Under the Stars

My brow furrows, and I sit down on the couch. Jillian snuggles against my chest, and I smooth my hand over her little back as I recall the list of names. “If Guy is dead, Esterhaus should have been the last one.”

“He should have been.”

“I don’t understand.”

When Roland’s eyes mine, they’re serious. “They’re going after Gavin.”

I’m on my feet before he’s even finished speaking. “We have to go after them. Now.”

Holding Jillian in one hand, I dig for my phone with the other. She starts to fuss, and Roland stands to take her from me.

“How long ago did they leave? Where are they?”

“Seattle. They left this morning. She texted me her hotel and the room number in case I needed to reach her.”

His words hurt more than all the kicks to the stomach I took that night so long ago when I tried to save her. “She won’t reply to any of my calls or texts.”

Roland’s chin drops. “She blocked your number.”

Shit, I take it back. That hurts more.

Clearing my throat, I continue typing on my phone. “I’m getting two plane tickets from New Orleans to Seattle. Grab your things. You’re coming with me.”

“I have to work. Besides, Lara would kill me if I brought Jillian out there.”

“And I’m not leaving the two of you here like sitting ducks.” Our eyes clash and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Instead, he exhales and starts down the hall.

“I didn’t want her going alone in the first place.”

“I’m calling a Lyft. We leave in ten minutes.”

4

Never water yourself down because someone can’t handle you at 100 proof.

Lara

Capitol Hill reminds me of uptown New Orleans at night.

Molly walks beside me on Pine Street, dressed in opaque black tights and a bright, royal-blue mini-dress. Her long hair, normally bleached white these days, is dyed silver, and she’s wearing a black cardigan zipped closed.

By contrast, I’m in dark jeans, a black tee, and a modified khaki trench coat. True to its reputation, Seattle started out sunny and warm when we arrived this morning at noon. Now it’s chilly and drizzling.

“He’ll recognize me right away,” I say under my breath as we approach the bar on Thomas Street.

“I told you to cut your hair. Or at least change the color.” She’s impatient. She’s always impatient now, and it’s gotten worse since Jilly was born.

“I want him to recognize me.” I want him to know it’s me confronting him.

We weave through the young people dressed in ripped tights or bold, black and white striped blazers. A fellow in a maroon jacket with black lapels coasts up beside Molly.

“You’re new around here,” he says, and I press my lips together, waiting for the backlash.

Molly stops walking at once and turns to him. “What makes you say that?”

The fellow grins, and his eyes roam up and down her slender frame. I give him credit—he only hesitates a moment on her full bosom.

“I know all the beautiful girls in Cap Hill,” he continues. “I’ve never seen you before.”