.
Then the trunk hatch slams closed, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
When we’re on the road, the roar of the engine makes it possible to talk. But what is there to say? She knows that I’m escaping. And that I planned to leave her there.
Her hand reaches for mine over the scratchy carpet on the floor of the vehicle. I clasp her frail fingers, praying I’m not leading us both to our deaths.Chapter Twenty-FourWhen we get into the city, the black vehicle pulls into a gated parking lot. We wait until he’s gone before bolting for the gate. I’m sure they have video surveillance here, at their headquarters, so we need to disappear fast.
A bus screeches by, coming to a stop across the street.
I take Penny’s hand and pull her through the accordion doors. Once we get up the tall steps, I’m not sure what to do. I rode the bus to visit my father in the nursing home, but I had money then. I’ve got nothing now.
The bus driver is an older woman, who gives me a look of disdain.
“Tanglewood Sober Ride,” Penny murmurs, before tugging me down the aisle.
Apparently those are the magic words, because the bus lurches forward.
“Thank you,” I whisper as we make our way to the seats.
There aren’t many people on the bus with us, and they don’t bother looking up.
She gives me a small smile that seems to say, your first time?
So maybe Gabriel isn’t so wrong when he calls me little virgin. “We should go to the Den,” I murmur. “It’s on Fourth Street, once you go past the train tracks and—”
Her hand squeezes mine. “I know.”
She knows this city better than me. We’ve both lived here our whole lives, but I only walked the hallowed upper society. Manors and house parties. Not the actual streets of the city I thought I loved. How can I love something that I didn’t even know? There’s an uncomfortable parallel between the city and Gabriel Miller, but I can’t focus on that now. Not when he’s in danger.
The buildings change from the warehouses near the docks, where the security company is headquartered, to the narrower historic buildings of downtown.
Penny pulls a cord behind us, making a ding sound. The bus slows to a stop.
From there it’s only a block until we reach the Den, moving quickly in the dark. It’s not smart to linger on these streets. I may not know the secrets of the public transit system, but even I know that.
The Den’s door hangs open, an ominous sign.
All the lights are off.
I take a step inside, my ballet flats crunching on something breakable and sharp—it stabs into the corkboard soles of my shoes. A pained sound in my throat echoes through the foyer, and I step back. Penny feels around the side and finds a light switch.
The air sucks from the room. Glass litters the entranceway like rose petals on a church aisle, leading the way down the hall. And there at the end, lying on the stairs, Anders’s large body sprawls across the steps. Skipping over the glass, I rush to his side. “Oh my God.”
I press my hands to the wound on his chest, but there’s too much blood. I’m wearing a thin pink cardigan over my linen dress, and I pull it off to staunch the blood. It makes a grotesque amalgam of pale rose pink and dark red.
He coughs, a sound of pain that fills me with relief. Alive. He’s alive.
