He stood up and turned his back to her. “From everybody.”

From her, certainly. His lovemaking had been passionate. He’d whispered stirring things she had taken as sincere because he hadn’t said them to woo her. She had already been wooed. But the instant the intimacy had shifted from the physical to the emotional, he had detached himself.

She wanted to go to him now, hold him close, and tell him how she hated that he suffered this continuous anguish. But knowing that her attempted comforting would be rebuffed, she stayed where she was.

At the window, he said, “No change. He’s still there, and it’s still pouring. What do you want to do?”

She looked at the clock. It was almost one-thirty. “Honestly, now that I’ve been prone, I don’t think I could endure the drive. I would be a danger to myself and anyone else on the road. I would arrive at five-thirty or thereabouts. Would it be fair to the Griffins to barge in at that hour and hit them with all this?”

“That’s up to you. Whenever you say you’re ready, I’ll take on the guy outside to get you out of here.”

She glanced toward the window. “He hasn’t bothered us, and no one else has come along. Why don’t we rest? Just for a few hours. I could leave at dawn, present myself at a reasonable time of morning, and still have hours to spare.”

He looked at the bed. “I could use a nap. I can’t promise that I won’t twitch.”

“But I promise that I won’t talk.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Deal.” He walked over to the bed, managed the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled it on. He picked up his new phone and the card key, then switched off the bathroom light. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To call Dash.”

“What for?”

“I forgot to tell him something when I texted before. Don’t let anyone in but me.”

The door closed behind him.

Chapter 29

1:22 a.m.

Goliad pulled his car up beside the police unit and motioned for the officer to lower his window. He gave Goliad a mock salute.

Goliad asked, “Have you seen them?”

“Neither coming or going.”

“Room number?”

“Seven oh seven. It’s on this side. Third window from the south corner. Drapes are closed. If there’s any light on, it’s feeble. Hasn’t changed since I got here. No motion. So can’t say for certain if they’re in there or not.”

“I’ll be in the row farthest from the building,” Goliad told him. “Stay here until further notice. Let me know if you see anything.” He passed the cop an envelope of cash through the car windows, then drove away and found a parking space that provided a view of the entire building.

After tucking Timmy in for the night, he had returned to the Hunts’ house and, through the house intercom, told Delores that he was back. She’d thanked him. They’d exchanged good nights.

But Goliad hadn’t availed himself of the sofa.

For one thing, her husky whisper telling him how much safer she felt with him nearby had left him with an erection, which he suffered frequently. Tonight, she had touched him, making his desire even more rampant. It consumed him. It was demoralizing and potentially destructive, but he was helpless against it.

Countless times he’d considered leaving, getting away from her entirely. He could easily find lucrative employment. With his experience, he would be a valuable asset to a Mexican drug cartel. He’d lived all his life on the U.S. side of the border, so he understood the norteamericanos’ way of life and how to maneuver in it. He spoke flawless English without a trace of a Spanish accent. He would have his choice of jobs.

Yet he stayed. His unrequited love for Delores was torturous, but he would endure it if only to be able to see her on a near-daily basis, to watch her move, to hear her voice. A smile, a word of gratitude from her was like a caress.

The only permissible way for him to express his love was to serve her with unqualified loyalty. So instead of resting on the study sofa, he’d continued his quest for Brynn O’Neal and Rye Mallett. He’d made follow-up calls to his snitches and offered more substantial bribes to law officers on the take.

None had had anything to report. A canvass of hotels and motels hadn’t yielded a guest named either Mallett or O’Neal. But Goliad recalled the phone conversation Mallett had conducted while in the car and reasoned that a room might have been booked for him by the company he was flying for.

After ten minutes on Google, he had obtained the legal name of the owner of Dash-It-All. He’d begun calling hotels and motels within a reasonable distance of Hartsfield-Jackson, asking to be connected to the guest room of Mr. Dashiell Dewitt.

On the sixth call, he’d gotten a strike. The hotel operator had put him on hold while she rang the room, but Goliad had hung up before the call went through and instead phoned a beat cop who was notorious for taking graft.

The police officer had gone to the hotel, told the desk clerk that Mr. Dewitt had reported that a rifle was missing from his car, which had been parked on the hotel parking lot. It was emphasized to the clerk that, in light of recent mass shootings, law enforcement took weapons matters seriously. He must follow up with Mr. Dewitt immediately. The clerk had willingly given him Mr. Dewitt’s room number and had advised him to use a side door.

The officer had passed all this information along to Goliad, who had told him to park near that door and to report to him any sightings of the couple immediately.

Acting on the new information, Goliad had called in a replacement to take over watch duty at the mansion and, alone, had driven to the hotel.

The gloom and rain reduced visibility, but he applied his binoculars to the designated window. It was as the cop had described to him: drapes drawn and the room looked dark.

But then, an infinitesimal flicker at the edge of the drapes. A motion so subtle and short-lived that if he had blinked he would have missed it.

He lowered his binoculars and smiled.

He debated calling the Hunts and informing them of this latest development but decided to wait until he could report that he had the drug in his possession.

1:26 a.m.

Rye stepped out into the corridor, leaned against the door, and pressed the back of his head into the hard surface. He felt weaker, more shaken, more unbalanced now than he had last night after the crash.

That hadn’t been his fault, but the blame for this was solely on him. He had let it happen. He had made it happen. Knowing it was a mistake, he had touched Brynn anyway, and, God, it had been good, moving inside her. Terrifyingly good. Because, when he came, he’d been all in: body and mind. Heart.

And, as if that hadn’t been cataclysmic enough, he’d then poured out his soul, revealing to her aspects of his torment that he’d never spoken of to another human being.

Twenty-four hours with her, and he’d broken all his self-imposed rules:

No bonds. No involvement. No one.

He had fibbed to Brynn. He hadn’t forgotten to tell Dash something in a text. The truth was, he hadn’t replied to Dash’s last question. He saw now that Dash had repeated it, adding a few blue words to emphasize his need of an answer. R U still flying for me tomorrow night?

Up until a few minutes ago, Rye had been unsure of his answer. The plan had been for him to see Brynn off on her way to Knoxville, wish her well, and that would be it.

But he couldn’t abandon her. He simply couldn’t. It wasn’t because they’d had fantastic sex, or because he’d opened up to her about his personal tragedy. It was because there were still people who could stop her, and he wanted Brynn to get what she’d strived for. He wanted Violet to have a shot at life.

Even after seeing Brynn safely to Tennessee, he would have hours in which to reach Columbus. If commercial service couldn’t get him there, he would charter a plane out of his own pocket. He wouldn’t let Dash down. He would fly that load of Roman Red. He wouldn’t alert Dash to his change of schedule, though, not until it was too late for him to do anything about it. If he told him now, he’d have a conniption, and Rye didn’t need the argument.

He tapped in Affirmative.

The reply came immediately. Not that glad to hear from you. I was hoping you were asleep.

About to be. Will ck in tmo.

Tomorrow, after he was sure that all had worked out well for Brynn and he’d told her goodbye.

But first he had to get through the rest of the night without reaching for her.

1:32 a.m.

Brynn used the time Rye wasn’t in the room to take a quick shower. She came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, but she decided it would be presumptuous of her to return to the bed naked, given Rye’s mood.

While in search of her undergarments, she noticed Rye’s bomber jacket hanging on the back of the chair. It was odd to see it without him. The jacket was as much a part of him as the growth pattern of his scruff.