At the Edge of the Sun (Maggie Bennett 3)

Without a backward glance, Maggie put her hand in his and followed.

Holly didn’t say a word until they were clear of Cul de Sac’s ominous bulk, driving into the parched African dawn across the burnt-out grasslands. The tears had dried on Ian’s face, his green eyes were bleak, and his mouth was set in a tight line.

Their escape had been flawless, from the deserted corridors to the unlocked back gates to the keys left in the jeep. They drove off into the night in a silence that stretched between them like flypaper.

“Are you all right?” she said finally, her voice low.

He didn’t even look at her. “Fine,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“To the nearest city, the nearest airport. Probably somewhere in Egypt.”

“And when we get there?”

“I’ll put you on the first plane out of here.”

“What will happen to you?”

“God knows,” he said. “God knows.”

“Ian …”

“I loved him, you know,” he said. “I loved him like a brother. He

had so much charm, so much joy in him. I simply couldn’t believe he could do such things. I covered for him, all during our childhood. I made excuses for him in our teens. And I let him get away once, when we were in our early twenties. I knew he’d set the bomb that killed thirteen people in a Londonderry shop. I knew it, but I convinced myself he couldn’t have. I looked the other way while he ran for it.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

“But I did know. Deep in my heart I knew what he could do. When he dragged Maeve into it, brought her along with his wickedness and his killings, I couldn’t hide from it any longer.”

“It’s over now,” she said, hating the simplicity of her words but not knowing how else to comfort him.

“Is it? I expect it will haunt me the rest of my life.”

She leaned back against the uncomfortable seat. “Maybe,” she said. “But you’ll have me there to remind you it wasn’t your fault.”

He turned to look at her then, and some of the bleakness had left the green of his eyes. “I will?” His tone of voice wasn’t promising, but she charged on, regardless.

“And you might as well come straight to L.A. with me,” she added in her most prosaic voice. “I can’t very well buy my trousseau without you when you’re so damned picky about what I wear. And God knows, I’ll need new luggage.”

He stared at her, outrage and amazement vying for control. Then he laughed, a raw, painful sound in the morning stillness. “Anything but purple,” he said as his strong, rough hand caught hers, holding it tightly as they drove into the light.

“Do you know how to fly this thing?” Maggie slid into the copilot seat beside Randall.

“It’s been years,” he replied, his voice muffled. “I imagine it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

“I hope so,” she said, shoving her hair out of her face. “I’d hate to think we’d made it this far only to crash on the runway.”

Randall was ignoring her, flipping switches, checking dials, looking comfortably efficient. “Do you want to sit in the cabin? That way you don’t have to watch.”

“I’ll stay put. I’d rather face things than hide from them.” If her voice carried any extra meaning he chose to ignore it, concentrating instead on the instrumentation of the tiny twin-engine plane that was parked just beyond Cul de Sac’s compound.

They were airborne within minutes. Randall flew the damned plane flawlessly. Maggie sat there, watching him, admiration and frustration warring for control. If only he’d show some sign of weakness, some sign of vulnerability.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” His voice seemed to come from far away, and she roused herself with an effort.

“Ask you what?”