“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.
Chapter 39
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?”
“I understand.” Eavesdropping had taught me there were similar restrictions on the Landlow Estate. Cabbies were paid well to have no knowledge of my address or those of the clinics. These were accessible only via private cars—ones the Family arranged. Last time I’d checked, the estate’s address produced a 404 error on direction websites and appeared as an empty field on map apps. “Thank you.”
He tried to talk me out of it for the rest of the drive and didn’t even pull over when we arrived, just paused on the highway and pointed to a dark cross street down a slope. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me too.”
I shut the door, and he was gone. His headlights disappeared, making me aware of how much darker things felt without their glow—how much colder the air was now that the sun was beyond the mountains and with the rain seeping through my clothing.
And how very, very alone I was.
Chapter 40
I skidded and slid down the steep canyon road. Mud clung to the bottom of my jeans and water soaked into the fabric, making them stiff and heavy. My bangs were pasted to my forehead, getting in my eyes, making poor visibility worse. I lost count of my falls. The rain increased, from drizzle to downpour, steady and soaking. And this time there wasn’t a government security agent lurking to sell me an umbrella.
The walk was hellish in ways that made me think Dante was right—hell was a place of cold and shivering instead of burning hot. I held my breath each time I placed a foot. The rain was too loud to hear anything but thunder, but I imagined wild animals, mudslides, trigger-happy security guards. Did I need to worry about flash floods? Those happened in canyons, right?
I didn’t notice the wall at first because the stucco blended in with the scrub brush and the rain was confining my visibility to barely beyond my feet. But there was a wall. Tall, topped with elaborate iron points that looked both fanciful and sharp. It gave me something to follow, and if I stretched my arm to its limit, I could keep my fingertips on its surface while keeping my feet on the edge of the road.
There was no reaction as I approached the gate. I’d expected lights to flick on, or a guard to step out.
The Zhus couldn’t be this lax. Father never would’ve allowed someone to come right up to his gate, stick a sandaled foot on the crest where the two halves met, and haul herself up.
But then again, Father had been guarded and murdered by someone he considered a friend.
The thought made me slip. I hit the mud with bone-jarring intensity and wanted to stay there. Quit. Shut my eyes and give up. Instead I thought of all the impossible adrenaline stories I’d heard: mothers pulling cars off trapped children, people surviving a week in earthquake rubble or lost in the wilderness.
All I needed to do was climb a fence.
I tried again. My hands were wet, the skin wrinkled and soft. They slid across the metal at the top of the gates, snagging on imperfections in the paint and welding, splitting with small cuts that bled and tinged the rain on my hands the color of weak tea. I hooked one arm under the top bar and one arm over, pushed up on the tip of my toes and swung one foot up—stretching until its arch just barely cleared the top of the gate. I was grateful to be wearing long pants, for the slight protection jeans provided against the press of metal down the inside of my leg.
Except the crest was only affixed to one side of the gate—it was just the difference of the width of the bars, but that was significant enough. My foot couldn’t catch on it as I slid down the opposite side. And I’d over compensated for the balance shift, underprepared for momentum and the slipperiness of metal. Been startled by a blast of lightning.
It was less of a slide, more of a fall. My body clanged against the gate; the motion dislodged my hands so I fell heavily to the ground.
I lay wheezing on the cold. Wet pebbles that made up the driveway. Damning the Zhu security and starting to agonize—not only that I wouldn’t physically be able to deliver the message, but that I was already too late.
The hail started as I lay there. Pinpricks of cold on my face, neck. I rolled over and pressed up onto hands and knees. I crawled a foot or two before managing to get up on my feet. Realizing much too late my purse had slipped off my shoulder as I’d fallen and landed on the far side of the gate. Carter doll, my letters, my notebook—all out of reach. And once the leather of my bag was saturated, the paper wouldn’t last long. I’d lose all the memories written on those pages—and what if I couldn’t remember them again?
I wanted to stay there, lean my face against the gate, and cry.
My nose began to bleed again; another liquid hurt in a world of wet pain. At least the blood was warm as it ran down my chin; the rest of me was so, so cold. So cold that when I finally reached the sanctuary of the porch, my fingers wouldn’t clench into a fist so I could knock on the dark wood door of the Spanish mission–style mansion.
But this wasn’t necessary because simultaneously the rain stopped and Mr. Zhu’s security finally noticed me.
Chapter 41
My arm and a shoulder. This is what the man chose to grab. But he grabbed them from behind, so all I could see was his mammoth shadow, twisting and storming along the walls of the porch.
I cried out in pain, called, “Wait, please. I need to see Mr. Zhu,” but he didn’t talk or loosen his fingertips. He was dragging me backward.
“You don’t understand. I need to talk to him!” I kicked at the door, the windows, trying to make as much noise as possible. “Mr. Zhu! ZHU!”
The guard picked me up, my legs flailing against empty air, making brief contact with the door, and then I was back off the porch.
The front door opened. “What is this?” asked a man in a beige bathrobe. He’d clearly been preparing for bed. The wire frames of his glasses were balanced perfectly on his nose, the sash on his robe was belted in a straight line, cinching in his impressive girth.
“Sir, Mr. Zhu, I have to talk to you. You’re in danger.”
“The only danger I’m in is having my sleep interrupted by teenage intruders. Find out what she’s doing here, then get rid of her.”
The grip on my arm tightened. Bruises layered over bruises over bruises.
“Please,” I protested. To the man attached to th
e meaty grip I said, “You’re hurting me.”
“Let go of her!” At first it was just his voice. Then footsteps too, flying down a set of stairs I couldn’t see. And then he was there. Coming through the door. On the porch. He still stole my breath. He still made my lips twitch into a smile, even though this time both reactions were accompanied by a twist in my stomach and a clenching of my heart.
The grip on my arm loosened slightly as the man waited for direction.
“You know this girl?” asked Mr. Zhu.
“Yes. I think so. Her voice—” Char blinked at me from behind glasses I’d never seen before, and I realized that drenched, mud-splattered, and half-drowned, I barely looked like the smiling girl he’d kissed good-bye in New York. “Bring her in here.”
Mr. Zhu nodded his consent, stepping back inside. The guard didn’t put me down, which was for the best, since I wasn’t sure I could stand on my own. Char stayed at the door, so close I could have leaned over to kiss him as I was carried past.
I didn’t.
He didn’t lean down either. After shutting the door behind us, he went to stand at the bottom of a lavish staircase that curved down a stucco wall set with pointed windows. I dripped onto an oriental rug, catching my first glimpse of the man behind me in the mirror across the foyer. I looked like a doll in his grip. Or a puppet. Someone he could make dance in pain. He caught me watching him, caught my fearful expression, and grinned. He was the Zhus’ version of Al Ward. I shivered.
Mr. Zhu cleared his throat and steepled his fingers beneath his many chins. “Ming, explain yourself. How exactly do you know this girl, and what is she doing on our property?”
“From New York.” Char removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, put them back on and blinked as if he didn’t trust his vision. I was drinking in the sight of him: worn T-shirt, low-slung, gray-and-black-pinstriped pajama pants, bare feet, those glasses. Healthy. Safe.
He curled his fingers around the post of the ornate banister. I hoped it was to prevent himself from coming to me. I hoped he still wanted to.
Hold Me Like a Breath Page 25
