“What can I say?” Cillian shrugs. “Guess I don’t know my own strength. Come on—and keep your head down.”
I’m too numb to do anything but obey.
We hurry out of the holding cell area. I expect to be confronted by a whole host of cops.
But there’s no one around. The place is practically deserted.
“Do you really expect to just walk out of here?” I ask.
“Let them try and stop me.”
I have this strange sense that I’m still dreaming. At the moment, that makes the most sense.
Cillian steers me in an unfamiliar direction until we reach an obscure door in the back.
“Um, where exactly are we going?”
“Through the back door,” Cillian smirks. “I may have been gone a long time. But I still know a few secrets.”
The door he takes me through leads to a winding series of narrow corridors that eventually let out into a side exit.
It’s still pretty public, but there isn’t anyone around.
I notice a gleaming Rolls Royce parked in the shadows.
He starts striding to the car, but I don’t follow him. I just stand there.
He’s halfway to the vehicle when he realizes that I’m not behind him. He doubles back, a look of urgency on his face.
“What are you doing?” he demands. “Come on.”
“Come where?”
“My home, for now,” he replies. “Until we figure this shit out.”
“What shit?”
“Saoirse,” he says, “we’re exposed out here. And that cop will come to at some point. We need to be out of here before they find you.”
I glance back at the station.
And panic rises inside me like a fucking tsunami.
What was I thinking?
He showed up like a mirage out of one of my fever dreams. I was so blinded that I saw only the knight in shining armor I’ve been dreaming about for thirteen years.
And I followed him.
I fucking followed him without thinking about the consequences.
Because let’s face it: I’m not going to get away with leaving. Tristan made that much glaringly clear.
“I can’t leave with you, Cillian,” I say shakily.
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t. I have to go back in there.”