Page 113 of Sapphire Tears

The soldier sees some spark or hears some note in me that does the trick. He gulps, nods, and turns to carry out my orders.

Sara steps forward when he’s gone and clutches at my elbow. Her hands are weak and trembling in a way I’ve never seen before. “June, have you thought this through? You don’t even know where he went.”

“He’ll call me when he’s ready and then I’ll know.”

“So what happens now?” she asks. “You’re going to drive around until he calls?”

“No. First, I’m going to go see my father.”

Sara frowns. Behind her, Geneva freezes. “Dad?” she asks as she floats closer to me. “You’re going to Dad?”

“He’s a politician now, isn’t he? A wannabe one, at least. He’s got contacts. People who might be able to help.”

“That’s a long shot,” June,” Sara warns in a measured voice.

“Long shots are all we have left.”

Just then, the car pulls up in the drive. I turn and stride towards it. Both Sara and Geneva trail after me outside. “You’re not going alone,” Sara says firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

“Me, too,” asserts Geneva.

Sara grabs my arm and forces me to stop and look at the two of them. I see four bright spots of fire looking back at me. They mirror my own. My heart swells with—well, withsomething.

Love: of course.

Pride: maybe.

Determination: without a fucking doubt.

Sara crosses her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t a question,” she says, mimicking my words with the tiniest hint of a smirk at the corner of her lip. “Either we’re coming with you, or I’m strapping your ass to a bed until Kolya gets home. Your call.”

Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

48

JUNE

It feels good to be on the move. It feels good to do something.

My plan would have to be ten times better before I’d call it half-formed. I have no idea if Dad will even agree to help me. And even if he wants to, I’m not sure he’ll have the means to.

But I’m done sitting and waiting to be saved.

So yeah—motion is good, in whatever form I can get it. But as we pull out of the drive and embark down the highway in search of a Hail Mary, the fire I felt back at the house begins to dim. Geneva and Sara are silent in their seats, and the only sound is the hum of the road under our wheels.

Until a siren scythes through.

I check my rearview mirror. Red and blue lights revolve on the top of a police cruiser closing down on us from behind. I slow to a stop at the side of the road, but my pulse is pounding like a warning drum.

Something’s out of place.

“Should we go back?” Geneva asks.

“I don’t think we can,” answers Sara. “Not until we see what he wants.”

I roll it down and look at the approaching officer innocently. His eyes are obscured behind mirrored aviator lenses, his cheeks scabbed over with three or four days’ worth of beard. With the just-rising sun lighting him up from behind, he’s mostly silhouette.

But that’s not what’s bothering me. What’s bothering me is the scent of patchouli oil dancing in and out of my nostrils. It’s there and then it’s gone again, vaguely familiar like a word on the tip of your tongue.

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