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That’s a lot.
And as I drift off to sleep I wonder. . .could it possibly be everything?
Blindsided by the whole pregnancy ordeal, I find myself staring at her as she snores softly, exhausted by life. Jesus fuck. This girl has been through and seen so much in her twenty-five years of life. Her baggage must weigh about five hundred tons. But I’ll happily shoulder whatever shit she carries in her heart if that means spending time with her.
She wants us to stick together. I want that too. Even though I know that, it doesn’t change the fact I need to piss out of the state, out of the country, before the end of the week. Today’s Sunday—one day after she killed Sebastian—and she doesn’t look ready to get out of bed. Actually, that’s a bit of a fucking understatement. The truth is, her face is buried in the pillow, crying, crying, crying. Amazingly, she doesn’t run out of tears.
“We need to get up.”
“I want to see my brother.”
“We’re killing Godfrey first.”
“No. I want to go to Vallejo, now.”
“No fucking way, Cockburn. Erase the idea from your head. We ain’t getting near that place until we finish Godfrey. It might be a set-up.” It is a set-up. She’s too distracted by grief to see it. “Pack up.”
“No. I need Preston.”
Goddammit.
I’m starting to suspect that she’s on the verge of depression. I can’t let it happen. She needs a dose of adrenalin, and since I can’t try to fuck my way into improving her mood, I have a better idea. An idea that can do us both a lot of good, even though it’s a very bad deed.
“Get the fuck up. We’re leaving.” I throw her backpack on the bed she’s buried in. She doesn’t respond, so I order her again. Still, nothing. I can understand her state of mind, even what she’s feeling. I lost my mother, after all, and couldn’t even attend her funeral. But we don’t have time for her sulking. She can sulk all she wants when we’re done. I grab her by the arm and yank her up, pulling her flush to my chest.
“You’re getting over it, hear me?” I growl in her face. She doesn’t look at me, just slumps her shoulders and lets me guide her to the door and into another car we stole to cover our footprints. This time I chose a Camaro. For our next act, we’ll need something fast.
We drive toward Danville, going east. At some point, she stops her sulking and turns to me. I can see how devastated she is by the way her cheekbones are sunken and her eyes are shut off. Prescott’s eyes used to glitter in the dark for me when I came down to the basement every night.
“Where to?”
“Blackhawk.” I twist to the backseat, still driving, and pull out the two masks from the Walgreens bag. At this point, the damn bag can write a fucking memoir about us. “Put it on after we go through the gates.”
Blackhawk is a gated community, but Prescott breezes right in. She’s a resident. Actually, I’d be able to walk right in too, considering I’m still technically employed there. But we’ll have to be quick when we run away, because rich people are pretty sensitive about getting their shit stolen.
And I’m about to steal some expensive fucking shit.
She rubs her face, looking up and sighing.
“What are you up to?”
“No good, just as usual.”
I’ve been sexually harassed for months. Not with the kind of brutality Prescott has been handed, but still enough to feel a tad less guilty about it.
We drive through the gates with no problem, and I leave the engine running as I park about a hundred yards from Mrs. Hathaway’s house. I learned her schedule during my time as her help and I know that today, she and Stan are playing tennis at the Simpsons’. It’s unfortunate that I have to do it on a sunny Sunday, the streets are relatively busy (though less so in the sleepy neighborhoods of Blackhawk) and it’s going to be a bitch to get away if things go south. I motion for Pea to sit her ass behind the wheel.
“We’ll need to move fast. Do you drive like a chick?” I throw a jab at her, curious to see if she’s still got those killer instincts.
“Nope, but you sure fuck like one,” she bites. I turn in her direction and grab my junk, already making my way across the road to Mrs. Hathaway’s mansion.
“You’re addicted to this.” I slap my mask over my face, even though it’s futile. If Mrs. H is home, she’ll recognize me from miles away. She’s spent the last few months memorizing every ridge of my muscles and every drop of ink in my tattoos. I’m not bothered by it. She’ll know that it’s me, but if my plan goes accordingly, by tomorrow we’ll be gone.
