He climbs in behind the wheel, starts the engine, and pulls out.
“Where are we going?”
“JFK.”
“Uh-huh.” Not a hotel in New York, then. “And after that…?”
His eyes flick to me. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“My clothes… my things…”
“In the trunk.”
And that’s it. There’s nothing else to stay for. Carol’s dead, I have no work to do, no people to say goodbye to.
That’s my life, right there. Gone. Empty.
All I have left is Alex, and a brother I barely see.
“All right.” I slump back into my chair and close my eyes. “Do what you think’s best.”
If he replies, I don’t hear it, my body shutting down. I welcome the oblivion of unconsciousness.
Thirty-Four
Vicky
“We’re here,” Alex says as we pull up outside a small office building.
“Where’s here?”
“JFK.”
It doesn’t look like part of the airport I’ve seen before, but a plane takes off while my weary brain tries to figure it out, and it’s close enough to attest this is indeed the right place.
“Where are we going?”
Alex hesitates, then drives into a space and puts the car in park. “A lot’s happened that we haven’t caught up on yet. Can I ask you to trust me?”
I do trust him.
Mostly.
“Where are we going, Alex?” The words come outmore tersely than his request deserves.
He lets out a slow breath, his face in shadow, eyes catching the light. “Spain.”
I stare at him and swallow hard. The word ‘Spain’ echoes in the cabin like it belongs in another language. “A holiday?” I ask tentatively. I suspect I already know the answer.
“If that helps,” he says slowly. “Albeit a rather long one.”
“How long?”
In answer, he shrugs one shoulder.
I’m slouching in my seat, and I push myself straight, ignore how my body protests. “We’re friggingmovingtoSpain?”
He raises a hand in placation. “Please, Vicky. Can we talk about this later?” He glances at the clock on the dash. It shows ten after eleven. “We have a plane to catch.”
