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Chapter 12
9:39 a.m.
Brynn had survived her childhood, which in itself was a miracle. Even more miraculous was that she hadn’t been too badly scarred by it. While other people encountered stumbling blocks in the course of their lives, her impediments had been comparable to mountain ranges.
The first had been the loss of her mother, who succumbed to pancreatic cancer when Brynn was only five years old. Her upbringing then had fallen to her father.
Anyone who had ever met Wes O’Neal liked him. He was described as a “real character,” radiating bonhomie and always ready with a joke. He was good-natured, gregarious, and, in an odd twist, generous. Odd, because he also had a larcenous streak.
During his repeated incarcerations, Brynn was placed in foster homes. Sympathetic teachers and townsfolk also took her under their wings, making certain she had Christmas and birthday gifts, providing clothing when needed, seeing to it that she didn’t miss out on extracurricular activities, simulating as normal a life as possible.
But for all the many kindnesses they extended her, they feared that her personality would be warped. Who could possibly withstand that level of instability without suffering permanent psychological damage? Wes O’Neal’s girl wasn’t expected to amount to much.
Brynn had resolved early on that she would.
The day after graduating high school, she’d left Howardville. Wes had been serving three-to-five in state prison, so he hadn’t been there to see her off. His absence was noted by her but not bemoaned. Long before then, she had accepted that in order to get anywhere, she must go it alone.
She hadn’t enjoyed the typical college experience. From freshman year through med school, she’d been awarded most of the various scholarships and grants for which she had applied, but she’d had to supplement them with part-time jobs. Between studies and work, there hadn’t been much time for a social life.
Occasionally, she would fall into a romantic relationship, but none of the men had meant as much to her as her quest for success. Only one had broken her heart with his repeated infidelities, but one day she came to the realization that he wasn’t worth the anger and anguish she’d spent on him. She’d excised him without regret.
All the sacrifices had paid off. She was now affiliated with a hospital that was renowned for its research. She was financially secure and self-sufficient in every area of her life. She’d earned the respect of her colleagues. Her patients trusted and relied on her.
Most important, Brynn O’Neal relied on no one.
But as Rye Mallett shut the bathroom door in her face, she acknowledged that she was out of her element and at a total loss as to what she should do next.
Having squeaked past the authorities, she wasn’t going to draw them back in by reporting herself stranded with—she wouldn’t go so far as to say kidnapped by—Rye Mallett. Bringing the attention of law officers to herself was the last thing she wanted, and she reasoned that Rye had counted on that reluctance.
And the two men in the café? Had they been responsible for the events of last night, as Rye suspected? If so, and if it was the box they were after, she could be in danger from them.
If she were physically able to wrangle the box from Rye, or if she demanded he give it back, and he did so without contest, what would she do then? Strike out on foot? She’d seen Rye slip Marlene’s key fob into the front pocket of his jeans, so there was no retrieving it, and, even if she could, she wouldn’t steal the lady’s car.
It seemed that she was stuck. But she couldn’t remain in this limbo state. She had to com
e up with a solution, and fast. At Deputy Wilson’s suggestion, she had texted Nate from the café, but she’d been ambiguous about her departure time. She’d told him “soonish.” He hadn’t texted a reply, but that wasn’t unusual. He often couldn’t be bothered.
Even so, he and the Hunts would expect her to be halfway to Atlanta by now.
Whatever fallout she faced when she got there, she had to get there, and her options had dwindled down to one.
Rye came out of the bathroom.
He was fully dressed except for his boots. He’d swapped his wrinkled shirt for another that was just as wrinkled, but smelled of fresh laundry. It was buttoned only halfway up. His hair appeared to have been roughly towel-dried and left at that. But he had trimmed his scruff. Through the door, she’d heard the whirr of an electric razor.
“I left you a towel,” he said as he slid his leather bag off his shoulder and returned it to the chair. He then moved to the opposite side of the bed from where she sat and flung back the bedspread. He snapped off the lamp on the nightstand and lay down on his side, facing away from her, hugging the black box against his chest like a teddy bear.
As though standing on the end of a high diving platform and about to take a plunge into icy waters far below, she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “GX-42.”
He rolled onto his back and turned his head toward her. “What?”
“That’s the formula name the pharmacologist gave the drug he’s been developing.”
“Pharmacologist.”
“I’m not trying to take lives, Rye. I’m trying to save them. Or at least extend them.”
He looked deeply into her eyes as though searching for duplicity.
