Hold Me Like a Breath (33 page)

You are not alone. If I have a say, you will never be alone
.

I should never have underestimated the vice president.

I stepped up on the sidewalk.

“Hi, Garrett.”

“Penny. Princess. Please, let me explain.”

I shook my head. “That can wait. There's someone I want you to meet.”

“Can I just have—”

I grabbed Garrett by the hand. There was no marveling in this touch. No blushing shyness or giddy schoolgirl tingles. “This way, please.”

The man was leaning against a building with a cell phone to his ear. I doubted he was really having a conversation, but even if he was, I didn't think he'd mind interrupting it for this.

“You like hats a lot,” I told him. He lowered the cell and put it in his pocket. To his credit, his expression didn't change; neither one of his caterpillar eyebrows lifted in surprise, the square line of his jaw remained neutral. “I should've pieced it together sooner, but … the hats. And I wasn't paying nearly enough attention.”

The man nodded.

“How'd you find me in the museum?” I asked. “Well, not
you
, but your partner or colleague or whatever the correct term is.”

The corner of the man's mouth shifted in the slightest show of amusement, but his eyes didn't leave Garrett. “Your phone. We track it. And you're a creature of habit. Though I don't think Antoine expected to be jogging through the park today.”

“My father would not be happy about the routine thing, but what I can I say? I like the dinosaurs.” The moment was so surreal, joking when I should be crying, when I was holding hands with someone who dealt in murder. But there would be so much time for crying later, so much time for mourning the person I'd thought Garrett was, and could be. There were things I needed to do first.

“I'm Penelope Landlow, by the way. We've met so many times, and I've never introduced myself.”

“Whitaker.”

I nodded and turned back to the baffled boy I was still clutching in a death grip. “Garrett, this is Whitaker. He's an FBI agent. Or maybe Secret Service? That doesn't matter right now; we can sort all that out later. Whitaker, this man and his family were responsible for the deaths of my brother and parents.”

The color drained from Garrett's face. His hand went limp in my grasp as he turned away from Whitaker and toward me. “Penelope, I didn't hurt any of them. I wasn't involved. You know I'd never hurt you. Or Carter.”

I tried not to flinch at the names he'd omitted. “I hate you.”

“No. You don't under—” Garrett paused midsentence and yanked his fingers from mine. He might have run, but I'd pulled something else from my bag.

“Do. Not. Move.”

“Princess …”

I'd thought Garrett looked pale earlier. But now his eyes were horrified-wide, his mouth gaping and his lips devoid of color. He'd stopped moving though, all of him focused on the object in my hand.

The gun didn't feel as heavy as it had in Carter's guest room or while carrying it in my bag around the city streets. It felt much lighter;
I
felt much lighter.

I laughed. “This is what it takes for you to take me seriously?”

Whitaker cleared his throat. “Ms. Landlow, I've got it from
here.” In one movement he reached around Garrett, grabbed the wrist I'd been holding, and wrenched it up behind his back. “Mr. Ward and I are going someplace private and having a good, long talk, but before we do, why don't you give me the gun?”

I looked at the empty palm he was holding out to me and gripped the gun tighter.

“Penelope,” he said. “Think about this. The safety is off, that's not a toy.”

“I know.” I turned to Garrett and quoted his father, “‘
Safety on is for morons
'—that's pretty much what passes for a nursery rhyme in your family, isn't that right? I guess with an upbringing like that, none of this should be a surprise. You know the ironic thing—after your family killed mine, I spent days waiting for
you
to come and rescue me. Literally afraid to leave the apartment because I
knew
you'd be coming soon.”

“I didn't know you were alive. I would've come! You have to believe me.”

“No. I don't.” I flicked the safety back in place and let the weapon drop into Whitaker's waiting hand. “I really wanted you to be more than a thug with a gun.”

He flinched, then flinched again when Whitaker used the opportunity to pull his wrist tighter.

“Thank you,” said Whitaker. “And you'll go—where you're supposed to?” He nodded toward the piece of paper I was still crushing in my hand.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I'll go exactly where I'm supposed to.”

I walked away.

And it wasn't a lie really, it was just, with my last tie to the
Family severed, I didn't owe allegiance to anyone. I wasn't anyone's puppet. Bob and I might disagree on where I was supposed to be, but I wasn't going to pause to debate it with him.

I hailed a cab.

Directed it to the airport.

Called Maggie to get an address—
Topanga Canyon
. Called and bought a ticket. I didn't know if Garrett had told his father or the Family that I was alive, but even if he hadn't, it wouldn't stay secret for much longer. It's not like Al was
ever
fooled by Caroline's body; he'd always known I'd survived. So it no longer mattered whether or not I used my credit cards or shuffled my license back to the front of my wallet. Now that I'd identified her killer, Penelope Landlow could exist again.

It wasn't nearly as satisfying as I'd imagined.

With nothing but a purse containing my wallet, cadaver-cash, phone, gum, Carter doll, memory notebook, and an envelope with letters from the two boys I cared about most, I boarded a plane to Los Angeles.

I could still save one of them.

I fought against claustrophobia the whole trip. Since I'd never had a problem with enclosed spaces before, I knew it had to be more than just the plane. It was the feeling that my whole future was caving in and there was nothing I could do to make this flight go faster. Nothing I could do to erase the bruises from my skin or go back in time and have the infusion I knew I needed.

“Why don't you try sleeping?” suggested a flight attendant after I picked up then put down the airline magazine for the fifth or sixth time.

I laughed. Like sleep was possible. Like anything but counting seconds, tapping my foot, and praying was possible while I endured those hours and miles that separated me from him.

My nose started to bleed. I blamed it on the elevation. I blamed it on the dry cabin air. Even after I'd soaked my eighth tissue, I
refused to blame my platelet count, despite all the evidence inked on my skin.

I couldn't afford to be vulnerable until after I'd seen Char. After I'd told him who I was. And he'd processed what that meant. That he didn't need to run away to protect me. That he didn't need to fall into his father's plans for his Business future. That the Wards had killed my family; that they planned to target his. That even with Whitaker taking the Wards into custody, they needed to be vigilant and cautious. And that with the scrutiny and public outcry Dead Meat was sure to cause, they needed to be careful Businesswise too.

When the bleeding finally slowed to a stop, I reached in my bag to grab my memory notebook and found something else. I don't know how I missed it packing for the hotel and it was a little squashed—probably from the gun—but it was a candy bar.

I pulled it out and studied the unfamiliar wrapper: not just a candy bar, one that boasted: “Designed for Diabetics.” And there was a note rubber-banded to it.

Because you miss chocolate, and so your pockets can crinkle too
.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So I opened it and took a bite—then spit it back out in my hand. The note was sweeter than the chocolate, which left my mouth tasting like waxy chalk.

In my fairy tales, princes did the rescuing and princesses danced, cleaned, slept, and waited, but I would slay any dragon that stood between me and a waxy, chalky thank-you kiss,
quickly followed by a warning about the Wards, hopefully with some IVIg immediately afterward.

I didn't realize I was broadcasting my impatience until the man in front of me in the LAX taxi line offered to let me go ahead of him. The family in front of him waved me forward as well. Normally I'd defer, apologize for my loud sighs or fidgets or whatever had cued them into my frenzy. Tonight I said “thank you” and continued to work my way through the line until it was my turn and the porter asked for my destination.

“Topanga Canyon,” I answered.

He hesitated. “Lady, that's more than a hundred-dollar taxi ride.”

“That's fine,” I said.

“There are buses, and a shuttle that will get you there. It'll take longer, but that'd be like ten bucks.”

“I'd like a taxi, please,” I said. “And I'm in a rush.”

The taxi driver insisted I pay half up front. I agreed and handed over the bills. I would have paid it all. Extra if I thought I could convince him to speed or get me there sooner.

I flipped on my phone and watched the voice mail count climb.

“Pen? It's Maggie. Where are you? Where's Carter's gun? What's going on? I'm supposed to be on your side. Please let me. Call me.”

“Penelope Maeve, it's Bob. Whitaker said you'd be checking in, coming to see me. Everything is prepared for you in Connecticut. Where are you? It's imperative you call me back.”

And again from the vice president, “Penelope, things have gotten complicated and dangerous. I need you to call me
immediately. We need to get you somewhere secure. Garrett's escaped—we don't have
any
of the Wards in custody. Do you understand? Call me.”

Goose bumps spread down my arms. Escaped? Then the Wards were coming. I hadn't stopped them.

There were more voice mails, more of the same, but all they communicated was that Char was in danger—and I could warn him. I texted Maggie,
Got your messages. Will check in soon
. Bob got the same, with the additions of In
CA. The Wards plan to attack the Zhus
and
My counts = bad
. Then I shut off my phone.

I was a Landlow, the Wards were
my
Family—and preventing their actions was
my
responsibility.

It started to rain. I wouldn't have lingered on that for more than a blink, but the taxi driver said, “Whoa,” flipped his loud jazz to a news station, and then proceeded to talk over the weather. “It never rains here. Not during the summer. Not unless it's a monsoon or something. We're a desert, you know. But I didn't hear anything about a monsoon thunderstorm, did you?”

“I'm from the East Coast. I haven't been following your weather.”

“Stupid El Niño.” A clap of thunder punctuated his statement, and lightning lit up the sky. “Sit quiet back there so I can listen. This isn't good weather for canyon driving. The roads around here, they get slick when wet—oil accumulation and such.”

I had been sitting quietly, so continuing to do so wasn't an issue. I folded back in on myself, trying to figure out what I would say to Char when we had our first moment face-to-face with all our lies peeled away.

The drive should have taken around forty minutes, but from the moment the first raindrops hit the windshield, it felt as if we were crawling. I couldn't see the speedometer, so I wasn't sure if it was in my head or if our speed had truly slowed. But it didn't seem like we sped up, even after we traded the city lights for a highway headed north, curling through the mountains. Neighborhoods appeared again, and we exchanged one highway for another. Light was fading from the sky prematurely, the storm clouds and mountains making it feel later than seven p.m.—except for when blasts of lightning illuminated everything with stark clarity, leaving me blinking blindly afterward.

The cabbie continued to curse the weather, and I continued to curse my inability to figure out what I would say.

“This is the canyon boulevard. I need the specific address now—and it better not be one of those ones down a dirt road, because I'm not doing muddy canyon roads in this weather. Cabs aren't four-wheel drive, you know. So is it?”

“I don't know,” I answered.

He groaned and cursed some more. “Gimme the address. Maybe I will.”

I recited the street number Maggie had given me; he pulled over with a screech of wet wheels on the pavement.

I hoped he was just pausing to put it into GPS, or maybe we'd gone too far and needed to make a U-turn, but it was neither of those things.

He put the car in park, unbuckled his seat belt, turned around, and stared at me. “Who are you?” he asked, then shook his head. “No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. You sure that's the
address? You didn't, like, mix up some numbers or get the street wrong?”

“That's the right address.”

“I can't take you there.” He was shaking his head and gripping the steering wheel—even tighter than when it started to rain. “Not without permission. I'll take you back to the airport. I won't even charge you extra.”

“No. I need to get there. It's important.”

“I …” He sighed. “You're putting me in a tough spot.”

“I'll pay you. Another hundred.” I saw him waver, his hand started to reach for the keys, and I pressed my case. “Look, I don't know your name, I don't know your license plate or cab number. The most information I could possibly give was that a male cabbie drove me, and the inside of the car was black.”

As I was speaking he was flipping over an identification card on his dashboard and canceling out the transaction on the meter. “An extra hundred and I'll take you to the turnoff to the street. It's probably another mile from there, dirt road, and it'll be slick in this weather. It's not gonna be a fun walk, and I'm not coming back to get you, understand?”