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The longer I stand here gawking at this gun, the more likely it is that one of the staff will sound every alarm the hospital has to offer. I shove the ammo into my purse and rest the Glock next to it with as much care as I have time for.
Amen.
“Thank you, Father… I don’t even know your name.”
“Father Mateo,” he says.
“Thank you, Father Mateo.”
He smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling a little. He looks forty at most, but his eyes tell a story of a life that has seen more than its fair share of pain.
I wonder if he sees something similar when he looks back at me.
“Be wary of who you trust,” the priest says, and it sounds exactly like another prayer. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I promise to watch over your father in your absence. Now get out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
ROME
Cigarettes are the one good thing about being trapped in this fucking hotel room. Okay, two good things—the balcony is pretty nice, too. It’s a riot of green plants out here, everything wrought iron. It’s a small fucking miracle that my ankle monitor even lets me be out here at all–it certainly doesn’t let me edge a toe into the hallway outside my room, without letting off a series of warning beeps that gives me one minute to get back into the room or risk being arrested and causing my bail to be revoked.
Out here, I can pretend I’m here for no reason, watching the traffic go by. I can breathe in the fresh air (as fresh as the city air can be) and smoke cigarettes and drink the six-pack of Pepsi my lawyer so kindly stocked the minibar with. I can pretend that, at any moment, I could climb into one of those cars parked below and get the hell out of here. I can pretend that jumping off the balcony and splattering myself in the middle of the street doesn’t cross my mind ten times a day. The main reason I haven’t jumped is because it’s not a high enough fall to kill me. And also, I can’t leave Avery behind.
I can’t even leave thechanceof Avery behind. That’s what she and I are, at this point. A chance. And not a very good chance, either. Watching her get hauled away in handcuffs made me sick. If I’d been eating, I would have lost my lunch. Luckily I have no appetite. I order room service and half the time the trays go away mostly full.
It’s a life of luxury.
I finish my cigarette and put one foot on the balcony. Tip my chair back a little bit. Almost far enough to fall. My jeans catch on the ankle monitor. I need another smoke to occupy my hands, to stop myself from ripping the damn thing apart with my bare hands. Of all the stupid shit I’ve done, that would probably be the worst error. There’s nobody here with a gun to my head, or a gun to Avery’s. There’s only an itch that grows hotter with every second my ankle is stuck with this monitor on it. That fucker who tightened it couldn’t even get his pinky finger between the strap and my skin. Pretty sure it’s not meant to be this tight, but so far, it hasn’t cut my circulation off completely. There’s just that itch, itch, itch. Like fire ants crawling around my lower leg, eating away at my skin, burrowing inside me, feasting on my flesh and blood.
Stop,I tell myself.Relax. Forget about it. Maybe stop drinking so much fucking caffeine.I look at the Pepsi can beside me, the third one I’ve downed since sitting out here, and vow to drink no more until tomorrow morning.
All I have to do is sit here and listen to the world. To the rumble of car engines and the birds in nearby trees. To the garbage floating down the street and catching on a lamppost. To the people down the hall, fucking loudly.
Okay, maybe not to those people.
A G63 detaches itself from the line of traffic and pulls to the curb in front of the hotel. This is what counts for interesting these days—seeing a car pull up and finding out whether they’ll check into the hotel as a guest, drop someone off, or deliver a package. I’m not complaining. It’s better than watching Avery and other women get tortured. It’s better than watching my back in the exercise yard inside the prison.
The sunglasses-wearing person in the car doesn’t come into the hotel.
Nope.
She looks straight up at my balcony. My heart skips several beats.
Avery?What’s she doing back here?
“This place is nothing but trouble,” I shout down to her.
“Get in, loser,” she yells from below. “We’re getting out of this damn city.”
And fuck me, I get up out of my seat. I don’t even fight her. Is it wrong? Yes. Will there be hell to pay? Yes. But the bigger truth, the one that takes reality by the neck and shoves it underwater, is that I need her like I need air and food. And at one point in that dank hole, I swore to myself that if I ever got out, I wasn’t going to waste my life anymore.
And I am sure as fuck wasting my life in this hotel room.
It takes fifteen seconds to shove my shit into a duffel bag. No alarm sounds when I open my hotel room door. Weird, but maybe there’s a time delay. They did say I have a full minute before the thing trips. Last time I tested it, the thing started giving me a warning immediately, but whatever. Maybe the alarm is silent now. I have no doubt that it’ll be screeching across the city on some cop’s desk. I keep my steps measured and calm all the way down the hall, all the way down to the first floor, and all the way across the lobby. The woman behind the counter doesn’t so much as look up.
Outside, the heat of the day hits me full force in a way that it didn’t on the balcony. It presses its palms down on my back and shoulders and rubs, letting me know it’s there. The city air is thick, the tall buildings all around stopping the breeze from the San Francisco Bay from touching anything here. I feel ten pounds heavier out in this humidity.
Avery lingers by the G Wagon. It has to belong to her father. It’s a beast of a thing, meant for off-road shit. What is she thinking, driving that here?
