Page 12

C HAPTER 12

W e drove for four more hours. The scenery didn’t vary much: endlessly straight roads bending with the horizon, flat plains with scrubby little bushes, rolling hills, the occasional mountain range popping up and disappearing. Anthony’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror like a Ping-Pong match between it and the windshield. Every once in a while, a car would hug our bumper, and my heart would vault up into my throat. Anthony’s knuckles would turn white on the steering wheel, and then the car would whiz around us to pass on the two-lane highway.

If we were still being followed, no one had caught up yet.

Shortly after the sun had crested the sky’s midpoint and begun its slow descent into another blazing summer afternoon, we pulled off into a town bigger than our previous stop, but still small enough to count as the middle of nowhere.

“Dare I ask where we are?” I said. I shifted and felt my blood recirculate after becoming one with the vibrations of the road for so long.

“Elvin, Nevada,” Anthony answered.

I looked out the window at the passing scenery. Old trains, squared-off brick buildings, a small casino. It had all the markings of an old foothill mining town. “Is this our final destination or another pit stop?”

“Semi-final. We’re not staying here, but this is where Portia is.”

The announcement made me tingle all over. Finally. “And what’s the plan, once we get to her?”

He shot me a glance, which I did not like the weight or silence of.

“You do have a plan, right?”

He stroked his jaw and did not answer.

“Anthony! We came all this way, and you don’t have a plan for what’s next?!”

“I’m working on it! I told you, it’s complicated.”

I grumbled and sat back in my seat, wondering if I’d ever see my apartment again. “I’m never going to make tenure.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Yes, you will. I promise. I’m going to make this right.”

We rolled down a central street, which landed somewhere between quaint and dismal. Half the storefronts were abandoned, and the other half looked stuck several decades in the past. “Why this place?” I asked.

“Could you find it on a map?” he said.

I watched another block pass, this one entirely occupied by a rectangular park shaded in leafy green trees. An old man sat on a bench; a middle-aged woman walked a dog. Even from inside the car, I felt the town’s insularity. No one came to live here because they wanted to; anyone here had been here all along.

“Probably not.”

“Exactly. Plus, there’s an airport.” He pointed off to the north where I saw a landing strip and row of tiny propeller planes. The little municipal airport lacked soaring air traffic control towers, the staple of international hubs, but it could get the job done for a private jet.

“I’m guessing the Slate family jet is off the table for an evacuation?” I said, remembering what he’d said about putting Portia on a plane to disappear.

“Unfortunately.”

“So, what are we going to do, then? Dig our way out in one of these old mine shafts?”

“Let’s hope not.”

He pulled onto a street with cracked pavement and sidewalks bumpy from trees doing their best to provide shade from the relentless sun. The modest houses sat far apart and had patchy lawns and sun-bleached cars in the driveways. We drove to the dead end of the street and turned into the carport of a brick house, with plain white shutters and a rosebush out front. A generic silver sedan, with a Nevada plate, sat parked in front of us.

“We’re here,” Anthony said, as if it wasn’t obvious. A nervous energy suddenly hung over him. He seemed to be in a hurry.

I climbed out of the car and followed him to the house’s side door, which entered from the carport. He knocked twice, and we waited.

I was buzzing with tension too, feeling like I stood on the precipice of something huge. All this time, all this way. What we’d come for waited on the other side of the door.

“Who the fuck is it?” a deep, imposing voice said.

If I’d expected Portia to throw open the door and greet us with a welcoming smile, I quickly adjusted. Of course she wasn’t here alone. I imagined whoever was on the other side holding a gun, similar to the one still tucked into Anthony’s waistband, maybe an even bigger one.

“It’s me,” Anthony said.

“Me who?”

“Gio, come on. It’s Anthony. Open up.”

“Nope. Not a chance until I’m sure.”

“You can be sure, I promise.”

“Nice try, pal. Tell me something only Anthony Pierce would know.”

Anthony sighed. “Fine. Your name is Sergio William Bryant. Your mom is Dominican; your dad is from Texas. You served ten years in the Marines. You talk a lot of shit, but you’re allergic to cats and cry at Disney movies.”

A pause passed before the sound of several locks being unlocked clattered against the door: chains, latches, and finally a dead bolt. The door swung open, and one of the largest men I’d ever seen filled it like a tree trunk holding a gun. His full lips split into a grin.

“About time you showed up.”

Anthony grinned back and stepped inside. I followed into the small entryway, and before any of us could say another word, a blond woman shoved forward and threw herself at Anthony.

“Tony!” she cried, and latched on to his middle.

My friends call me Tony. His words from that night in his kitchen came back to me as I watched them embrace. It was completely familial. I felt my eyes mist over as Portia wiped at her own eyes and leaned back to look at him.

“Ouch! Careful,” he said with a grimace. “My ribs are broken.”

“Your ribs are broken? Oh, my God, and your face! What happened?” She clucked at him like a little mother hen, pinching him and gasping every time she noticed a new injury. “Did Connor do this to you?”

“No. I actually haven’t had the pleasure of running into him during all this, but I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You need—”

“Portia, I’m fine.” He took her hands in his to stop their fluttering exploration of his wounds. He gave her a soft smile.

She tsked again and wiped another tear. “I’m so glad to see you.” She went in for another hug, but stopped halfway. “Oh, sorry. I won’t do that again.”

“It’s okay.” He turned toward me with a hand out. “This is Penny. She—”

Portia gasped again and launched herself at me. I wondered if she was a naturally affectionate person or perhaps simply craving physical contact after having been locked up so long. “Tony’s girlfriend! I’m so happy to meet you.” She squeezed me with surprising strength.

“Oh, I’m not his—” I cut myself off, instead of correcting the mistake that set this whole journey in motion. I wasn’t so sure it was a mistake anymore, and the affection flowing from Portia, her pure joy at meeting who she thought was her friend’s significant other, felt like a ray of sunshine. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m Penny.”

She gave me a final squeeze and let go to wipe her eyes again. “We’ve been watching the news, and I saw you together, and—wait.” She tilted her head, looking closely at me, as if for the first time. “I know you.”

I nodded, still trying to gather my bearings that Portia Slate was standing right in front of me. Not only because the whole world was looking for her, but also because she was Portia Slate, wife of famed billionaire and socialite darling. “Yes. We met at the university where I teach last year. You came when—”

“When we donated the computer lab. Yes! I remember. How did you meet Tony?” Her face folded into confusion as she glanced over at him.

He did one of his signature hair swipes and quietly laughed. “That’s a bit of a story.”

“Well, I would love to hear it. I am starved for company. No offense, Gio.” She threw a smile at the man who’d crossed over to the living-room windows to peek out into the street. He still held his gun at his hip.

“None taken. I can only lose so many poker hands. I’ll take a fresh sparring partner. Don’t trust this girl; she’s a hustler.”

She playfully poked her tongue out at him.

Gio let the curtain fall and stalked back over to us. The floor shook with each step. I noted the tattoos curling the dark skin on his arms, which were thicker than my legs. “Were you followed?”

Anthony rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. It was starting to bruise from the diner bathroom incident. “We ran into some trouble at our last stop, but haven’t seen anything for a few hundred miles now.”

Gio nodded. “Good. But we gotta move soon, Tony.” He nodded over at Portia. “Pretty, famous girl in this town is going to stick out like a sore damn thumb if we stay much longer. People are starting to notice.”

Portia twisted around to face Anthony and pressed her hands together in an apologetic pose. Guilt was written all over her face. “I’m staying hidden, I promise. It’s been so long, and I needed some fresh air the other day. It was only a short walk. No one saw me, I swear.”

Anthony’s jaw twitched. “You went outside?”

“For, like, five minutes.”

“Portia!”

“I know! I’m sorry. I’m going stir-crazy in here. I was only supposed to be here for a day, and it’s been twelve. I don’t have my phone; Gio lets me use his, but only to check the news. We’ve watched all the movies and played all the board games. The daytime TV is turning my brain into mush. I—”

“Okay!” Anthony said, holding up his hands. “I get it. It’s time to move.”

Portia exhaled an enormous breath, relieved. I noticed then she wasn’t wearing what she’d gone missing in: leggings and a fleece. Obviously, the blue running shoes had been a decoy. She wore jeans and a silky blouse, with a pair of slip-ons. One of those carelessly casual celebrity outfits that probably cost a thousand dollars. It struck me that if she’d planned to disappear for good, she probably had supplies lined up to take with her.

I was still wearing a men’s polyester shirt, likely older than me, and the same underwear I’d had on since the funeral.

“Um, Portia,” I said shyly, unable to believe I had the nerve to even ask. “Do you have any extra clothes I could change into?”

She turned to me and took in my appearance. A little gasp snuck between her lips as pity folded her brow. “Of course. Come with me.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the hall, excited like friends going to play makeover at a slumber party. I willingly followed and wondered if anyone would ever believe that Portia Slate let me borrow her clothes.

Down the short hall, we passed a bathroom and another bedroom while she led me to the main bedroom. The house lacked any kind of personality. It wasn’t decorated beyond the necessities, and I wondered how many times it had been used as a hideout and for whom.

“Gio gave me this room because he thought I’d be more comfortable,” she said, and led me into a room about the size of my bedroom in my apartment. A queen-sized bed, with a fluffy white comforter, took up most of it. A small dresser had a few books stacked on top of it, and a nightstand held a lamp. Two suitcases sat propped in the corner. A door opposite the closet opened to a bathroom. “We had clothes sent here to get my new life set up, once I was gone, but I unpacked when it seemed like it was going to be a while. What do you need?” She opened the closet to show it full of clothes.

“Um. Everything,” I said with a deep flush.

“Got it.” She nodded and went to the dresser. “So, how exactly did you meet Tony? I know he wasn’t seeing anyone in New York; he never sees anyone. And he’s only been in California for a few days.”

I sat on the bed and kicked off my shoes. I began to untie the shirt knotted at my waist. “Well, turns out my sister lives next door to his uncle. I happened to be there the day of the estate sale. My sister and her kids and I were there when, um . . . your bodyguard was found.”

She solemnly stared at the floor and blinked a few times. Her head tilted in question. “Are those my shoes?”

“Oh,” I said with a small laugh. “Yeah. I borrowed them when we were escaping your house.”

She did a cartoonish double take. “What?”

I didn’t know why I was embarrassed to tell her, but I found myself blushing ten shades of scarlet. “After that photo of me and Anthony was on the news, I guess your husband thought I was his girlfriend and had me kidnapped as leverage to get information on you.”

“Oh, my God.” She slowly sank down on the bed beside me, her mouth hanging open in shock. “Tony didn’t tell me that. I thought you were just with him.”

“Like, along for the ride?”

She nodded, still looking shocked.

“No.” I quietly laughed and tucked my hair back. “I just happened to be there that day. When that photo ended up on the news, my life spiraled out of control. The truth is, I’m not his girlfriend. It was all a misunderstanding. But the wrong people misunderstood, and now here we are.”

She gaped at me, still managing to look beautiful with her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Penny, I am so incredibly sorry. Did they hurt you? Are you okay?” She gave me a once-over, like she’d done to Anthony when we’d arrived, checking for injuries. She clucked her tongue at the bruise on my temple, which was clearly showing through my shoddy mini-mart makeup job. I’d avoided looking at the bruise on my arm from the chair, but I imagined it was not pretty.

“I’m a little banged up, but I’ll be okay.”

“This is all my fault,” she said, and held her face in her hands. “It was such a bad idea. I can’t believe how much it has fallen apart.”

I snorted. “You sound like Anthony.”

She popped up out of her hands. “What do you mean?”

“He thinks it’s his fault. He said it was his idea.”

Her face flattened into a frown. “He would say that. I guess it was both of us, really. I wanted a way out, and he thought he could give me one. But he’s always been like that—trying to save everyone.”

I thought about what he’d told me about stepping in after her brother died and how he’d implied fixing problems was part of his nature. “He told me about your brother. I’m so sorry, Portia.”

She flashed her eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah. No one really knows the truth about Jake. Anthony made sure of that so I didn’t have to talk about it publicly. I think part of the reason he did that was so he wouldn’t have to talk about it either. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to both of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, and wished I could offer something more comforting. Her pain swelled into the room like a balloon. I felt it in every inch of the space.

She sadly shook her head. “Ever since my brother died, I don’t think he’s ever really let himself care about anyone, except me, Lou, and his mom, but that was already hardwired so it doesn’t count. He doesn’t want to get hurt again, so he uses his job as an excuse not to get close to anyone.”

“Well, I mean, for good reason.” I held up my wrists to show off my zip tie bruises.

She gingerly touched one, with a soft cluck of her tongue. “That unbelievable asshole. God, I can’t believe I married him.” The bitterness in her voice replaced the pain from a moment before. “At least Tony was there to save you, right?”

“Yeah, but he walked straight into a trap. I had to do some of the saving because of it.”

A quiet laugh, which sounded warm and familiar, bubbled from her mouth. “For someone who pretends to be closed off from the world, he leads with his heart an awful lot.”

My face warmed again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it was only a trap because it worked, right? He came looking for you, so he obviously cares. And if you’re still with him now, I’d imagine he gave you some speech about not letting you out of his sight—until you are safe.”

My burning cheeks and tiny smile gave me away. “How do you know that?”

“Oh, because he does the same thing to me. Except he doesn’t kiss me. That would be gross.”

I jerked sideways, like I’d been caught doing something illegal. Embarrassment washed over me anew. “What? How did you . . . ? We didn’t—”

Portia only laughed. “Oh, I knew it! That shy look on his face when he introduced you. He’s so obvious. You both are.”

I fought not to bury my face in my hands. I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. Apparently, the chemistry between us was obvious to complete strangers, as well as lifelong friends. “I guess you could say that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

She sighed again. “What a mess, indeed. Come on. Get changed and we can have lunch.” She handed me some clean underwear and a pair of socks. She left the closet open, which I took as an invitation to shop, and stepped out the door.

We wore the same size, so I could have chosen anything, but I opted for something close to my style: leggings and a T-shirt. All of it was better than a ripped dress or an old men’s shirt from a literal trunk sale. The bruise inside my left arm from the chair shone a spectacular and horrifying shade of purple. I didn’t want to look at it, so I found a gray hoodie. I slipped her shoes back on, now with socks, and made my way back from the room.

I found them in the kitchen, where Portia and Gio were busy prepping lunch. The small, square room was hardly big enough for two cooks, especially with one of them the size of Gio. They maneuvered around each other like cogs in a machine, clearly having practice utilizing the space. Anthony and I took two of the four chairs at the round dining table and watched.

“I made this barbacoa last night. You picked a good day to show up for leftovers,” Gio said. He pulled a pot from under the counter and started it on the stove. Portia retrieved a plastic storage container from the fridge and handed it to him behind her back.

“Gio was a cook in the Marines,” Anthony told me.

“Really?” I asked in surprise.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gio said. “I know what you’re thinking: a guy like me was probably rappelling cliffs and rescuing hostages.”

“That, or fighting sharks barehanded,” I said.

He laughed. “I had my fair share of field ops, but I was also running a kitchen and keeping dozens of men fed every day.”

The pot began to sizzle on the stove when he dumped in the barbacoa. The tempting smell of spices and sweet sauce was already making my mouth water.

“And now you’re what, a safe house landlord and personal chef?” I asked.

“I prefer private security agent,” he said with a friendly smile. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a professor. How did you meet Anthony?”

He looked over his shoulder as he stirred the pot. He nodded at Anthony, prompting him to tell the story.

“Uncle Lou,” Anthony said simply.

A heaviness settled over the room.

“I was really sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral,” Gio said.

“Me too, Tony,” Portia added, and came over to squeeze his shoulder.

The air sat thick with sadness I could feel while still being on the outside of it. I was not bound in sorrow the same way the three of them were, but I ached with empathy.

“Uncle Lou would have understood,” Anthony said. Then he shook his head with a breath, resetting. “Speaking of Lou, we need a plan for next steps.”

“Well, given how much time has passed, and the fact Connor is aware of said plan, the original plan is shot to hell,” Gio said.

“Maybe not entirely,” Anthony said. “You still have your new IDs, Portia?”

“Yes. They arrived yesterday morning.” She slipped out of the room and back down the hall.

“This is what was in the safe that you needed so badly?” I asked Anthony.

He nodded. “Primarily, yes. I shipped them here so she’d have them when things got complicated. I didn’t want to have them on me in case we got intercepted.”

Portia came back with a Swedish passport and a small square ID card. They looked as real as any official documents, and as real as the fake ones I’d seen in Lou’s trunk. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked.

“Well, a private flight is obviously out,” Anthony bitterly said. “Connor has grounded anyone who’d be willing to fly you.” He picked up the passport and flipped it over. “We could always go by car. Canada is an option, or somewhere in South America. We’d have to get a new set of these though, which will take a while. Otherwise, I have no idea how we’re going to get you to Sweden, unless Gio knows someone with a boat.”

“I know a couple, actually,” Gio said, wearing a pair of bright red oven mitts and carrying his pot of barbacoa over to the table. “But unless you want to hide in a shipping crate across the Atlantic and risk someone being there waiting for you on the other side, it’s not a great option. Soup’s on.”

“But it’s not a nonoption, ” Anthony said, and reached for the tortillas Portia had set on the table.

Portia sat next to him and across from me and grabbed her own tortillas. “I know sacrificing my standard of living is all part of this deal, but a shipping crate might be where I draw the line.”

“Even if it means saving your life?” Anthony asked.

She leveled him with a stare. “Tony.”

“This is delicious,” I said after my first bite. “Gio, you have a gift.”

He turned to me with a pleased smile. “Thank you, Penny.”

I chewed and thought for a moment about a possible suggestion. The situation was just another puzzle. All we had to do was assess the situation and make a plan. “What about a commercial flight?”

They collectively looked at me, and I felt like I’d been called on in class.

“What do you mean?” Anthony said.

I swallowed a succulent bite—Gio truly was talented. “I mean, why do we have to find a private pilot willing to fly when Portia has a new ID ready to go? Can’t you hop on a commercial flight in disguise?”

The silence that settled over the table made me wonder if they found the suggestion foolish and were too polite to tell me, or if they really hadn’t thought of it before.

“That”—Anthony said with a thoughtful tilt of his head—“is actually an interesting idea. The only reason we were going to go private originally was because it was safer. The new IDs were to set up her life, once she landed, not necessarily to get to her new life. But we might as well use them if we have them. A passenger on a commercial flight is going to be harder to find than booking a private one. Penny, you’re brilliant.” He put a hand on my arm and squeezed.

I proudly smiled and gave them the benefit of the doubt that Portia only flew private, so a commercial flight really hadn’t occurred to them. “Where’s the closest international airport?”

“Vegas,” Gio said. “It’s like a four-hour drive from here.”

“Perfect.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Portia interjected. “Connor is never going to stop chasing you if I disappear.” She directed her statement at Anthony, but it went without saying that I was swept up in the concern too.

Anthony cast me a look like the problem may have not been much of a problem if it were only him running forever, but because I was along for the ride, everything was different.

“Can I ask a question?” I said as I had a thought. They looked on encouragingly. “Forgive me if this is too intrusive, but, Portia, why didn’t you talk to the FBI when they first came to you?”

Her jaw immediately clenched and she glanced sideways at Anthony.

I held up my hands. “Don’t worry. He didn’t tell me any details. I only know the FBI is interested in your husband, and they approached you about it.”

Portia’s face flushed. She visibly shrank as her shoulders hunched inward. She tucked her hair back, and her voice grew softer. “Well, for starters, Connor would kill me if I talked to the Feds, and second, I’m not exactly sure what I can say to them without implicating myself, given I knew what he was, um . . . doing.”

The confident, polished socialite I saw online and in the news vanished right in front of me. She was the sad woman from campus, the frightened teenager Anthony had described. Simply broken.

Anthony reached out and squeezed her arm. “That’s why we opted for disappearing. Seemed like the best option.”

I gave Portia a gentle, sympathetic smile. “I don’t blame you. I probably would have done the same. I make my living dealing with men who think they run the world. None of them are as powerful as your husband, of course, but I know what it’s like to navigate egos. And I’ve seen plenty of men let their ego get the best of them. They don’t realize this enormous, swollen opinion they hold of themselves eventually becomes a vulnerability. It’s kind of ironic, really.”

Anthony cast me a curious look, as if he knew my thoughts were spiraling toward a solution. “What are you suggesting, Penny?”

“I’m saying, Connor doesn’t expect her to talk to the Feds, because he knows she’s afraid—and he knows she hasn’t talked at this point, because he would have been arrested by now.” I turned my gaze to Portia and looked at her head-on, feeling a solution take shape. “He thinks he’s scared you into not talking, so talk. Catch him off guard.”

She paled like I’d suggested she jump into a tank of sharks. “Won’t that get me in trouble too, because of what I know?”

“Not necessarily, if you do it right.”

A heavy silence fell over the table. Anthony leaned back in his chair, and Gio pursed his lips with a sharp exhale through his nose. Based on their body language, I could tell they understood what I was suggesting. Portia still looked lost.

“What does that mean?” she asked with a wide blink of her eyes.

Anthony sat forward again and stroked his jaw. “She’s talking about federal witness protection, Portia. You testify against your husband, give them what they want, and they’ll provide you with protection.” Tension splintered his voice. He scrubbed his face with a hand and sighed. I sensed he knew it was a good solution, but not one he wanted.

Gio tapped his thick fingers on the table. “The professor makes a good point, Tony.”

“Yeah, I know she does,” he snapped.

Portia turned to him with a hopeful look in her eyes. “Would that work, Tony?”

Anthony flinched. “What? You can’t be serious, Portia. They might just arrest you too.”

She swallowed hard, steeling herself. “With what I know about Connor, I think it would work, but I need to think about it.”

“Think about it?” Anthony cried. “What is there to think about? You’d be signing your life away forever.”

“That’s what we were going to do anyway,” she snapped back.

“But this will be different.”

“How?”

“Because I won’t know where you are!” he burst.

Their exchange had picked up the biting cadence of squabbling siblings. The silent pause crackled like the air between lightning strikes, and it fully settled over me that Anthony’s reluctance came from the fact federal protection would mean he’d never see her again. If he had succeeded in making her disappear, he would at least have known where she was, but doing it on the record would mean Portia Slate would cease to exist completely. I almost regretted my suggestion, for the pained look on his face.

He took a heavy breath. “Portia, federal protection means you’d really be gone if it worked. Basically, it would be what we were going to do, but all above ground. I’m talking new life, new identity. Away from everyone . . . including me. ” His last words came out thick and strained.

A heavy silence returned to the table. Anthony stared at his plate. Gio finished another taco. I pushed food around with my fork. Portia raked her gaze over all three of us, one at a time. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d crashed a party with my suggestion.

Portia eventually pushed back from the table and stood. “I think I need a few minutes.”

“Portia, wait—” Anthony tried, but she was already gone.