Hold Me Like a Breath (18 page)

I was shivering, shaking, and they were gone. All gone. I couldn't think about it. Not with a hawk-eyed driver who kept offering to turn down the A/C and asking me what type of music would cheer me up. His words were probably friendly, but all I felt was the edge of danger, the unknown threat that hung like a mystery over my whole life.

What would Father do in this situation? What would he tell me to do? This was the stupidest of questions, and it tore at my throat, trying to unlock the sobs trapped there. If Father were here, I never would be. I'd be home protected, coddled—or would I be running away with Garrett? His plan now seemed idiotic edging toward reckless—my parents would have worried so much and all it would have proved was our immaturity, our lack of leadership ability.

Garrett …

He'd been waiting behind the pool house. He wasn't near the fighting. He couldn't be hurt. The radio said
three
bodies. And if he'd heard—but no, Caroline's identity would be cleared up soon and then he'd come for me. He'd come and he'd get me and he'd tell me he could keep me safe and he would.

He would.

But Father … he'd never approve of
this
. An overly concerned stranger bringing me to a hotel—knowing where I was. When I was most vulnerable.

“You okay, miss?” The driver turned around at a red light to ask. “You sick? That guy was talking about infusions. My cousin had to get something like that. He had the big C, ya know?”

Outside my window twilight was descending, suburbia was bleeding into the urban. We were heading toward the city. I wanted to open a map app, trace our route, predict our destination, orient myself with all the landmarks that were familiar from computer screens and daydreams. But I couldn't use my phone.

“How long until we reach the hotel?”

“At least twenty minutes. Maybe more if there's traffic on the bridge. I'm doing my best.”

“Thank you.” I broke his gaze in the rearview mirror by turning to stare out the window, willing the skyline to appear sooner and the wheels to turn faster.

But nothing was easier when the skyscrapers loomed closer. When my windows lit up with lights from buildings and billboards, and the air was filled with horns, conversations on the sidewalks, music.

The car pulled over in front of a hotel. It was all gleaming windows, crisp black awnings, and immaculate facade. Clean, expensive, safe. Except I didn't feel safe.

It was simpler to allow the driver to open my door, carry my purse, follow me into the overly air-conditioned lobby, and hand
me his business card than it was to resist—and I needed to save my energy, stockpile it for the sobs and grief that threatened to break through my survival numbness at any moment.

“I'd be happy to be your driver again. Anytime. I wrote my personal number on the back of the card in case you need anything.” His eyes were too interested. He moved to touch me, clasp my hand, invade my personal space.

I slipped around the other side of the marble table that stood in the lobby—its shiny black circle looking like the center of a bull's-eye topped with a vase of blood-red flowers.

The color made my throat clench.

“Thank you for your assistance,” I said in a thin echo of Mother's voice, the one she used for dismissing event staff or gossipy wives of other Family members.

The one I'd never hear again.

But it was Father's voice bellowing in my head right now—demanding I attend to my safety first, foremost, manners be damned. Safety, then tears. I wasn't safe in a hotel where this creepy stranger of a driver could locate me. Had eavesdropped on a conversation that included the words “Carter” and “infusion,” and might be able to piece together the rest as soon as he watched the news. And what did I know about Mr. Tanaka other than that he happened to be the VIP who was on the estate the day my life detonated?

I couldn't stay here. I had to get out. Get off-grid. Out of sight. Until Garrett came.

I exited the lobby, ducking behind a couple pushing a stroller and wrangling way too many kids. I had a good mental picture
of the apartment on a map, but where was
I
? I'd kept track as best I could during the drive and thought there was water to my left and a park to my right. Which meant I was probably on the Upper West Side facing north. But I could also be on the Upper East Side facing south. I walked to the closest corner and exhaled a shaky breath when I read the street signs—Upper West Side, good. I did the mental math of blocks-to-miles; the apartment was walkable, about two miles. And all I'd need to focus on was watching the street numbers increase, watching traffic and walk signals.

I took one last look over my shoulder at the hotel's friendly brightness.

And then I walked. Putting each foot down with a mental chastisement—
Not yet. A little longer. You can fall apart soon. But you're not quite there yet
.

A few more minutes of focusing on the directions and cross-streets Garrett and Carter had mentioned on our last night together. A few more blocks of real estate prices falling and crime rates rising. A few more shadows that made me jump as people detached themselves from walls or alleys, melted in and out of the night—ignoring me like I ignored them: a see-no-evil agreement that clung to these streets.

The building was both a relief and more run-down than I remembered. And I couldn't go teary-eyed because it made it so much harder to locate the key attached to the top of the mailbox and let myself through the door. The stairwell's floor was cold against my skin and tacky with grime, but I could focus on that. I
should
focus on that, on the size of the dust balls and the
sticky green spill that glued them to the tile. Those were good things to think about while I fished around for the second key below the steps. Not the fact that this apartment—Carter's “clubhouse”—would save my life but not his—not my parents'.

And the stairs, I thought about each one, about the strength it cost to lift my feet and find the next riser.

Finally I was standing in front of the apartment door, the last barrier between me and everything I promised myself I could feel when I arrived.

I opened the door to a hushed place. A place that felt hollow in the absence of Carter and Garrett: the space they occupied, the air they breathed, the noise they made as they banged and stomped and claimed this world as their own.

Now it seemed near sacred. This was Carter's. He'd shared it with me the night he died. It felt wrong to touch anything, to move anything. I locked the door and leaned against the back of it, trying to picture him here. Bring to mind a ghost or shade of a memory.

I wanted it to feel like a shrine, a place where his presence and memories were stronger—strong enough to protect me from the truth.

But it's hard to make relics of a coffee table and a couch, a takeout menu from a Chinese restaurant. A cardboard coaster from a bar. And in the end, I was as sturdy as a house of cards.
I put my purse on the counter and glimpsed the Carter doll inside. I'd been so wrong not to bring Mother's and Father's too. And Rumpel—I craved the familiar security of his fur and smell. I folded in on myself, curled up on the floor like that could protect the parts of me that were broken and would never heal.

I watched the hours move through tear-swollen eyes from my place on the throw rug. Shadows crept, lengthened, shrank. And nothing changed. Nothing could. Mine wasn't a reality that could be reversed or corrected. I had nothing left.

Except to breathe and make sure they didn't get me too.

Garrett would come for me. On a white horse, through an enchanted forest guarded by dragons, wicked witches, FBI agents, or murderers—it didn't matter what the obstacles were, as soon as he learned I was alive, he would come. He would.

It took a few more hours, but then I found the energy to begin to look around.

Energy that turned from respectful worship to heretical frenzy as I tore open the fridge door—the same few bottles of jam, pickles, block of cheese, mustard and soy sauce packets. I searched through all the cabinets: mismatched mugs; piles of paper plates and individually wrapped plastic cutlery; the packs of crackers that come with soup; a box of sugary marshmallow cereal; a bag of Carter's favorite dill pickle chips; cups, beer steins, bottle and can openers.

I pulled and pulled on the locked freezer until I worried my fingertips would bruise, which made my frustration change to helpless fury. Except I wasn't a helpless thing: I grabbed the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink and bashed the lock. The
impact vibrated up my arms, but I kept going. Hitting, and hitting, and hitting, and hitting, until the latch lay in pieces around my feet. I didn't pause to second-guess or gag over what
could be
inside, I threw open the lid, pulse racing and panting for the answers.

It was empty. Nothing but ice crystals. I slammed the dented lid and left the kitchen; collapsed sideways onto the thronelike chair and cried. Sobbed. With my face buried in my knees and my shoulders shaking. All the emotions inside felt bigger than me, and letting them out felt dangerous—like I'd deflate.

Carter.

Mother.

Father.

Caroline.

I mourned for each one separately because the collective grief was too all-consuming to even consider.

I was alone. And feeling too small in this chair that felt too large. But since I'd sat here last time, it seemed like where I should stay. Where I was allowed to stay. With a gulp and a last blubber, I shut my eyes and stopped fighting against the easy oblivion of sleep.

I woke up stiff and disoriented. Sat, stretched, and banged my wrist on something in the dark. A bruise I could ill afford and which caused new tears—or provided an excuse to cry again.

I stood and carefully edged across the room, fumbling for a light switch or a lamp. Finding one, I turned it on and then went around the living room and kitchen, turning on
all
the lights.

Then I went a step further: opened the three closed doors at the end of the hall. The doors that had been off-limits during my last trip here. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't a bathroom, a bedroom, and a room that was half office and half twin bed.

It didn't matter that it was eleven p.m., that I'd been gone more than twenty-four hours, or that I had no clue what was happening on the estate—there would be answers in those rooms. That was enough to kick my exhaustion into frenzy. I started in the bedroom. The closet contained clothing for Carter and maybe Garrett too, clothing for me. But not my typical style—usually I stuck to pastels. At least lighter colors, smaller prints. And never, ever anything purple. Nothing that would emphasize bruises. The clothing Carter had bought me was bright patterns, bold colors. Accessories that weren't dainty. Jewelry that wasn't pearl or diamond. Shoes with heels and prints and pointy and open toes. Apparently in my life outside the estate I was to be trendy. Brave. Noticeable.

There was little else in the room that made sense or told me anything about Carter's life here. A few of his favorite novels on a bedside table. An untouched book of Sudoku puzzles on the dresser, a half-finished one left in the closet. Nothing personal, nothing identifying. No mail beyond catalogs addressed to “current resident.” No photographs.

There had to be answers in his office. I wanted a laptop with a password of “password” and a file called “Everything Pen Needs to Know.” A manila folder with a list of the bad guys and a second list that told me what to do next. An instruction manual for grief annotated with his comments and provisions.

No. I needed more than this imaginary list or manual. I didn't know how to live without my family. And if I didn't have a family, I didn't know who I was anymore.

But the desk was pure decoration. It had a calendar with days
X
'd and circled … with no explanation for either. It had a bank mug with a few pens, a handful of tangled rubber bands and paper clips, and a small key topped with a silver stag's head … probably to the lock on the freezer I'd smashed. Two blank notebooks, and a third whose spiral binding sprouted a few of the spiky strips left behind when a page is torn out. I tucked this under my arm and prayed the remaining pages were full of … something helpful.

And in the bottom left drawer nestled beside a roll of cash the size of my wrist: a gun.

My fingers continued to reach for it. Not getting the message from my brain because my brain was too horrified to process this properly. My fingertips brushed the metal before I gagged and shuddered backward. Slammed the desk drawer, backed out of the room, and slammed that door too.

No.

Carter should not own a gun. Not Garrett either, but he
was
a Ward, no matter how much I tried to forget it. He had guns and bullets in his DNA. But not Carter. Not my brother.

I dropped the notebook in the hall, ran into the bathroom, and retched. Spitting out sour saliva and making my stomach muscles ache with the spasms.