My face burned. I was so sick of my dad’s demeaning tone I could have screamed. But, of course, I said nothing. As always.
We started moving again. A couple of girls strolled by on the sidewalk and stared at our car like they were trying to see if there was anyone famous inside. One of them, a tall, solid-looking girl with curly red hair, caught my eye and didn’t look away. She held my gaze until I finally felt so uncomfortable I turned my head and pretended to cough.
“Oh my god, check out the tall-dark-and-handsome!” Darcy hissed.
She sat forward in her seat as we passed the Juniper Landing General Store, which had a blue-and-white striped awning, a couple of white wire tables set up outside, and a big sign in the window advertising breakfast and lunch service as well as THE BEST HOMEMADE ICE CREAM ON THE ISLAND. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered, square-jawed guy leaned against the window with one foot pressed back into the glass. He was casually flipping a quarter that glinted in the sun, which gave it the appearance of gold or bronze, and laughing at something the blond girl next to him had said. His laughter carried across the road.
On the other side of him was a guy with longish blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and blue eyes so striking I could see them even from this distance. His hands were crossed behind his back, his elbows out, and he was staring at our car. As I watched, he nudged the dark-haired boy, and he looked up, too. Then the blond girl did, then the petite Asian girl next to her, then the three other kids sitting at a table nearby. They simply stopped talking and stared.
Darcy instantly sat back and looked straight ahead, trying to appear cool, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the blond guy. His gaze was locked on mine, much like the redhead on the sidewalk’s had been. But somehow, this was different. He was looking at me as if he knew me. As if we knew each other. But also as if he was sad to see me.
My heart started to pound in a whole new way. Like I was on the edge of something, but I didn’t know whether it was something good or something bad.
“God. He is literally the hottest guy I’ve ever seen,” Darcy said as my father pulled the car toward a dip in the road. “Maybe this whole running from Princeton thing wasn’t the worst idea ever.”
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I turned in my seat to look back at the crowd once more. They were still staring. And they kept right on staring until we finally dipped down the hill and out of sight.
Perfection. This place was perfection. A vacation town. Residents of vacation towns were blasé by nature. They never took note of a strange face, because every face was strange. And places like this were notorious for their bumbling police forces—lackadaisical, poorly trained individuals who had no idea how to deal with anything more pressing than lost children and drunken fights on the beach. Not to mention the fact that it was an island. An island with, as far as he was able to discern, only two possible routes back to the mainland—a ferry with a sporadic schedule and a bridge at the far north end, a good half-hour drive from town.
She would not escape him. She was as good as trapped. He couldn’t have asked the FBI to send Rory Miller and her family to a more opportune location.
He would have to remember to send a thank-you card when it was over.
I gazed out the window as my dad pulled up in front of a beautiful white house with blue shutters, a huge front porch, and a white picket fence. A weeping willow hung over the sidewalk, and the garden was bursting with orange daylilies and purple coneflowers. Behind the house, the ocean stretched out toward the distant horizon. The water was a brilliant aqua near the sandy shore and deepened to navy blue beyond the breakers.
“This is it?” I said dubiously. I had been imagining a depressing gray building wi
th three cots and one shower. Maybe the government had more empathy than I’d thought. Maybe they figured if you were on a run from a serial killer, you deserved a little pampering.
“It’s number ninety-nine,” Darcy sang happily, popping open her car door.
I got out and tipped my head back, relishing the warm sun on my face. A pungent, floral scent prickled my nose in a pleasant way. I breathed it in, hoping that one good inhale would soothe my frayed nerves and stop the erratic pounding in my chest. I held the air inside my lungs for as long as it took Darcy to unlatch the gate and stroll onto the porch, where a large swing creaked back and forth in the breeze. Then I finally let it go.
My heart slammed against my rib cage. Nope. Still terrified. But at least the sun was out, the breeze was cool, and there were no serial killers in sight. For the moment.
“Door’s locked,” Darcy announced, rattling the handle.
My father strode over to join her as I brought up the rear.
“Here,” I said, tossing the key from the packet to him.
He caught it easily. Darcy bounced up and down on her toes as my dad opened the door. Spotting some hot surfer boys had clearly buoyed her mood.
The door squealed loudly, as if it hadn’t been moved in years. Inside, the house was bright and sunny, and everything was polished to a gleam. Darcy ran right up the stairs, no doubt intent on getting the best bedroom. My father and I just stood there for a moment, taking in the faded antique rugs, the dark wood floors, the antique furniture. A pastel fifties-style kitchen loomed at the back of the house.
My mother would have loved it.
“I guess we should unpack,” my father said, looking tired and sounding exhausted.
“Okay. I’ll go check out the—”
But he was already moving away from me back to the car. I climbed the rickety wooden staircase, my limbs feeling suddenly heavy. Darcy barreled out of the first room on the right, nearly mowing me down.
“That’s mine,” she announced before running downstairs and out the front door. I stepped inside her new room, surveying the yellow-and-white striped wallpaper and queen-size bed. A huge bay window faced the street, and I could see Darcy as she yanked open the trunk of the car and pulled out her bag.
Her choice was fine by me. After everything that had happened, the last thing I wanted was to face the street.
Across the hall was a master suite done up in blues and grays, which my father would claim, and the next door opened onto a white tiled bathroom. At the end of the hallway, a third door stood ajar, revealing a winding staircase. I peeked inside and tilted my head, but all I could see was a wood-paneled ceiling.