Page 98 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Next, she passed him the last two bottles of their water. Their lack of food was also a concern. The few tins they’d had left were underwater in the kitchen somewhere. He was starving and suspected Jessica was, too. But he figured they would survive until they got to a town or managed to flag down help.
When everything was loaded, he helped her in. The little boat had a flat hull and rocked dangerously with them both standing in it. He had a moment of fear that he was going to wind up in wet clothes again, but she had excellent balance and quickly sat down on the bench seat to steady it.
He started the motor and used the tiller steer to guide the boat toward the road.
From her perch at the bow, she turned around to look at the house. Her eyes caught his, and she smiled.
He tried to smile back, but it got stuck somewhere behind his mouth. And it dawned on him how strange this situation was. Less than two days ago, he hadn’t known her from a can of paint. And now he was experiencing actual chest pains at the thought of losing her.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
He looked up to find her watching him. And he realized he was indeed raking at the hair on the back of his head. He stopped, resting his hand on his knee.
She gestured at the floodwaters surrounding them in every direction. “You ever see anything like this?”
He looked around. The water was the color of milky coffee and was so deep in parts that he could only see the tops of road signs and power poles. Trees sprouted from the water, stripped of all their leaves, like the masts of some lost armada.
He said, “My sister was living in Galveston during Harvey. I went to stay with her to help with the cleanup.” He shook his head at the memory. “It was a hell of a mess. Water so high you could fish off the porch.”
She gave him a long look. “I bet you can’t wait to get back home.”
He thought of his tidy brick and tile house, with its empty rooms and kitchen that never got used and plastic lawns that never needed mowing. Nestled in a homogenous subdivision on Memphis’ eastern edge, the house was so indistinguishable from its neighbors that he frequently drove right past it and parked at the wrong address.
It now seemed like the last place in the world he wanted to go back to. In fact, he’d rather stay in that falling-down house with the dead thing in the freezer because at least it would be with…
Her.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to figure out what the hell was going on inside his head. He wanted to…what? Run off into the sunset with her? A protected witness who he’d known for a grand total of thirty-six hours, and who had at least one psychopath on her tail?
Yeah, he’d made some fairly poor decisions in the past when it came to women, but doing a thing like that would take the cake.
He remembered the psychopath was still out there somewhere. Waiting out the tempest, planning his next move.
He knew guys like that. Better than most. He knew they didn’t stop until someone made them.
And he knew if the storm hadn’t killed him, Ryan would have to.
* * *
Roach woke up with a splutter as water trickled into his mouth from above and made him cough. It took him a full ten seconds to figure out where he was and why he was sopping wet.
He was lying flat on his back on the gas station countertop, staring at the ceiling, which had sprung dozens of leaks, including the one that had erupted right above his head. When he rolled over to escape it, he knocked the empty bottle of Dewars off the edge. But it didn’t shatter on the floor; it made a splash instead.
He scrambled into a sitting position. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The bottle was bobbing in about three feet of water, which spread out and filled the entire store. Small islands had formed of chip bags and confectionery packets and plastic sunglasses and everything else that had fallen from the shelves and was light enough to float.
The trooper’s SUV was sitting in water up to the top of its wheels. Beyond it and the shattered store window, the forecourt and the street were both flooded.
He scrubbed his hand down his face. Despite his wet wake-up call, his mouth felt dry and tacky, and his head ached. He really shouldn’t have polished off that bottle last night.
He grabbed Julia’s phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on. Opened the tracking app. Saw the little arrow that showed where her smartwatch was now.
Julia Mikkelsen was on the move.
THIRTY-TWO
Jessica massaged her temples,fighting a headache. She knew she should feel happy that this whole ordeal was nearly over—and she did—but she also felt other things. Complicated things she didn’t have the energy to unpack right now.
