Dead Ringer

18

Without a second thought, I closed my fist around the key and bolted out the front door, staring over my shoulder at the house. I kept my eyes glued to the windows on the top floor, but nothing moved. Still, I couldn't shake the goosebumps that rose on the back of my neck. I felt someone's eyes on me as I fumbled with the key and finally unlocked the car.

I peeled out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, driving ten over the residential speed limit until I reached the first intersection and realized I had no idea where I was going and no phone to use for navigation.

I tried to remember the route Donovan had taken last night. A right here? So I needed to go left.

I did my best to retrace our path, but I still had to pull over and ask directions. As I turned into the lot of Ciar's garage, everything came rushing back. The echo of the speeding car's impact sent another wave of soreness between my shoulder blades. Everything had happened so fast—one second I was taking a picture, the next death was hurtling toward me.

The picture. My camera. I'd left it here last night.

I threw the car door open and jogged into the garage. If I wasn't so fucked up, I might have laughed; I hadn't touched that camera in years, and suddenly I felt naked without it.

Now, it was just another rung on my insanity ladder.

Besides, who knew what Ciar would do with it if he found it. Probably toss it. It was a nice camera—expensive—and I didn't want to have to buy another one. That was all. It wasn't some psychological symbol of a life long past. It wasn't a desperate wish that things could go back to the way they were before.

I didn't remember removing it from my neck, but then again I also didn't remember the whole journey out into the parking lot. I walked a lap of the garage, scanning the tables and shelves, but nothing stood out among the tools.

"Excuse me?" I shouted, hoping someone was in the office at the back. "Hello?"

No answer.

Shuffling to the office, I shaded my eyes from the glare of the lights overhead and pressed my face to the glass. It was dark inside, but as I squinted through the window, I saw it on the end of the desk.

My camera was in there.

I jiggled the knob, but it refused to turn. I wished I'd worn my hair in a more sophisticated style last night. Something with bobby pins. Or that Ciar hadn't taken my keys from me; Tilda's safety pin might have done the trick. But I was stuck rattling the knob uselessly and wondering how cathartic it would be to punch the window, even though I knew I couldn't break it.

Plus, that would be considered a crime. Clarissa had made it abundantly clear that working with the FBI didn't give me immunity.

Damn Clarissa. I wished she hadn't found me last night. Or staring off into the horizon on I-95, for that matter. She didn't even know yet that someone had tried to kill me—that was how little I trusted her. So far she'd only used me and narc'd on me for buying alcohol, which was perfectly legal.

The crunch of tires outside made me swing around, but I didn't step away from the door fast enough. The 70s muscle car that always seemed to be in the lot swung up to the front of the garage, and I met Ciar Cosgrave's eyes through the windshield.

For a moment, he just sat there. I thought I saw his mouth tighten, his lips thinning as they pressed together, but the glare on the windshield left me uncertain. The car's engine idled as I considered running, but he still had my car, my keys, and my camera. Basically my entire life at this point.

Finally, he shut the engine off and slid out, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slowly made his way inside. He tilted his head as he stared at me, his white shirt as clean as I'd ever seen it and his hair still damp from what I hoped was a shower. It glistened in almost-black waves atop his head.