“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hunt.”
I glower at his back all the way downstairs.
* * *
From the passengerside mirror of Conor’s jacked-up black Jeep Wrangler, I watch the navy blue Victorian I’ve called home for nearly a decade disappear as we turn off my dead end street, headed god only knows where. My savior (and bysaviorI meanmonosyllabic jackass who rescued me) hasn’t yet deigned to tell me our destination, and I’m feeling too stubborn to ask. Mostly because I highly doubt he’ll share that information.
The small message on the reflective mirror surface reads, “WARNING: OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.” After the past twenty-four hours, I’m beginning to think I should walk around wearing a similar disclaimer. “CAUTION: LIFE IS CRAZIER THAN IT INITIALLY APPEARS.” Because somehow, in the span of a single day, my seemingly perfect existence has fallen to pieces.
Seriously. If things get any wackier, I’m going to buy a one-way ticket to Bali and leave Boston behind for good.
I’ll teach yoga on the beach by day, sell puka-shell necklaces by night.
I’ll become someone else. Someone better than Shelby Hunt: stilted housewife.
I sigh heavily and settle back against the leather seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, for such a souped-up, masculine monstrosity. When I first spotted the Jeep Wrangler in my driveway — four forty-inch tires and no roof — I flat-out laughed at the sight of it parked beside my low-slung coup convertible. No two cars could be more different.
A metaphor that extends easily to their owners, it would seem, judging by the way Conor and I butt heads…
He hasn’t said a word to me since we left my house. I try to pay attention to the road, taking note of landmarks as we head southeast toward the city limits, but waves of exhaustion are crashing through me relentlessly. It’s nearly dawn now, and with each passing minute it’s increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. With the exception of a few scant hours of rest in a stiff-backed dining room chair, I haven’t slept at all… and something tells me I won’t be getting much rest when we arrive wherever it is he’s taking me.
Was it only yesterday I was opening my eyes to a new day, throwing on workout clothes and preparing for sunrise yoga at the studio?
It feels like a decade has passed since then. An eternity since I’ve done anything normal — likeeat, for instance — and my body has definitely taken notice, given the hunger pangs I’m currently experiencing. My stomach gives an embarrassing gurgle, audible even over the rushing of the wind.
Conor glances at me but I stare pointedly out the window, wishing I could evaporate into thin air. Or possibly teleport to Life Alive, my favorite local vegetarian restaurant, for a smoothie and an açaí bowl. My stomach groans again at just the thought.
The crisp air whipping against my face helps keep me conscious as we zoom through neighborhood after neighborhood — for once not gridlocked with commuter traffic or bus-loads of visiting tourists. It’s odd to see everything so abandoned. No street performers doing dance routines, no musicians playing acoustic sets for tips in the public parks, no yellow duck boats chugging toward the harbor. In a few hours, all of Boston will be abuzz with life… but right now, Conor and I feel like the only two people alive in the whole world.
What a strangely terrifying thought.
My brows lift when, instead of heading downtown, we merge onto the Tobin Bridge — taking us over the water, away from the city. I turn my head to look at the receding downtown skyline and see the horizon is going pale with the first hints of a pink sunrise between the towering skyscrapers in the distance.
Hauling a deep breath in through my nose, I steady my shoulders and rally my remaining dregs of inner strength. I’m going to need it — I have a distinct feeling it’s going to be a long freaking day.
And it hasn’t even started yet.
Chapter Five
RUSSIAN ROULETTE
My predictions are not wrong.
The day from hell has only gotten more hellish — which is really saying something, since it started with me duct taped to a chair in my own damn house.
Now, I’m in adifferentchair, sans duct tape, but no more comfortable. My ass has officially gone numb after forty-five minutes of waiting for Conor to come back to this ugly, fluorescent-lit holding cell where he left me without any explanation whatsoever.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at the wall on the other side of the room. “Are you trying to bore me to death?” I ask the two-way mirror, certain someone is standing on the other side. Someone with messy black hair and dark blue eyes, if I had to put money on it. “What, is your water-boarding kit occupied? Or is this some new FBI interrogation tactic I’m being subjected to?”
Oh.
That’s right.
I saidFBI.
Turns out, Conor Gallagher the Boston Cop isactuallySpecial Agent Conor Gallagher of the FBI — a fact I learned after he drove us into Chelsea, pulled up to an armored security gate complete with gun-toting guards, flashed his freakingbadge, and proceeded to park in front of an impressive, blocky building with a black stone sign declaring FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS: BOSTON DIVISION in neat, chiseled lettering.
Yeah.