Page 133 of The Unlikely Spare

It’s terrifying and exhilarating, glimpsing a potential future where someone knows all my sharp edges and dark corners and stays anyway.

And I hate myself for not being brave enough to contemplate that possibility.

But I can’t focus on that now. I need to stay focused on the task at hand. Before I do something stupid like reach for him.

“Are you sure that’s not the best solution? I mean, they probably won’t harm me. They’ll need me alive. Then you could join your brother. Get your new life, new identity. I’d understand.”

I’m testing him, and I know it.

Something flashes across his face—hurt? Anger?

“Is that what you think of me? That I’d sell you out after everything?”

“Everyone has a price,” I say quietly.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes something crack inside my chest. A hairline fracture in the walls I’ve built.

I can’t afford to let it spread.

I pretend to check my mirrors so I can calm myself down before he sees what his words do to me.

Once I’m composed enough, I speak again.

“All right, so if you won’t hand me over, what if we give the terrorists what they want without the whole capture and hold me for ransom angle?”

Eoin’s eyes narrow. “How can we do that?”

“Well, there seems to be a fun little wrinkle in our current predicament in that we actually agree with what these wannabe kidnappers want. Rather awkward, isn’t it?” I ease off the accelerator as we approach a bend.

“What do you mean, we agree?”

“Obviously, I take issue with their methods, what with the whole using me like some breathing reparations voucher. In fact, I’m sure it would also force me to star in what would undoubtedly be the world’s most awkward hostage video. ‘Hello, Grandmother, don’t mind the anti-imperialist manifesto I’m about to read while someone points a gun at my perfectly coiffed head.’”

Eoin huffs out a laugh, then his voice turns incredulous. “How the fuck are you making me laugh right now?”

“It’s a talent. Humor in crisis situations is practically part of the royal training manual.When cornered by terrorists, one must maintain a stiff upper lip and a cutting wit. I’m fairly sure it’s section four, paragraph seven, right after the chapter on which fork to use when dining with dictators.”

That look of amusement and affection on Eoin’s face—Christ, it makes me want things I can’t have. Makes me want to pull over, lean across this stolen car’s console, and kiss him until I forget why I’m keeping him at arm’s length.

I force myself to return to the task at hand.

“So, circling back to the uncomfortable truth, these terrorists have a point. There’s absolutely no doubt my ancestors on both sides of my family wrote the playbook on stealing resources, enslaving populations, and establishing trade systems designed to funnel wealth from the colonies to British bank accounts. And despite the documented evidence of how it has left people in multiple countries around the world in poverty, there have been no attempts at any type of reparations, even though those families still hold immense wealth.”

“Just because a terrorist group has motives rooted in legitimate historical wrongs doesn’t mean kidnapping is suddenly acceptable. Violence just perpetuates the cycle of oppression with different players,” Eoin says.

“What’s their alternative? Send a strongly worded letter to Buckingham Palace? I’d bet my trust fund they’ve tried the polite approach already. Probably got a form letter back thanking them for their interest.”

Eoin’s jaw works. “Maybe we should save the philosophical discussions about whether justice is best served by changing institutions from within or blowing them up for another time. You know, when we’re not on the run from terrorists and the law enforcement of two countries. Maybe, instead, you should tell me what you’re thinking.”

I deploy my most withering eye roll, though it lacks its usual venom.

Mostly because I’m fighting the urge to trace that tension in his jaw with my fingers. God, I hate that I still want him this much.

But that is a problem for another day. Right now, I focus on telling him my idea.

“Here’s the thing: we know you haven’t actually kidnapped me. But the authorities probably imagine you’ve got me chained up in some dank basement, subsisting on stale biscuits while you torture me with traditional Irish ballads.’”

His forehead rumples. “What are you saying?”