Page 23 of Silas

He gestures at the expensive-looking vintage car. “Get in.” His voice is smooth, deep, and hard.

I’m terrified of him—he exudes violence, his aura one of concentrated lethality.

But yet…

I also see my future when I meet his pale green eyes the color of an oak leaf in the summer sun.

I’ve never had much of an imagination—play was discouraged, in favor of chores and acts of service. Yet when I look at him, I see a million days skitter past my eyes, and he’s in each one…

I hesitate.

He’s everything Papa always said was wrong with the world.

It very well could be the worst mistake I’ll ever make, but I get into the car with him.

For better or worse, I’ve made my choice: stepping out into the unknown.

first taste of freedom

Silas

In the interest of putting mileage between us and her father, I opt to keep driving. We reach a junction and I take a left—south. We pass between miles of farmland and rolling hills carpeted with forest, moonlit and still. At another junction, I take a right, and after a few more miles, lights begin to glow on the horizon, indicating a town. It’s a bit larger than the last one and boasts an interstate exchange, which means better gas stations, restaurants, and lodging options.

I pull into a Hilton and park near the entrance. Naomi sits in the passenger seat with her eyes on her folded hands, head bowed, waiting.

I pause at the hood, rapping my knuckles on the metal, causing her to jump. “You coming?”

She stares at me for a moment, and then slides out of the car, moving gingerly, cautiously. She follows me into the cool, well-lit lobby. A younger guy with slicked-back black hair, pearl stud earrings, and a matching pearl necklace greets us with a smile, but the smile fades when he sees Naomi.

“First,” I growl, “I’m getting herawayfrom the motherfuckers who did this to her, yeah?”

He eyes me warily, then turns to Naomi, holding her gaze intently. “Are you safe with him?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “He’s helping me. He wasn’t the one who hurt me.”

He hesitates a beat, examining her closely, probably trying to ascertain if she’s lying because she’s scared of me, then turns to his computer and types rapidly. “We have a first-floor king suite available, or a double queen.”

“Double queen,” I answer. I dig cash out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket and toss a pair of hundreds on the counter. “Two keys. Keep the change.” I lean over the counter, putting every bit of menace I possess into my glare as I meet his eyes. “We weren’t here. Got me? You’ve never seen anyone matching our descriptions. Clear?”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I need a name for the room.”

“Ted Williams.” It’s the name of an old Boston Red Sox player.

He nods, entering the name into the system, and then activates two cards and slips them into a small envelope on which he writes our room number. “Second floor, turn left out of the elevators, halfway down the hallway on the right. If you have any questions, you can call the front desk. My name is Patrick, and thank you for choosing Hilton.”

We find our room. Because old habits die hard, before I let Naomi into the room, I palm my Glock and sweep the bedroom and bathroom. “Clear.”

She just blinks at me. “What?”

“It means the room is safe.” I hold out my hand, gesturing for her to join me inside. “Come on in.”

She steps inside and perches on the edge of the bed farthest from the door, sitting bolt upright, head bowed, hands folded.

I peel off my jacket and toss it over the chair in the corner, then toe off my shoes and socks, then unbutton the shirt and shrug out of it—I can’t help but notice that Naomi steals a surreptitious glance at me from the corner of her eye.

“Naomi.” I toss my pistol onto the other bed and stretch out. “You can relax, babe.”

Her shoulders hunch. “Relax?”