That should be what I’m concerned about. Instead, I’m fixated on the fact that Lev planned to kill someone who posed no threat. Who was helping him. I should be horrified; I’m not. I’m floored that he was willing to do that to protect me.
“He said he … he recognized me?”
“Yes.”
I shift in the seat, prompting a pleasurable twinge between my thighs. “What does that mean? Did he contact my father?”
“He said no.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to interrogate him.”
“You shot him in the knee,” I remind Lev.
“That is not interrogating.”
I suppress a shudder. “I haven’t decided where I want to go,” I say, working hard to prevent any panic from seeping into my voice.
He’s handling everything else. I can manage not freaking out.
“You don’t have to fly straight there. It is better if you do not. Pick a flight departing soon, get on it, and then decide where to go next.”
“How am I supposed to pay?—”
“There’s a card in the envelope. The account connected to it contains ten million dollars.”
I gape at him. “That’s a joke, right? You mean ten thousand or?—”
“I told you, my job pays well.”
“That’s your money. I can’t accept—you’ve already done too much.”
Who gifts a former fuck buddyten million dollars? That’s a staggering amount, even for someone wealthy.
“It is yours,” Lev says in that tone he uses when he’s decided a matter is settled.
He can decide; he can’t make me spend it. I’ll use the card to buy a plane ticket and whatever else I urgently need, and then I’ll get a job. Find a way to send him an envelope of cash or a cashier’s check—with interest—in an attempt to tell him how much his generosity meant. How much all of this has meant. If I’d managed to remain hidden in Paris, I’d have limitedprospects—no savings, no documents, no long-term plan. And not only has Lev gone out of his way to help me, but he did so in direct conflict to his own interests.
A lump appears in my throat, expanding by the second.
I’m not sure how to speak past it, how to convey to Lev how much I appreciate him.
We pass a sign advertising Dublin Airport. We’re getting close, so I’m running out of time.
The invisible clock that always counts down our final moments? That I’ve struggled against so many times, fighting my heavy eyelids because I knew, once they closed, I’d wake up alone? It’s about to expire for the last time.
Practice is supposed to make you more skilled at something. Repetition until mastery is a musician’s primary tactic. Yet, over the course of the many times I’ve said goodbye to him, I fear I’ve only gotten worse at it.
I swallow hard, trying to clear the obstruction, then open my mouth. “Lev, I?—”
He swears, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
We’re close to the airport now. A crowd of signs is displayed ahead, directing incoming traffic to different terminals. Past it, a long, low building is visible, much larger than the one in Shannon we arrived at.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, craning my neck to glance at the line of cars exiting the highway behind us.
“We have a tail.”
