Page 135 of The Exit Strategy

As much as I didn’t want to involve him, there’s only one man who might be able to help me now. And he’ll probably hate me for it. My reasons for keeping him in the dark are still valid, I’m still terrified of ruining anyone else’s life, but I also know that the way I’ve been protecting Junie is no longer working. The game has changed, my pieces are moving without me, and if I don’t learn the new rules, my six years of silence will have been for nothing.

Junie jostles in her sleep, like she dreamed she was falling. So I lift her easily and cradle her against my chest. I walk through the kitchen to grab my phone, then carry her upstairs.

She doesn’t wake as I lay her down, as I pull the sheet over her, or as I plug in her phone. She just curls toward the space where I should be, and a frown mars her face when she doesn’t find me.

I shed my clothes faster than I ever have and climb into bed beside her. Junie’s body finds me in sleep the way magnets find iron, and I kiss the top of her head because I can, then send the one text message I never wanted to send.

Cole: I need your help.

Not even thirty seconds go by before three dots appear.

Hudson: Done.

No questions. No lectures. He just picks up a shovel, ready to bury the body.

Cole: Can you make time for me tomorrow? I need to invoke attorney-client privilege…for reasons.

Hopefully that will keep him out of trouble if he can’t help me.

Hudson: 1 p.m. I’m clearing my schedule now.

I have no doubt Hudson will do whatever he can. He just may not like me anymore after he finds out what I’ve done.

Cole: Thank you.

He doesn’t reply, but that’s Hudson. Tomorrow, I’ll send him copies of everything I have. It will either decimate my life or set me free.

For tonight, I place my phone on the nightstand, hold Junie tightly, and close my eyes.

For the first time in six years, I don’t bother with an alarm.

25

FLIGHT RISK

JUNIE

Run.

That’s my first thought when I wake up with my head plastered to a very naked chest. A chest that smells like cedar and laundry and something achingly familiar.

Don’t run.

That’s my second thought when I register the weight of a heavy arm draped over my waist with a large hand pressed into my back, holding me close, even in sleep.

Think.

The clock on the nightstand says 7:45. Holy shit. We both slept in.

I take inventory of myself.

I’m still in my dress from last night, even if it has ridden up around my hips in sleep. Heat curls my toes when I recall the way Cole reacted to seeing it for the first time.

But a freak-out is on the horizon. It starts deep in my chest. Old habits attempt to protect me—I could sneak out, leave a pile of shaving cream in my place, and hope he rolls over in it.

Is that who I want to be?

Reacting poorly is what led me here in the first place—My knee-jerk reaction to Grace and her lies.