Change of Climate

Untitled Part 9

London had to be convinced to go back to Quinlan's house.

"The police will be there," Quinlan said, confidently. "The alarm is connected to the police."

"I don't know if the police are safer," London said, reluctantly, as Quinlan took her hand in order to pull her back to the house.

"They're safer than us in our pajamas lurking around campus," Quinlan pointed out, patiently.

"These aren't my pajamas," replied London. "These are the only clothes I have. In case you haven't noticed."

"I've noticed," said Quinlan, "they're looking worse for wear."

"Quin," said London, and then, "God, I have so many other thing to be worrying about than to be offended that you think I look a mess."

"I said your clothes look a mess," said Quinlan. "Let's go back and see what the police have to say about the whole thing."

The conversation had distracted London enough that she was now following behind Quinlan, keeping up with his pace, although misery was pouring off of her in waves. "It's not safe," she said. "None of this is safe. I should just go, Quin. I should go and—"

"Go where?"

"I don't know! Somewhere else! Anywhere that I'm not going to get the few friends I have involved in this mess."

"That's what friends are for," Quinlan said.

"We haven't spoken to each other in seven years," said London.

"Lucky for you I have a very expansive definition of the word 'friend.'" Quinlan tossed a grin over his shoulder at her.

London frowned a bit. "This is so above and beyond, Quinlan. I just broke your window."

Quinlan was saved from responding by the fact that they rounded the corner to his street and were confronted with a crowd of cops, lights flashing brightly enough that the street was almost bathed in daylight. The neighbors were out and milling around, and one of them recognized Quinlan and said, "There you are! The cops were looking for you! Someone broke into your house!"

Quinlan said something noncommittal that London didn't catch and kept them moving through the crowd, toward the cops, one of whom went to hold him back, except that he said, "I'm Quinlan Meade, this is my house," and then they let him through.

The house had been mildly ransacked but London thought it clear that the invaders' primary purpose had been to get to them, that they had abandoned the house to chase after them. Cops were gathered around the window London had smashed, but she could hear them explaining to Quinlan that they had come in through the garage on the side of the house and had apparently broken the window to escape. Quinlan said, "Really?" and didn't correct them.

Quinlan's phone on the couch was vibrating. London realized it at the same time one of the cops did. He held it up and called over to Quinlan, who was standing in the kitchen, "Is this your phone? Your mom is calling. Probably worried sick."

"Yeah," said Quinlan, who came over and answered the phone. London listened to him assure his clearly freaking out mother than he was absolutely fine and so was London and they didn't know what had happened.

London stared at him, and waited until he was done, with declaration of love, and said, "Did you tell your mom I'm here?"

Quinlan looked awkward. "Well. Yeah."

London gnawed on her bottom lip. One of the cops got Quinlan's attention, was asking him for signatures and stuff, and London thought and thought and thought. The problem was it was the middle of the night. The buses wouldn't be running, she wouldn't get far, she'd be stranded in the bus station for hours, a sitting duck. But she had to get out of here. She had to move.

The cops said something about Quinlan getting a hotel room, about it not being safe until the window was replaced, especially not with the hurricane moving up the coast and the projections expected to send it right over New England, and Quinlan disappeared into his bedroom to pack a bag.

One of the cops said, "And who are you?"

"Just a friend," London said, wishing she could go back to being ignored.

"Are you staying in the house here?"

"Just for a bit. I just happened to be passing through."

"What's your name again?" the cop asked, pen poised over the piece of paper.

"Jennifer," said London. "Jennifer Maxwell." It was the first name that came to her head.

She watched the cop wrote it down. "And where are you visiting from?" he asked.

"Boston," she said, readily. "I go to school there." Seemed like a likely lie.

"Where?" asked the cop.

London didn't want to answer. Surely the lie would get worse the longer she had to tell it. But she said, "Emerson," which was the first school she thought of, and prayed that this cop's kid didn't go to Emerson.

Quinlan said, "Hey, can we finish this statement stuff tomorrow?" and London was grateful he was there to interrupt. "Let's just go to the hotel and try to get some sleep."

London nodded. "Good idea."

The cop looked between them, and London wondered if she was imagining how suspicious he looked. But he just said, "Okay. Stop by tomorrow morning," and handed them both a card.

Quinlan gave a bright, white smile and said, "Sure thing, officer."

Then Quinlan walked her to his car, which was in the garage, surrounded by police. They left them buzzing all over the crime scene of a house, and Quinlan backed out carefully and drove to the end of the street and took a left.

Then he said, "Okay, London. Your call."

"My call?" London echoed.

"Where should we go?"

"You should go to the hotel. I'll catch a bus out of here in the morning."

"No way." Quinlan shook his head. "You've got people trying to kill you. I believe you now. So we need to figure this out, and until we do, you and I are stuck in this together."

"I don't want you to—"

"London, they broke into my house. I'm involved now, I might as well see this is true. So I packed us as much money as I had in the house and as much of my clothes as I thought might roughly fit you. So. Where to?"

London thought. Then she said, "South."