CASEY
We park a block away and walk to the motel. The place is musty, but it’ll do. Our room has one king-size bed and a sitting area with a couch.
Dylan immediately crosses the room and looks out the window to make sure there’s no one on the other side of the building.
When he turns back, it’s suddenly awkward. “I’ll sleep on the couch again,” he says, “but I don’t think I’ll be doing that much sleeping anyway.”
“You have to sleep,” I say. “After all that’s happened to you, you need to rest. You still have burns . . .”
“Trust me, more has happened to you. Your gunshot wound still isn’t healed. Your wrists. Your face is even still bruised.”
Laughter suddenly rises up in my throat, and I abandon myself to the mild hysteria. I drop onto the small couch as gales of giggles blow over me. It’s contagious, and he starts laughing too.
When I can finally find my voice, I whisper, “We’re such a pair. Gunshot wounds, burns . . . What couple could say those things?”
The laughter is sweet relief, stress cascading on uncontrollable giggles. Finally, mine subsides, and I listen to the way he laughs. I haven’t heard that before. I like the sound of it. His misty gaze tells me he likes mine too.
Wiping our eyes and calming our breathing, we turn on the TV to KTAL, where Macy Weatherow works. Some sitcom I’ve never seen before is playing. “Nothing yet,” Dylan says.
“What do you think is taking so long?”
“She’s confirming things,” he says. “Getting quotes from officials. I guarantee you Chief Gates knows it’s about to blow up by now.”
“What if he’s involved and he covers himself?” I ask him.
“I think we’ll be able to tell by his reaction,” he says. “If he demands an investigation, goes after Keegan and Phillips, suspends Keegan from the force, and contacts the AG, I think we can conclude that he’s clean.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“If he’s involved, he’ll defend the force and say that the stories are patently untrue and that they can’t listen to you because you’re a known killer.”
That makes me shiver.
“If he does that, it doesn’t mean no one’s going to believe you. You’re very persuasive, and your story is true. The press can verify a lot of it. Believe me, the rest of the press will go crazy with it. It’ll be a mushroom cloud.”
I try to imagine what the news cycle will look like tomorrow.
“Go to bed,” he whispers. “Tomorrow’s going to be a hard day. I want you to sleep.”
I nod and say, “I want that for you too.”
“There’ll be time for me to sleep later. Truth is, I’m not that great of a sleeper anyway.”
I look at him. “Dreams?”
“Yeah. The joys of my condition. I sleep with a patch that stimulates my brain waves or something. It helps. It’s part of a clinical study I signed up for.”
I grow somber and stare at the TV screen. “I think you were right about me having PTSD. I have bad dreams too. And sometimes in dangerous situations, I flash back to . . . other things.”
“We have a lot in common. But I feel like I’m getting better.”
“Maybe I’ll get better too, now that I understand what it is.”
“I have a great shrink I can recommend.”
I take my purse into the bathroom and dig for a toothbrush I keep there. I don’t have much else. I’m still wearing the same clothes I bought at the convenience store after escaping from Keegan. I haven’t had a moment to think about buying something new.
I take off my outer T-shirt and check my stitches. They’re puckering red. I probably need antibiotics. I wish I could have gotten back to my car and my emergency bag in Memphis.
I shower, put my clothes back on, and blow my hair dry, wishing I could get rid of the black and go back to my original blonde before I’m blasted all over the media.
When I finally come out, Dylan has the leg of his jeans pulled up, and he’s checking the burns on his calves. As if he doesn’t want me to see them, he mashes the tape back down.
He’s watching an Andy Griffith rerun now. “Still nothing?” I ask.
“No. I’m getting impatient.”
“What’s taking them so long?”
“Maybe they’re waiting till morning.”
I sigh. “What if they don’t run it? I’m starting to think maybe somebody got to them.”
“They will. Trust me.” He gets up, walks to the window, and peers out again. “Can you imagine what Keegan’s going through right now?”
“Somebody else is going to have to die,” I whisper. “He wants it to be us.”
“But this time he has no choice,” Dylan says. “He’s out of options. If I were him, I’d probably take off. Disappear. There’ll be a manhunt for him like there was for you.”
“Well, we know where his favorite haunts are.”
Dylan goes into the bathroom, then returns still fully clothed and sits on the couch as I get under the covers on the bed. He dozes first. His head is rolled back on the sofa, and I smile at the sound of his rhythmic, comforting breathing. I try to forget that my future depends on this night, and that our freedom may be taken from both of us tomorrow.
I drift off to the sound of his sleep, and the dreams I dream are of him and me folding laundry—and laughing like we did earlier tonight. I hang on to it as long as I can.