Page 52 of Intersect

“You American?” the guy shouts across the bar.

Fuck my life. “Yeah.”

“Then you’re from the best country in the goddamn world,” he replies.

Drunk asshole. “If you say so,” I reply, sliding a few bills to the bartender.

“I do say so!” he shouts. “You got a problem with that?”

He’s an idiot. Normally I’d laugh this off. But tonight I’m in no mood. I’m angry. I’m bitter. What I want to do is blame God or fate or whatever is responsible for this situation, and in its place, he makes for an easy target. “No, but I have a problem with you running your mouth about it in someone else’s country.”

“I’ll run my mouth wherever the fuck I feel like it,” he says, climbing off his barstool and crossing to my side of the room.

“Yes. Obviously.” I’m a big guy and aside from scuffles with my brother, I’ve never lost a fight. The sight of him moving my way leaves me more tired than worried.

He pushes me, and my fist slams into his face before I’ve even realized I’m doing it. I welcome the opportunity to tear something apart. It feels like the first thing I’ve actually fucking succeeded at in weeks.

He hits me back. I welcome that too.

My fist sinks into his stomach, and he gasps. I relish it. I even relish the sharp snap of pain when he hits my jaw.

I want all of it. I welcome all of it. Until the cops arrive, that is.

26

QUINN

I sit in our adorable backyard, lying on a blanket in the garden and looking at the stars. It normally brings me peace, but I’m unable to find it tonight. In part because Nick didn’t call when he was supposed to. But there’s something else too. It rests at the back of my brain, some small answer waiting to be recognized, a puzzle piece waiting to be put in its proper place. I have missed something big.

Something about Sarah.

It’s not just that she wants me dead…it’s that she’s not making sense. Why would someone hell-bent on killing me leave the country right now? Shouldn’t she be waiting here to hover over at me at the moment of my death and take whatever it is she plans to take? And why would someone who’s been so careful and methodical in her planning—she’s obviously been at this for a good long time—suddenly begin slipping up? Letting herself get caught by Nick. Leaving an address where she can be traced in the pocket of her scrubs.

I picture the key under her mat as Nick described it. Gleaming and new. Who leaves a key under the mat when they live in a home worth a gazillion dollars?

It’s too easy.

The address, the key, the journal left open with her dates of travel, an address. Sarah has left us a trail of breadcrumbs to find her, to chase her. She is laying a trap and Nick is going to fall right into it—if he hasn’t already. Why didn’t he call me? Panic, which was merely a whisper moments before, turns into a roar.

It’s the middle of the night there but I call him anyway. It goes to voicemail. I call again. It goes to voicemail. He’s too worried about me to have shut his phone off, and he’s not a heavy sleeper. My hands palm the ground, press into it. I know I need to stay calm, but already I’m envisioning the worst. If Sarah’s done something, how the hell will I ever find him?

* * *

For five hours I remain awake, calling him, pacing through our house, sick to my stomach. Do I call the police? The state department? I can just picture how much attention they’ll pay to a girl complaining that her boyfriend is in Paris and hasn’t called her back. His parents might have better luck but they probably don’t even know I exist. For all I know they still think he’s with Meg.

When my phone rings, it’s two in the morning. I open my mouth to speak and promptly burst into tears.

“Quinn,” he croons. “Stop, honey. I’m so sorry.”

“I was worried sick,” I cry. “I didn’t know if you were hurt, and your parents don’t even know I exist, and I had no idea who to call, and would they even have told me if you were hurt? Would they?”

He laughs softly. “Yes, my parents know about you. I’m sorry I put you through that. I kind of got arrested, so I didn’t have my phone for a while.”

My tears come to a sudden, shocked halt. “Arrested? For what?”

He sighs. “I got in a fight, in a bar. I know it sounds bad and you’re probably now wondering if you’re stuck with a violent alcoholic. All I can tell you is it was the first time since college that I’ve gotten into a fistfight at a bar. It’s hard, being apart like this. I’m just not myself right now.”

I curl up and press my face to my knees. This is insane, us being apart. We’ve waited our entire lives to get together, and once it happens we’re separated by an ocean. “Then just come home. Please. I want you to stop anyway. I was thinking about it and Nick…it’s a trap. It has to be. She’s left us a trail of breadcrumbs straight out of Hansel and Gretel. The receipt? The key under her mat? She wants us to follow her.”