Page 57 of Protecting His Finch

I’m alive. Still alive.

My eyes fly open. The windshield is splattered with blood, a heavy red rain.

Not my blood.

I turn. Catherine’s body is slumped forward, her head pressed against the wheel. The exit wound from her forehead is messy, and it gapes. Drips.

She is still. Dead. Blue eyes open but unconcerned. A bullet she never saw coming.

I’m hiccupping breaths. Air I didn’t think I’d still be consuming. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.

In the rearview mirror, I see movement. Jacobi takes a cloth from his pocket and cleans the hot muzzle of his gun. Already, he’s removing the evidence.

“A lone wolf has bite,” Jacobi says.

“But the pack has might,” I echo instinctively.

“In the dashboard,” he tells me, his tone cold and unperturbed, “you’ll find two passports. One for you, one for the girl. There’s also fifteen grand in cash I found stuffed under the floorboards in your apartment. You’re crap at hiding things.”

“Noted,” I say. My heart won’t stop pounding. “Jacobi—”

“If you thank me, I will blow your brains out.”

My tongue recalibrates. “What are you going to do?”

“Lay low for a bit. I’ve got friends. A safe house or two. Don’t worry about me.”

“I never do.”

“Archer.” Jacobi says my name firmly, and this time my eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. “This is your second chance. Take it.”

My blood cools. A new resolve settles around my bones. “I’ll send you a postcard,” I tell him.

He grunts. “For the love of God, don’t.”

When I leave the car, the afternoon light is so bright, I have to squint. I feel like I’m seeing it with new eyes.

27

FINLEY

The sun is bright and slices like a razor across the porch.

What time is it? I have no idea. If I treated the columns like a sundial, I could guess it’s a little after noon.

I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here. Hours, maybe. It feels like days.

My eyes hurt. They’re puffy and stingy, and just when I feel like I can’t possibly have any more tears to shed, another wave comes on that makes my throat tight and my cheeks hot.

Between my fingers, I clutch a small square note. It’s barely larger than a puzzle piece and just as cryptic.

I’m sorry, he said.

Sorry for what? Sorry for leaving? Sorry for last night?

Sorry for loving me so hard for one night and leaving me so empty in the morning?

I’ve crumpled the piece of paper. Flattened it out. Inspected it, analyzed it. Tried so desperately to understand.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com