On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Two - "Jellybeans And Macarons"

And sure enough, her eyes were filling up.

I nodded and wiped my face, feeling the pain recede.

“Can we go?” I asked.

She nodded and stood up, pulling me along after her. We stepped out of the interrogation room, and I felt like a whole day had passed. I kept feeling like he was somewhere here lurking, but as Sarah took my hand and led me towards the exit, she gave me a firm, encouraging look and said, “You and me. Nobody else.”

I woke up hours later, tucked beneath my covers. All I could see was darkness, and I could have heard a pin drop in the apartment below. My TV was turned on, mute, and the wind was blowing the voile curtains on my balcony into the room. I was still dressed in my day clothes, and for a second, I had to strain my mind to remember what had happened over the past couple of hours.

I did, much to my chagrin.

The rumbling of my stomach brought the silence to an end. I slid out of my bed and out into the hall; everywhere seemed to be in complete darkness.

I tiptoed across the hall to Sarah’s open door. Her room was empty, and as it was whenever she wasn’t in it, her bed was tucked in and made perfectly without a single wrinkle.

Honestly, I sometimes felt like a pig around her.

I walked out into the living room, which was also empty and dark. The only light I could see was coming from the terrace lamps. I walked over to the billowing curtains and onto the terrace, where Sarah was lying back in one of the chairs, a half-empty bottle of bourbon next to her and a full glass in her hand.

“Hi,” she said, sitting up as I walked over. She put the glass on the ground and tried to tuck the bottle away as quickly as she could. I smiled.

“Hey.” I sat on the chair next to hers, leaning back. The sun was setting and the lights were popping on here and there.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “Are you?”

“Me?” She raised a brow.

I bit my lip, “That bottle was full this morning. And you have your gun next to you.”

She put the bottle on the table and slid her gun further away, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I murmured.

“No, it’s not,” she murmured, as she looked away.

“It’s just a gun,” I murmured, knowing full well that we were not talking about that.

“I’m not talking about—”

I cut in, “I know.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No,” I lied.

She looked at me and gave me a sad smile, “Yeah, you are. I can hear your stomach.”

I stared down at the ground, embarrassed, “I’m fine.”

“I ordered pizza. Pepperoni,” she said.

I gave her a half-smile, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you mad?” I asked slowly, treading carefully.

“What? At you?” she asked, her eyes widening, as she sat up straighter, “Did I do something?”

I shook my head, “I was just asking. It’s not . . . I’m sorry about . . . you weren’t meant to hear any of that,” I muttered.