Page 21 of The Plunge

Chapter 10

Keane

I must be insane to bring her here. It's a dangerously rash decision that could destroy everything.

But it's too late now.

I gave her two options for our drive up here: either she stays blindfolded the entire way, or I'll have to drug her. She chose the blindfold, sitting stiff and quiet next to me as I drove us out here, questioning every single one my choices in regard to Libby.

I was so close. So close to getting out of the Covey.

And then she happened.

If only I hadn't seen her that evening, almost losing my professionalism after laying eyes on her for just a few moments.

If only she hadn't been in my partner's shot. I think it was Brad who was in charge of her aunt, and his bullet pierced her shoulder before I added the graze shot at her hips.

If her uncle wouldn't have used her as a human shield, dragging her with him toward the elevator and then throwing her right into my arms, just as I was about to take that one final shot that would have set me free.

If all that hadn't happened, I'd be a free man now.

I'd still be here—at this place, this house—but I would be by myself, worrying about nothing other than getting through security at the airport with my new identity.

I've paid for this place under my new name, making sure it was in no way linked to my real name and my former life at the Covey. It's nothing special, just a cottage located four hours out the city in a different state and a different environment. A small but well-kept house, unobtrusive with picket fences around the groomed garden and curtains in the windows. We changed vehicles twice on our drive here, ending up with a subcompact that matches the house and the area, locally registered, looking as if it's been here for years.

The house is situated on a little hill with no other homes in a five-mile radius, quaint and peaceful.

And safe.

A picturesque sunset greeted us when I stopped the car in the driveway, allowing Libby to finally remove the blindfold. She's still weak and pale, and barely able to stand on her own after I help her out of the car. I offer my hand for support, which she takes after a moment of consideration. She stops in her tracks when she sees the sun setting above the valley, dipping the land in a warm orange tone that changes the color of everything from the sky to the leaves on the trees and the white walls of the cottage.

Her gaze is glued to the warmth at the horizon, and a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. The first smile I've seen on her since she asked for that drink a perceived lifetime ago.

But the moment doesn't last long. Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile is gone again, replaced by the same frightened worry that has been present in her expression ever since I took her.

"Is this it?" she asks, catching me off guard with her question.

She turns to look at me, sadness marking her pretty face. "Is this where I'm going to die?"

My chest tightens at her question, and before I find the words to respond, she adds, "Did you want to give me one more moment of peace before you put a bullet through my head?"

Her expression tightens and reproach laces every word, masking the fact she must be terrified at the thought.

I shake my head. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it long ago."

I want that to be the truth. It's so refreshing to voice something other than a lie that only serves to protect myself—and her. But that phrase makes it sound like I can be certain of the future.

Like I know I won't kill her. Ever.

And here's the scary thing: I'm still not sure of that.

She doesn't need to know that, though.

"So what then?" she asks, sounding impatient. "Are you kidnapping me after all? I told you there's—"

"No, I'm not kidnapping you," I cut her off.

"Then I'm free to go?"

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