Conor turns and starts to walk out the door. At the last second, he pauses with his hand on the knob. He doesn’t turn around, but his gruff voice carries back to me.
“Shelby.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Conor?”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
Then, he’s gone — the door swinging shut behind him with finality.
For a long, frozen instant, I stand there in the kitchen, hardly able to draw breath. After a minute, I realize it’s because something is lodged firmly in my throat.
My heart.
* * *
To distractmyself from thinking about the Eastie raid, I take the longest shower of my life, standing beneath the hot torrent until the entire bathroom is fogged up with steam. When the water finally runs cold, I find a hairdryer in one of the vanity drawers and blow out my long locks into soft, summery waves, taking far more care than I usually would.
I tell myself it’s merely a way to pass the time. A stalling tactic to keep my anxiety at bay.
Certainly not because I want to look nice for someone…
The lie would probably be easier to swallow if, afterward, I didn’t upend my toiletry bag using all my best products to achieve the perfect sultry red pout and smoky eye combination. I’m not generally a big makeup fan, preferring a fresh, natural look for most day-to-day outings, but this particular morning I find myself going all out.
Mascara, eyeliner, lipstick.
The whole shebang.
To complete the ensemble, I pull a casual white linen sundress out of my duffle and slide on a pair of brown leather sandals. It’s the most put-together I’ve looked — and felt — in days.
Not bad for a neurotic, sleep deprived gal on the run.I smirk, examining the final results in the mirror.Not bad at all.
Back in the living room, Evelson and Kaufman are still hard at work on their laptops. Neither of them so much as glances up when I pass through on my way to the kitchen. I can’t help but admire that level of concentration.
The clock on the wall informs me it’s not even nine in the morning. It feels more like midnight to me — probably because I’ve had about twelve cumulative seconds of sleep over the past few days. My internal clock is upside-down and backwards. Yawning cavernously, I put on a pot of coffee and settle back against the counter to wait.
Again.
Waiting seems to be my new specialty. It’s practically all I’ve been doing lately, whether waiting for rescue in a dining room chair, waiting to be questioned in an FBI interrogation room, waiting for answers in a crappy motel room…
Waiting for him to come back.
Time is ticking by in achingly slow increments. Despite my rather elaborate getting-ready routine, not even two hours have passed since Lucy and Conor left. I assure myself they’ll be back soon as I pull three mugs from the cabinets and fill them to the brim with coffee.
Balancing a steaming cup in each hand, I make my way slowly into the living room. “Hey, I thought you guys could use some—”
My words dry up.
My feet go still.
Evelson and Kaufman aren’t typing. They’re on their feet, phones pressed to their ears, both talking rapid-fire into the receivers. There are twin expressions of fear and anger on their faces as they stare across the room at the television screen mounted on the wall. And believe you me, seeing two badass dudes with giant muscles lookingfearful…
It’s enough to make my hands shake so badly, several drops of coffee spill onto the hardwood floor.
Moving in slow motion, I pivot around to look at the television. The sound has been muted but the picture is crystal clear. As is the headline blaring across the bottom of the screen.
EXPLOSION AT EAST BOSTON APARTMENT COMPLEX
There’s a field reporter talking into a microphone in the foreground, but I barely see her. My eyes are fixed on the building behind her. The one that’s currently consumed by flames, a raging inferno bursting out every window, eating its way through the panels of the roof, devouring wood and stone alike. A living, breathing monster of fire.