Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,92
conscience? How could it? Tabitha didn’t know, and she couldn’t afford to care. She didn’t have a lot of options at this point.
It was John Colt or the feds. Or strike out on her own again, and given what she knew now, the last two options were definitely out.
“And you’re comfortable with this arrangement, this third-party payment?” she asked. “Because I don’t know if Bailey told you but I’m practically broke. I have, like, three hundred dollars to my name.”
“I know.”
She took a deep breath. “I guess we have a deal then.”
“Good.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “First things first. You listening?”
She nodded.
“No more coffee.”
She blinked at him. She’d expected something serious, like she was going to have to shave her head. Or move to Mexico.
She smiled, but he didn’t look amused.
“Are you joking?”
“No.”
“What does—”
“Caffeine messes with your sleep,” he said. “If you can’t sleep, you can’t think. You can’t think, you make careless mistakes. You make careless mistakes, you die.”
She bit her lip.
He was right. She’d been bumbling around all week, out of her mind with stress, dropping things, bumping into things.
Stumbling in front of cars.
Staggering in front of that car had landed her in the hospital, which had somehow led to her identity being discovered, and soon there had been people coming out of the woodwork looking for her.
She didn’t know if it was the hospital, or the faceprints Bailey Rhoads kept talking about, or a corrupt federal agent that had blown her cover. Bailey said that the hospital might have fingerprinted her and retrieved her ID through an old DMV record. Evidently, hospitals were using biometric technology now, too.
However it had happened, Tabitha’s luck had run out. Permanently. McKinney’s hit man was still out there, and even if they arrested him, there would be a line of others willing to take his place. She had to be vigilant going forward, zero mistakes.
“All right,” she told Colt, setting the coffee on the nightstand beside his pistol.
“You ever used a handgun?” he asked.
“No.”
“I can teach you.”
“Okay.” The idea would have once been repugnant to her. She was an accountant, for heaven’s sake. The tools of her trade were spreadsheets and Post-it notes. But a gun sounded tempting. Up to now, she’d only had a tube of pepper spray, and that was back at the hospital with her tattered underwear and the cash they’d confiscated. Learning to use a gun would be good for her.
“What else?” she asked.
“There’s a lot.”
“I figured that, but—” She sighed. She didn’t know what this man could do for her that she hadn’t already tried to do for herself. She’d abandoned her life, her name, her city. She’d changed her appearance and moved around and stayed completely offline for more than twenty-two months. And still she hadn’t managed to remain off the grid.
She was at the end of her rope. Tears burned her eyes.
“But what?” he asked.
“I don’t see how this is going to work. I thought of everything. I mean, everything. And I thought I was doing okay, and then the whole bottom fell out of it all. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I can’t change my face. There’s no way I can run forever.”
He just looked at her.
“Do you think that’s how they found me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. Tears spilled over again at the futility of it all.
“Sorry.” She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m just . . . rattled.”
“I understand. There’s a lot to think about. We’ve got a lot to cover.” He looked at his watch. “And I’d prefer to do it from another location because this one’s blown.”
“How is it ‘blown’?”
“Bailey’s next door with a cop. She trusts him. You don’t.”
“Do you trust him?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know him. But if he reaches out to the FBI or the Marshals, you’ve got a problem. So we need to move.” He nodded at her backpack perched on the table by the door. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
The word popped out without her thinking about it. She was ready. She’d done everything she could by herself, and John Colt was her last good option. Her only option.
She stood up. He stood, too.
“Can I have my gun back?”
She appreciated that he’d asked. She picked up the black pistol. It was heavier than it looked. The grip felt good in her hand, and she pointed the tip at the floor as she handed it over.
He tucked it back into his boot without comment and stood