Chapter 4
Avery found it painful to be taken care of, especially the way Vincent did it. Carrying her relieved the stress on her knee, but his arm pressed on her bruises, and kept the injured knee bent. Ugh. Bending the knee was why climbing the stairs hurt. So she was basically in hell, and couldn’t say anything, because the man was trying to do right by her. Was she stroking his ego by not complaining? Maybe assuaging his obvious guilt by allowing this act of gallantry? Hopefully. It might make him leave quicker.
When they reached the stairwell landing, and were face to face with her faux forsythia wreath hanging from her door, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. So far, she’d managed not to betray her pain—no grunts, no groans—decreasing the chances he’d hustle her to the emergency room.
Digging out her key from her purse, she wiggled. “You can put me down now.”
Vincent didn’t seem like he wanted to, but he did, steadying her as her legs bore her full weight. Blood smears now marred his arms and neck, reminding her that she was covered in the stuff. She quickly unlocked the door and hurried inside, giving the living room a once over. Millie hadn’t trashed it before leaving, so it looked much the same as it did when Avery left for her morning shift. Worn, used furniture, cheap mementos from their lives resting on a few surfaces. A mug from a restaurant here, a cheap vase with a wooden rose there. No pictures. Nothing to indicate who lived here. It was safe to allow a stranger…an FBI Special Agent into her home.
Vincent closed the door behind them, and then put his hands in his jean pockets, looking around, not hiding his interest. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years. Listen…” She bit her lip. “I really want a shower. Would you mind making your own coffee? It’s in the cupboard over the coffeepot.”
“Sure. You want a cup?”
“No, thank you. Hey, I appreciate the lift up the stairs.” She held his gaze, gave him a nod. “I do.”
“All part of the service.” He adopted a bright smile, teasing.
“Privacy isn’t part of that service?”
He pressed his lips together and averted his gaze. “Not when you could be in shock,” he said. “I’m not leaving your side until I know for sure. What if you slip and fall in the tub? Most accidents occur in the home—”
“I’m fine!”
“Maybe.” He lifted his brows, stepping into the galley kitchen. “You should have let the EMT decide that, but you didn’t, so I’m here.” He opened the cupboard above the coffeepot and pulled down a can of Folgers.
She frowned, folding her arms over her chest. “For how long? You moving in?”
“The time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.” He threw her an easy smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not a long-term kind of guy.”
She could believe it. “More of a love ‘em and leave him, huh?”
He chuckled, filling the coffeepot using the sink. “Take your shower, and then I’ll take you out for lunch. Deal?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s extortion, and I don’t like the idea of—” She shut up, not knowing how to say being naked in the shower with you in my living room unsettles me.
“Of what?” He pulled filters from the cupboard, and stuffed one into the machine’s coffee grounds funnel.
“Forget it.” She pressed her lips together, unwilling to go there.
He glanced at her. “What did I do now?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re like a dog with a bone? No means no. You get that, right?”
He leaned against the counter. “And when, exactly, did you say no to me?”
Point, set, match. He chuckled when she just stood there, eyes narrowed, then waved down the hall, the only other place to go in her apartment. “You do your thing.” Then he pushed the coffee machine’s button, and left the kitchen. He walked into the living room and sat on her worn, Goodwill-purchased couch. “Go. I don’t mind waiting.”
She glanced at her television directly across from him, the one Millie always complained about. “I told you. I don’t have cable.”
He lifted his iPhone. “I’ll check my mail.”
“No Wi-Fi.” She took a step back from him, having run out of excuses, but still not liking that he was in her apartment. “But then, you probably have plenty of data, being a Fed and all.”
“If not, I’m sure the restaurant will have Wi-Fi.” His smile widened.
Lunch. Hmm. “I am hungry. After lunch, though, I have things to do. It’s good-bye.” He nodded, but she didn’t believe him, and decided to devise a plan to ditch him before she headed back to the Greyhound bus station.
“The shower will make you feel better,” he said.
Vincent was doing a good job of acting as if he were a welcomed guest. It irritated the hell out of her, but it was the sympathy she saw on his face that convinced her she was probably making more of this than necessary. She and Vincent did experience something horrible together. They’d survived. Shared trauma was a powerful bond, and he’d already inferred that he was hiding from his peers’ sympathy.
“Fine.” She turned and hurried into her bedroom, gathering her clothes, and the stuff she’d take with her when she left on the bus. So, basically, her ticket, license, and debit card.
Changing her identity, hiding in a tiny town, keeping her head down, nothing she’d done over the last three years had protected her and Millie as she’d hoped. She should have known better. A person got to be one of two things in life, and one of them wasn’t a bystander. That left the role of player or victim, neither of which she had any interest in being, not that life ever cared what she’d wanted. Avery and Millie had been steeped in victimhood for so long their fingers were pruned from it, but her choices had kept them alive, so there was hope of a future not dictated by whether Dante Coppola wanted them dead.
Lifting her face to the shower’s spray, she dreamed of the day when she could feed off something other than hope, when scrubbing off the taint of violence wasn’t in vain. There were things she wanted in life, ambitions, for her and Millie. They weren’t big, like being an astronaut, or a rock star, or physicist, though if Millie wanted those things, Avery would do her best to position her to do so. No, Avery’s ambitions were more about walking to the store without having to look over her shoulder, or maybe have a job that allowed her to afford Disneyland. Millie would love to go there. She wanted little things like that, the things that people took for granted, the memories that people looked back on with fondness. For Avery and Millie, memories carried fear, and were the reason they needed to hide. There was no room for happiness to muscle into their lives, and until things changed, all they had was hope. So, hope would have to suffice.
She lingered in the shower mostly because the hot water did ease her aches and was helping with the swelling, though her jaw still clicked when she opened her mouth. Jim’s sucker punch was no joke. By tomorrow, she’d have a colorful bruise to show for it. The water stung as it washed over her abrasions, but it soothed the long ridge of bruising from when Jim slammed her against the counter. By the time she was soaped and rinsed, she’d logged all her injuries and decided she’d live. She was tired, though, and hungry. Real hungry.
The smells from the restaurant below made her mouth water. The bus ride would be long, so best to have a full belly when she embarked. Unfortunately, the food in her cupboards required cooking, so that meant eating out. No way was she going on the run and cooking. Vincent offered lunch, so she’d take him up on it, and then ditch him afterward.
Leaving the shower still feeling sore, but clean, she wrapped herself in a towel and then stepped into her adjoining bedroom. A wave of disorientation had her looking around. Everything seemed…wrong. Her bedspread was mussed, though Millie could have done that if she’d watched television in here. It would also explain why the nick knacks on her side table weren’t quite where Avery had left them.
None of it matters anymore. Millie was gone. Her days of messing with Avery’s stuff were over until they set up house somewhere else. What mattered was Millie was safe, and soon, Avery would be with her. Until then, she needed to focus on shaking Special Agent Vincent Modena, FBI.
She dressed in her black T-shirt, jeans, and Doc Martens, then pinned her wet hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. She found Vincent in the kitchen, drinking coffee, and balancing a bag of peas on his knuckles. His punching hand didn’t look much better than hers.
“Great idea,” she said. He lobbed the bag of peas to her, which she easily caught. “I’m sure there’s another one in the freezer.”
“Big pea eaters in this house?” Somehow, he’d found a way to use the existence of frozen peas in her house to ask if she was living with someone. Impressive.
“I’ve been known to like a pea or two.”
“Do you live alone?” Good to know. If subtly doesn’t work, the Fed came right out and asked. Eyelids lowered, he peered at her, pretending to be jealous, yet he was clearly making a joke out of it, and just as clearly wanted an answer. It was laughable. They barely knew each other, for one thing, and for another, it wasn’t his damn business. Yes, he was sexy as sin, and yes, in an alternate universe where Dante wasn’t desperate to kill her she’d jump Vincent’s bones and stay in bed for a weekend, living off love. But life wasn’t that simple. She owed Vincent nothing. Certainly, not the truth.
“My boyfriend won’t be home until later, if that’s what you’re asking. And yes, he’s jealous, and yes, he won’t like that you’re in my apartment, but I think I’ll be able to keep him from killing you if you keep your promise and walk away after lunch.” Nothing makes a man bail faster than being disqualified as a bed mate. Do you live alone? She wondered if he interrogated all new acquaintances this way. “You done with your coffee?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but rather went to the door and opened it. “You said you’d feed me, and no, I don’t consider a bag of frozen peas food.”
Vincent glanced at the bag she continued to clutch. “You taking that with you?”
“Why? Will it embarrass you to be seen with me holding it?” Not that she cared. Her knuckles had swollen so much her rings were pinching.
“No.” He walked to the door and motioned with a hand, indicating she step through first.
Avery didn’t move. Not until she took one last look around the apartment. She and Millie had made a life here. This was where they’d schemed and planned for the day when fear was behind them, and freedom was something they could take for granted. They’d survived here, hadn’t had much of a life, but it was theirs, cheap and shabby though it was…
She wouldn’t miss it.
Clutching the frozen peas, she walked out and used the banister to ease the weight off her bum knee. Though her descent wasn’t pretty, it was at least under her own steam, and lots less painful than being lifted. A glance behind her caught Vincent staring at her ass. An ass man. She felt relief, because that meant he wanted her, and his pursuit was about getting in her pants, not her head. Oddly enough, knowing that allowed her to enjoy his gaze. It felt like a caress, and sent arousing tingles throughout her body. The man had the naughtiest smile.
“You seem jumpy.” He kept pace with her down the stairs, looking lazy and patient. Happy, apparently, to while away his time checking out her ass.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, opened the front door, and turned off the stairwell lights. “You have that effect on a woman.”
Before stepping out onto the sidewalk, she scanned the street, automatically searching for familiar faces…faces that didn’t belong in North Conway. It was a habit she’d developed over the years, but now that her face was probably all over social media, it became more important than ever to remain vigilant. Dante’s men would find her here, the only question was, when?
She pressed the peas to her swollen knuckles, knowing it was past time to get out of Dodge. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and waited for Vincent to close the door behind them.
“Food.” She was dying of starvation. Vincent used his hand to indicate the bistro seating of the Chinese restaurant next door. Though pleased with his choice, because it would be quick, she worried it wouldn’t be quick enough. Her bus was leaving in a half an hour.
He pulled out a black cast iron chair from beneath a small, intricately designed cast iron table. “Sit. I ordered when you were in the shower. Hope you’re in the mood for General Ghau’s chicken.”
She was. The restaurant door opened as Avery sat and Vincent sat across from her. Wan Gamon, the daughter of the restaurant’s owner and Avery’s landlord, carried a takeout bag under her arm and clutched two glasses filled with iced water. She was smiling, petite, her dark hair in a low ponytail, and she wore a Boston Red Sox cap. “Hey, Patty.”
“Hey, Gamon. How you doing?”
Gamon placed the food and drinks on the table. “Heard about the ruckus at the diner. People are saying you won a knife fight with a killer?”
Avery laughed, and then rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but no. That didn’t happen.” She showed her cut up neck. “I was terrified. He held a knife to my throat. I didn’t win.” Gamon oohed and awed, looking at Avery’s neck.
“That’s horrible,” Gamon said. “It’s a miracle you lived.”
“It’s a miracle I got a day off for my trouble. You know James. He hasn’t even called me yet, but if it wasn’t a crime scene, you know he’d be on the phone, telling me I was still on the clock.” She smiled, ignoring the odd look Vincent threw her way. He wouldn’t understand why she’d downplay her role in the diner’s troubles. Winning a knife fight with a drugged-out killer would bring her attention. Her one play here was to create conflicting rumors, otherwise, it would be a red flag for her ex-husband. He’d send his goons here to check out the knife-fighting waitress.
Vincent handed Gamon a fifty. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you.” Gamon gave Avery a wink and a nudge, as if she approved of her date, and then disappeared back into the restaurant.
“You certainly impressed Gamon.” Avery threw him a smile, and then opened the bag. She was so hungry her stomach hurt. “Thanks for this. It was shopping day and I was down to canned foods.”
“But do I impress you?” He used his hands to indicate their surroundings. People walked by, ignoring them mostly, and cars passed at a slow crawl. “Only the finest venue.”
“Do you ever not dig for compliments?” She set aside her frozen peas, and pulled chopsticks from the bag, laughing.
He took her implied criticism in the vein it was given, as a gentle ribbing, then saw the chopsticks, and it was his turn to laugh. “Good luck with that.” He pulled two plastic forks from the bag, placing one before her. He was right. Her knuckles were too swollen to manipulate chopsticks.
After she’d devoured a few bites, and her stomach was no longer punishing her for neglect, Avery decided Vincent could satisfy her curiosity, if not her other, more neglected needs. “How come you’re not at the diner with the cops?” she said. “I’d think a Fed would be all over what happened back there, exchanging stories, writing up reports. Isn’t that what men like you get off on? Instead, you’re babysitting the waitress. Two murders, Vincent. This is a small town. They could use your help.” And she could use him gone.
“Sheriff took my statement.” He shrugged. “I’m on vacation, remember? Not in charge, thankfully. The paperwork on this morning’s shit show will take them all night to complete. I’d rather spend this time with you.”
She speared a medallion of chicken with her fork. “You smell like fish, and you’re wearing Jim’s blood. The feeling isn’t mutual.”
He finished chewing his lo mein, and then licked his lips before replying. “If you’d invited me to share your shower, I’d be prettier.”
“Any prettier and you’ll be impossible to be around.” She kept her smile prim when he barked out a laugh.
A carton in one hand, his fork in the other, Vincent’s smile still seemed genuine, but it had grown subdued. “It could have been a hundred times worse back there at the diner,” he said. “You know that. Right?” She nodded, thinking of Sam, and his grieving family.
“Could have been way worse.” She’d thought herself dead more than once with Jim. “We survived, though.”
“Thanks to you,” Vincent said.
She licked the sweet sauce off her lips. “And you. You were impressive back there. I saw how you took out that guy in three moves. The silent one. Not many people can do that.”
“Yeah? So, I’ve finally done something that impresses you.” He smiled, winking. Then he leaned back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him. Spearing his fork into the carton, he twirled it, his gazed fixed on her mouth. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop licking her lips. When his smile grew naughty, she suspected he was thinking of their kiss back at the diner, like she was, only she was the one blushing.
Avery filled her mouth with chicken, and told herself to stop screwing around. She was leaving this town, leaving him. Soon, he’d be someone she used to know. “You’re staring,” she said.
His smile grew. “Am I?”
“Yeah. You’ve been staring since we met.” She leaned toward him, took his carton of lo mein and ate some, before handing it back. Then she picked up the chicken carton again.
“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.” No, he wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t be sporting such a shit-eating grin. She was attracted to him. He knew it, and she hated that he knew it. An FBI agent, for heaven’s sake. She obviously had a death wish.
“I already told you I have a jealous boyfriend. What do you think you’ll get out of this?” She waved her fork between them, indicating them as a couple. She really wanted to know, because she wasn’t an idiot. She’d already declared sex off limits, and he was a player. There was no love at first sight going on. So, what the fuck?
He gave his head a little shake, and seemed a bit wistful, as if he too wanted the answer to that question. “Something about you, I guess. I don’t know if it’s that look in your eyes, or that you’re so damn sexy, or maybe it’s because there doesn’t seem to be anything you can’t do.” He smiled suddenly, lifting his brows. “Can you yodel? I’ve tried. It’s not so easy.”
She laughed. He was so good at flirting. No, she couldn’t yodel. In fact, her skill sets were extremely narrow. Even laundry seemed to elude her. If it wasn’t for bleach, she’d have all pink socks as red items inevitably found their way into her whites.
“Exactly what look do I have in my eyes?” she said.
Vincent’s smile faded, though he continued to stare. “Like you’re caged.” His words seemed to shock even him, and then he was the image of regret. “I’m sorry. That was unkind.”
That was the thing about honesty, she thought. It wasn’t always kind, but in this case, his words couldn’t have been truer. Her family was killed eight years ago. The price of justice had been high, and part of that price was waitressing in North Conway, New Hampshire. The alternative was Dante finding and killing her and Millie.
“Patty, I’m worried about you,” he said.
About her. Not any of the other customers in the diner this morning. Her. She was the only one he tracked down, followed home, waited until she’d showered, and then fed Chinese food. She believed him when he said he was worried. No one was that good of an actor. And she wasn’t receiving a danger vibe from him, but still his focus worried her nonetheless. Vincent was FBI. Just knowing him brought unwanted attention, and she was sitting with him, eating a meal with him, in full view of the town. It wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done.
“Well,” she glanced at her watch, “stop worrying. I’m not your responsibility.” She had twenty minutes before her bus left, so she tried to relax and enjoy this free food. The chicken was delicious, and it would probably be the last time she’d eat at this restaurant. This, she’d miss.
“Good food, huh?” he said. She nodded. “I bet there are other restaurants in this town that have good food, too. Maybe we could hang, spend the day together, go on a pub crawl tonight to let off some steam.” She shook her head. “Stay, Patty. Don’t leave.”
She frowned, chewing. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”
“The bus ticket. I know you’re going. Anyway, if you won’t stay for me, stay for the sheriff. He might have follow-up questions. The least you could do is make sure he knows how to reach you.”
“I gave him my phone number.”
He avoided her gaze, as if he were being shy. It was adorable. “Maybe I’ll want to reach you.”
She rattled off her phone number and he smiled, all puffed up and satisfied as he inputted it into his contact list. This concession meant little to Avery. She’d memorized all her important numbers, so she’d lose little when she destroyed her phone’s SIM and GPS cards on the bus. A new phone could always be purchased at a CVS or Walgreens.
Vincent dialed a number on his phone and seemed surprised when Avery’s rang.
“Trust issues?” She sipped some water, hiding her smile, ignoring that her phone suddenly went silent.
Vincent groaned, but with humor. “You have no idea.”
A van’s sliding door opened across the street. Three people in business suits hopped out, looking official. Could have been Dante’s men, but Avery’s brain tagged them as Feds, because if they’d been Dante’s, they’d be shooting already. When they walked toward her and Vincent, holding up their credentials, she looked away, praying they were here for Vincent, maybe looking for a debrief on the diner dustup. She put her fork down and prepared a pretty goodbye, hoping to leave Vincent to it and get on with his life.
He sipped his water and then wiped his hands on a napkin. He seemed curious to see their approach, but not concerned. “The jig up?” So, he did know them.
A tall, manly, black-haired and blue-eyed Fed stepped forward, still holding out his credentials, but aiming it at Avery. It read Special Agent John Benton, FBI. Serious as death, the man locked eyes with her. “Avery Toner Coppola, the jig is definitely up.”