Except now I’m realizing my daughter must be alive somewhere, and Oliver stands over me, and maybe what was really stolen away all those years ago wasn’t just the people I loved, but…
Me.
What Durham took away from me most was myself.
And any chance of ever being happy.
It doesn’t make me want to kill the scum any less.
My throat burns, tight and closing off my air, but I grasp him by the shoulder, digging my fingers into a deadly pressure point. One easy flick of my wrists and he’s a dead man.
For now, he lets out a strange, howling cry like a wounded hyena, arching against the knee pinning him by his throat.
“Tell me where she is,” I grind out again around the rough, wet feeling in the back of my mouth that tries to make me cry.
It tries to force it all out when I didn’t even cry at her stillbirth.
All because I was too numb from the drugs and the twisted way Dr. Ross mind-fucked me like he’d been doing for half my life.
I shove my hand into my coat, pulling out that drive with the encrypted biometric data. “I know you’ve got a reader on this flight,” I snarl. “So you take this, you unlock it, and you tell me everything I need to know.”
“I-it’s—it’s—”
I let up enough to let him talk.
Barely.
Durham’s eyes go bleary and red-rimmed, his face nearly purple, and he gasps, “It’s in the…the cargo hold. I didn’t bring it into the cabin.”
“Liar!” I dig into his pressure points again, pinching right below the trapezius, and relish his anguished scream—less like a hyena now and more like a woman who’s just seen her entire life ripped away from her, every possibility of who she could have been destroyed.
I hope he’s enjoying it.
I draw my fist back, the data card clutched between my knuckles. I swear to God, one more word that isn’t what I want, and I’ll jam it straight down his throat.
But before I can, a strong, unexpected hand seizes my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.
I whip my head up, staring up at Oliver.
Part of me can’t believe he’s real.
I’ve snapped.
I’m hallucinating.
He’s not really here.
He’s like some made up audio-visual dream of my own conscience, looking down at me with that one urgent eye, shaking his head.
“You don’t need him.”
“What?” Everything inside me crumples. “But I—”
“No. I know a better way. Trust me,” he says tightly, pulling on my arm. “But it only works if we’re both free. We can’t do shit from prison. Come on, wildcat.”
Wildcat.
God, it is him.
My eyes are about to spill over, but I won’t let them.
I have to be cold.
I have to be me.
And I make myself stand, letting go of Durham, falling into Oliver’s grip—so warm, so real, so solid—supporting my shaky legs so I don’t lose my dignity.
“You’d better tell the man you murdered thank you,” I spit. “Because he just saved your sorry life.”
Durham only lies there gasping like a fish, while Oliver turns and strides quickly out into the entryway, the hall, then the boarding ramp, pulling me in his wake in brisk, hurried steps.
While he does, he fishes a phone from his pocket and taps a few quick icons, then hits something decisively with his thumb and pockets it again.
“What was that?” I breathe, and he glances over his shoulder at me, dark eye gleaming wickedly.
“Contact at the FBI. Who coincidentally happens to be in the neighborhood, looking for clues regarding a lead that says the Durham in jail isn’t the real Durham.” He smirks, devilish and wild. “Don’t fret. He’s not going anywhere good when the police show up.”
As we spill out into the rain, the sound of sirens and the flash of blue and cherry-red lights explode over the grey darkness, lighting up the storm like the strangest lightning.
With the squeal of tires chasing us, we make a break for it, dashing inside the terminal through the service doors and making ourselves invisible.
We take back corridors until we find a secluded spot out of sight of windows, doors—tucked away in some forgotten hall that smells dusty. It’s piled up with old cleaning supplies.
Then comes the moment he stops, turning to me, his mouth opening with his eye dark with concern.
There’s no more waiting.
I fling myself dead at him.
“Where have you been? Where have you been?” I demand, smashing my fists against his chest, gasping out the words like I’m spitting up years of built-up pain in bullets. “All this time…all this time I thought, I believed, you were dead…”
He just takes it, letting me crash my fists against him like a mountain, his broad chest resonating with the soft thumps of impact.
“I know,” he rumbles softly. “I know, Fuchsia. I’m sorry. I couldn’t—they had to think I was gone. They stopped watching for me.” He looks down at me helplessly. “And I thought…” He shakes his head. “I saw you. From afar. Up until the last couple years, I thought you were still…” A hard sound rumbles in the back of his throat before he finishes, “With them.”