Lisa Unger - Smoke

She nodded. “I mean, you tell Rhames everything . Between the way he is, his personal power and the drugs, he becomes like your confessor, your lover, the only true friend you ever had. You bare your soul and all your pain to him. And he heals you. Or anyway that’s the way it feels in that controlled environment with the drugs and the audio visual messages they play.”

There was something pleading to her tone. She wanted them to understand, and Lydia did.

“But you have to be in pain first, right? In order to be healed by him?”

Lily looked at her with wide, sad eyes. She nodded.

“And that’s what you didn’t count on. That your grief over the loss of your brother fractured you, that you were in terrible pain and seeking revenge. It made you vulnerable.”

“That’s right. And I think I had a sense of it before I went in that night. I’d read Mickey’s journals and contacted the FBI. But I felt so overwhelmed, suddenly, unsure if I was doing the right thing. That’s why I called you.”

“I’m sorry, Lily,” said Lydia, moving to sit beside her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

She held Lily for a minute and then released her.

“No,” Lily said, shaking her head. “You couldn’t have known. Besides, if I hadn’t made that call, I might still be in there. Did it lead the police to you?”

Lydia nodded. “And then we came looking for you.”

Lily smiled a real smile for the first time. “Thank you.”

After a moment, the smile faded and worry clouded her features.

“I need to get in touch with my parents. They need to know I’m okay. And they need to be warned. They’ll come after me. And they’ll do that by trying to get to my parents.”

Lydia looked down and took Lily’s hands. “Your mom is staying at your apartment in New York. We can send someone to look out for her.”

Lily nodded. “They’re having problems again,” she said, as if she suspected it was inevitable. “Where’s my stepdad? At the house?”

“I’m so sorry, Lily,” Lydia said. She hadn’t wanted to tell Lily about Tim Samuels, but she didn’t want to lie either. Lily deserved better than that.

“What?” said Lily, her eyes widening.

“He’s dead,” she said simply. There was no better choice of words.

Lily jerked as if Lydia had slapped her. And Lydia instantly regretted her decision to tell the truth. Lily wasn’t strong enough to handle the news. Lydia reached for the younger woman.

“What?” she breathed into Lydia’s ear. “How?”

Lydia shook her head, searching for what to say. Lily drew away from Lydia and looked her in the face. There was something hard and angry in her expression, a look Lydia had never seen on her. It turned her prettiness to granite. The girl was gone. In her place was a woman made hard by bitter experiences and crippling grief.

“It was suicide.”

“Suicide?” she said, incredulous.

Lydia nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Lily. Yes.”

All the air seemed to suck out of the room as they waited for her to crumble beneath the weight of this new grief they’d delivered. But she didn’t crumble. Her face went blank and her lids lowered in rage.

“That bastard,” she hissed. “That coward.”

She stood suddenly, then lost her legs and fell into a pile of skin and bones on the filthy carpet. Lydia knelt beside her. Lily put her head in her hands and started to sob, terrible wracking sobs that connected painfully to the grief in Lydia’s own heart. Lydia pushed back tears, rested a hand on Lily’s shoulder. She hadn’t expected anger like that from Lily; it surprised her.

“He did this to us, to all of us,” she managed, between sobs. “And then he just bails ? How could he?”

She leaned into Lydia and started to wail. Lydia looked up at Jeffrey who was leaning into them, his hand on Lydia’s shoulder. Agent Hunt stood back from the scene, looking uncomfortable and useless. On Jeffrey’s face she saw concern but she saw something else, too. Suspicion.

The high beams of the van were blinding her in the rearview mirror and the roar of its engine told her that it was souped up. Her Explorer was all bark and no bite, its engine no match for whatever was humming beneath the hood of the white van. The van rammed her hard from behind and she jerked hard from the impact. She’d managed to get her seat belt on before she started driving and she was glad for it when it locked and held her tightly in place, though she felt the sting of the friction burn on the side of her neck. She pressed her foot to the gas and the Explorer and the headlights dropped behind her but kept following fast.

“Matt,” she called. “Matt, please.” But there was no answer from behind her and she felt panic rise up in her throat. Her heart was thumping hard and her arms and hands were tingling with adrenaline. A few cars flew past her on the other end of the highway in the opposite direction. Her Glock lay between her thighs. The van came up fast and rammed her again; this time so hard she involuntarily let go of the wheel for a moment and the car veered toward the shoulder. She caught the wheel and held the vehicle steady. The van was bigger and had a lower center of gravity; the driver was trying to get her to flip. Then when they were stunned or trapped in the vehicle, he’d walk up and kill them both. She could just barely see him in her rearview mirror, a large, dark, hairless form at the wheel. Terrified tears threatened then, but she held them back.

“No way,” she said out loud, gripping the wheel hard. “No fucking way this guy’s going to get us.”

But there was only silence in the back of the Explorer.

“Please, God,” she said, as she saw the van come at her again fast for another try. She sped up and veered into the right-hand lane. The exit she needed was less than a mile away; if she could get to it, she figured he wouldn’t follow her onto the streets. At nearly four A.M., the BQE was practically empty, with just a smattering of cars making their way through the dark morning. She hoped one of them had a cell phone and might call the police to report the van ramming her, two drivers racing out of control. Her own phone was out of reach in her bag on the floor, and she didn’t dare take her eyes off the road.

He rammed her again, this time harder, and she lost control of the Explorer for a second, felt the left side of the car leave the ground. She caught the wheel and righted herself. Something in the engine was straining hard.

“Jez,” said Mount from the back. “Slow down. Let him approach the vehicle and then blow his head off.”

She practically wept with relief to hear his voice. “Slow down? Are you crazy?”

“We can’t outrun him.”

“We can make it to the hospital. Just one more exit. Once we’re on the streets, he’ll pull away. He’s not going to follow us into a populated area where there’ll be good witnesses.”

“Just pull over. He’ll never expect you to do that.”

The van had dropped behind but was picking up speed again for another hit. Harder. It went against all her instincts screaming to drive as hard and as fast as she could. But she knew in her heart that Matt was right. They couldn’t outrun the van. They had a better chance if they stood and fought.

She let the vehicle slow and pulled onto the shoulder as if she was in distress. She reached quickly for her bag and dialed 911.

“This is Detective Jesamyn Breslow with the Ninth Precinct,” she said, watching the white van pull over a hundred yards behind her and sit idle. “Officers in trouble. We need backup on the Eastbound BQE, just before exit 121. Assailant in white van, armed.”

The dispatcher was saying something, but Jesamyn let the phone drop on the seat beside her. She turned around and used the back of her seat as a barricade, holding her gun over its edge. She looked down at Matt, who had his hand on his chest; his paper-white face seemed to float in the darkness.