Chapter Fourteen

Natasha

"Clancy, the man is a doctor. He clearly needs his phone. Just give me his damn address so I can return it to him."

"Well, I don't know." The old man's voice isn't as strong as it used to be. It probably doesn't help that I woke him up from his afternoon nap. "I should call him and ask him if it's okay."

"And how do you expect to do that when I have his phone?"

Shit. I guess Doc could have a landline. Or Clancy could realize that I'm lying. I have no idea where Doc's phone is. But this was the only excuse I could think of that Clancy would buy.

"Oh…" Clancy chuckles—more to himself than anything else. "I suppose you're right. Well, give me just one minute. I'll get you that address."

I blow out a breath and sink down onto the narrow bed. The hostel on the edge of downtown isn't much. But the closet-sized private room was only a hundred bucks, and they let me pay in cash.

Clancy rattles off the address. I write it on the little notepad next to the bed, then squeeze my eyes shut. How do I tell him I'm leaving? That I'm already gone? This job gave me a home. A life. My only friend. Shit. Gladys goes back to Blakely on Friday. If she gets anywhere near my house—Clancy's house—she could be putting herself in danger.

"Um, Clancy? There's one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. Once I drop Doc's phone off at the Post Office, I need a few days off. Can you have this week's renters pick up their keys from Milt at the General Store?"

"Well, I guess so. Is everything all right, Nat?"

The concern in his voice shouldn't affect me this much. But I'm exhausted. My hip is on fire, and the headache currently trying to split my skull in two laughed in the face of the four ibuprofen I took an hour ago.

"It's fine. Just some family shit—stuff—I need to take care of, and Gladys is visiting her grand-niece in Seattle this week. Otherwise, I'd ask her to help out. You know how much she loves to talk to the guests."

He chuckles. "That I do. I'll give Milt a call. You take care now, Nat. Let me know if you need anything."

"I will. I'll…talk to you soon. Thanks." I hang up and burst into tears. In a few days, I'll have to send him a text and tell him I'm never coming back. But until then, I can pretend I still have a home.

It's been eight hours since I left Doc in the hospital. Thirteen since I last saw my house. Thirty-two since I've slept. And in that time, I've been to Goodwill for clothes and a backpack, grabbed a burger and fries from one of the cheaper local chains, and found the hostel. I've got nothing left. Bleeding all over the damn place with a concussion hasn't helped, I'm sure.

I lock the door and limp out to the front desk. The bored clerk is all too happy to give me directions to the address in West Seattle. It's three buses and a half-mile walk to the residential neighborhood. There's no way I can make it without sleep. And the cover of darkness will let me surveil the place without arousing suspicion. I hope.

Back in my tiny room, I set the alarm on the old clock and remove my jeans. A small bit of blood stains the gauze over my hip. I peel the tape back an inch to peer at the wound. Shit. The skin is hot to the touch. Why didn't I get a first aid kit at the drugstore? I'll have to pick up some antibiotic cream on my way to Doc's. And more ibuprofen.

I should hoof it to the bus station and get on the first Greyhound out of here. I could be in Mexico by tomorrow night. The ten thousand dollars sewn into the lining of my duffel bag should last me long enough to disappear.

As I start to drift, I wonder why I'm still fighting. Why I even care if Bastian kills me. Because without Gladys—without Doc—what do I even have to live for?

Five hours of sleep wasn't enough. Not even close. I think I have a fever. My body aches. Then again, I got the shit beat out of me less than twenty-four hours ago. I pop a handful of ibuprofen and wash them down with half a bottle of water I bought on the way to the bus stop.

I have to know Doc will be okay. Parker was too much of an idiot to have found me on his own. Bastian must know he's dead by now. He'll send the others to Blakely. They'll talk to the couple who own the marina. Threaten them if need be. Find out that a sea plane disappeared overnight. It won't be hard for them to track down a name. Or an address.

The oversized sunglasses cover the deep purple bruise on my cheek and my black eye. A brand new baseball cap from the hospital gift shop hides my hair and the butterfly bandages on my forehead.

My hip screams at me with every step. I scored a pair of designer jeans at Goodwill for ten bucks, but the seam presses against the bullet wound. The very swollen bullet wound.

One hour, three buses, and a painful mile of walking later, I peer out of an alleyway between two houses. Doc's home is right across the street. The porch light is on, but all the windows are dark. He should still be in the hospital. But Bastian won't know that. Does he have men inside right now? Waiting?

I sink down behind a cluster of trash cans and watch. One hour. Two. My ass is numb, and though it's summer, the heat wave broke, and the temperature starts to drop rapidly.

Shivering, with a headache that leaves me nauseous, I brace my hand on one of the big, black bins and pull myself to my feet. I can't stay out here all night. For all I know, Doc has an expensive security system. This is a ritzy neighborhood and he's clearly not hurting for money. Not with a house right on the water. But infil was always my specialty. Exfil…not so much.

When the pins and needles fade away, I sweep my gaze up and down the street. All clear. I don't rush. Don't try to hide. I look like I belong here. Or, I hope I do. Until I reach the sidewalk and catch sight of his doorbell camera.

Pivoting quickly, I pass one neighbor's house, then another. The third house is undergoing renovations. Major ones. Perfect. Even if there is a camera, the likelihood anyone's paying attention to it is low. I scramble over their fence and land in a crouch in their backyard. Something in my hip pops. Fuck. Was that a stitch? Two?

The water laps at a short retaining wall at the edge of the property. I take off the new-to-me sneakers, tie the laces together, and drape them around my neck. The water soaks the denim up to my knees, but cutting through backyards is too risky. This…I'm far enough away from the houses no cameras should catch me.

The back of Doc's place doesn't sport a camera—at least not one I can see. My teeth are chattering when I haul myself up onto his deck. I squeeze the water from my jeans, shove my feet back into my sneakers, and peer through the floor-to-ceiling windows into his living room.

Still dark. No telltale blinking red lights, though expensive systems are usually completely silent.

I shine a flashlight around the patio door. There. A small, rectangular box sits at the top of the frame. From the outside, there's no way to get around it. Unless I can overload the circuit.

There's an outlet only a few feet from the door. Spreading my tool kit out in front of me, I make quick work of the switch plate and the screws holding the frame in place.

This is dangerous as fuck with my jeans still wet, but what choice do I have?

You could walk away. Right now.

No. Doc saved my life. I owe it to him to safeguard his. At least until I can explain.

He looked so pale in that hospital bed. I couldn't even stay long enough to look him in the eyes. But Graham was on the phone with West. Distracted. It was my only chance.

So I kissed him. Pressed the piece of sea glass into his palm. And disconnected the lead over his heart. Did he know what I was doing?

Even if he didn't then, he does now.

I cross the wires in front of me. Sparks dance over the deck. But it's not enough. They're still hot. I can feel the electricity buzzing through the shielding. On my second try, there's a loud pop. I took too much of a shock, and for a few moments, I'm frozen, praying my heart stops racing.

When it does, I seal everything back up again, then move to the glass door. My lock picking skills have languished the past few years, but five minutes later, I'm in.

I drop my bag next to a leather couch and fish out my Glock to clear the house. His scent fills the large bedroom. I almost whimper when I see the ensuite bath with a jacuzzi tub. My body is on fire, but I'm wracked with chills at the same time. The idea of a bath…

Focus.

Tall bookshelves line the walls in his office. A second bathroom, several closets, and a third room with nothing but a dozen boxes, a ladder, and three cans of paint are all clear. So is the garage.

I find the fuse box and reset the breaker. No one came for him. At least…not yet.

But that could change any minute. I'll stay until dawn. Make sure no one breaches his home under cover of darkness. And then I'll run.

Until then, I can explore. The living space is simple. Almost sparse. A large TV over a brick fireplace faces a dark leather couch. I kick off my shoes and sink my toes into the thick area rug over the hardwood floor.

On the mantle, Doc has a small collection of photos in silver frames. Three are obviously from his days as a PJ. God, he was so young then. Black hair. No beard. He was almost thin. Wiry. With a smile that lit up his entire being.

In the last one, he has his arm around a woman with blond hair. They look happy, but there's a hint of sadness in her eyes. I pick up the frame, and a small card flutters to the floor.

In Loving Memory

Tessa Cole

From the dates on the card, she died a little over six years ago. Fuck. She was only thirty-four.

"I don't do relationships."

Is this why? Because of her? Was he in love with Tessa? God, why did I ignore him for a year? I could have known this man. Now, I never will.

Running a hand through my hair, I wince as I catch one of the bandages. The chills haven't let up since I came inside, and I'm starting to worry I'm in real trouble here. Physically.

I down another four ibuprofen and head for his office. On his desk, I find a pad of paper and a fountain pen. I'll never know more about him than I do right now. But maybe, I can give him a small bit of me before I go.

Dear Doc,

I'm sorry. For so many things. You almost died because of me. Because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or…the right one. You came to my rescue, despite the danger.

I wish I could tell you everything. But if I did, you'd try to help. Don't deny it. We may not have spent much time together, but I still know what kind of man you are.

A good one.

The night we kissed, I wanted more. Did you ever wonder why I spooked? I wanted to tell you, but I was too scared.

You said I felt like home. One word, and I knew we had to stop. But it wasn't because I felt like home to you. It was because you felt like home to me.

I panicked and took the coward's way out. Then I made it worse by having Gladys greet you every time you came to the island. I thought if I did that, I wouldn't fall for you. I wouldn't want what I couldn't have.

But my plan backfired in the worst way. Because Gladys told me everything. How you always remembered her aches and pains. How you cleaned the gutters for her one week. Changed her smoke detector batteries another. How you started to smile after a few months. How much you liked her chocolate chip cookies.

I fell for you through her stories.

You're in danger now. Because of me. Parker has friends. It won't be hard for them to figure out who owns the sea plane that left Blakely in the middle of the night. Or track down your address.

They're not stupid. You'll be fine during the day. But as soon as you see this letter, I need you to call those "not friends" of yours and tell them you need protection.

I'm leaving town in the morning. Right after I call Gladys and tell her to stay with Bella for a while. I have a few things to do—affairs to put in order—and then I'll let them find me. In a week, I'll be gone, and they'll have no reason to come after you again. You'll be safe.

I wish we'd had more time. I wish I could have told you all of this in person. But I'm afraid if I tried, I wouldn't be able to walk away.

Yours,

Natasha

My tears soak the fancy leather blotter. When did I start crying? I can't tear the paper from the pad. My hands shake too much. I'm starting to get dizzy. Stress, exhaustion, and my injuries are all threatening to pull me under.

I can sleep for a few hours. Then I'll be steady. Then…I'll be able to walk away.

Stretching out on the couch, I cover myself in a blanket from the foot of Doc's bed. It smells like him. Woodsy. Fresh. Like…home.

My tears have stopped. But now, the regrets are a thousand tiny daggers piercing my heart.

"I'm sorry, Doc. For everything."