J. Huss - PANIC

And I was right. All those someones are breathing down my neck right fucking now.

Inside the bag I have twenty thousand in cash. I take the money out and flip the bills like you see people do in the movies. Twenty grand doesn’t look like much when they’re all hundreds. You’d be surprised how small it actually is when they are wrapped up in two little bundles. I’ve also got one change of clothes and some basic toiletries and the fake ID Jon made me use when we went places before I turned eighteen.

I stuff the backpack under the hanging t-shirts and go take my shower. When I get out I put clothes on and when I walk out in the living room Ford gives me a dirty look.

“What are you wearing?”

I roll my eyes. “Clearly you can see what I’m wearing.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No, Ford. I just like being fully clothed when I think something bad might happen. There’s nothing worse than running for your life through the woods wearing a nightie with a crazed boyfriend on your tail. Believe me, I know from experience. I’m wearing clothes, so shut the fuck up about it.”

“Whatever. Let’s go upstairs.”

He gets up and I follow. I guess my sympathy card with Ford has been played, because that last remark didn’t even get an eyebrow raise. I might as well settle in and be nice, that’ll make my night go a little easier.

“Find anything, Spence?” Ford asks.

“No, I swept the downstairs at least. We’ll just stay in here. But”—Spencer looks over at me—“no talking,” he says, putting a finger to his lips. “We need to go outside if you feel the need to talk, and to be honest, we should just wait and see what happens tomorrow at Ronin’s arraignment. So it’s no use anyway.”

Ronin is in jail.

It hits me hard and I sink down onto the couch and scrub my face with my hands, trying to stave off a headache. I’m pretty pissed that I didn’t figure out these guys had a past. I mean, fuck, Rook. How stupid can you be? How gullible? How naive? And now I’m right back where I was when I showed up at Antoine’s.

Confused.

Is Ronin a good guy?

Fucking Ford admits he’s not a good guy. That shit came right out of his own mouth at my birthday party. In fact, he brought that woman on purpose, to show me specifically that he’s got serious issues. The kind of issues I am very familiar with.

And Spencer admitted to killing a guy.

And they’re all responsible for at least two illegal jobs that I know of. How many more are there?

“Rook,” Spencer says as he takes a seat next to me. “I’m the same guy I was last night when you cried on my shoulder. I’m the same guy who painted your body all summer, remember?”

I sigh. “I know, Spencer.” He does know me awful well, doesn’t he? Practically reads my mind now.

“And even though Ford is an asshole when he’s working, he’s still the same guy he was this morning when he took you running. Right?”

I look over at Ford and he’s glaring at me. “What’s with that look?”

“Blackbird,” Spence says, pulling my attention back to him. “He’s still the same guy. You’ve just never met the asshole version we all know and hate. And right now we all have to morph into that other version of ourselves. Because we gotta get out of this, Rook. No one’s coming to help us. So please, we just all need to do our jobs.”

“But what’s my job, Spencer?”

“Be quiet and do what you’re told. Just let us handle this one, OK? Just let us take care of it.”

“But you said you’re not gonna help Ronin, right?”

“Ronin will help himself. He’s good at what he does, he’s smart, he’s devious and sneaky and all those things you hate about men and certainly don’t want to hear are your boyfriend’s God-given gifts. But he’ll figure something out. It just might take some time, that’s all.”

I avoid Ford’s penetrating stare as I mull all this over. Because I don’t want to know these versions of my friends.

I want Ford to stay the guy I trust to point me in the right direction and force me to do things that are good for me even though I hate it.

I want Spencer to stay the guy who makes me laugh, paints me pretty biker jackets, and makes scrapbooks of our body art so I’ll be happy.

And I want Ronin to be the guy I spend forever with. I want to sleep next to him, and go on long vacations with him, and take beastly sexy showers with him.

But as long as this shit is hanging over us, nothing will ever be like that again.

So I just curl up on the end of the couch and close my eyes. I’m tired and I’m gonna grab some shuteye while I can. Because I will be one busy girl in a few hours. 

This is how I get through jail. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve been under suspicion, nor will it probably be the last, considering the wake of crime spraying out behind me from all our previous jobs. But this is what I do.

One. Embrace the orange jumpsuit. You cannot fight it. It’s dirty, it smells like that cheap-ass soap they use, and it’s had more hands on it than you want to think about. But unless you want to go naked—and you don’t, trust me, the mattresses are revolting enough to make you want to sleep on the floor, even with the sheets and orange jumpsuit—just learn to love it.

Two. Do not eat more than once a day. No matter what. They really are trying to poison you.

Three. Do not think about what you might be guilty of. That just makes you vulnerable to questioning.

Four. Embrace your alone time. No people to talk to means fewer ways to screw yourself over.

Five. Try your hardest not to think about the girl on the outside and what she may be thinking of you right now.

Rook has got to be out of her mind. And the really fucked-up part about all this is that I have no idea what I’m being held for. They said felony obstruction, but that could pertain to just about anything I’ve done over the past five years. I’ve had a long career of justice obstruction.

But I’m not supposed to think about that shit, or Rook, or Spencer, or Ford, or Elise.

Elise is gonna kill me.

I am so fucking dead when I get out of jail. She’s gonna want answers, she’s gonna want promises, she’s gonna want all kinds of shit I might not be able to tell her.

Damn, this jumpsuit is itchy. And I could really go for some fresh fruit.

A loud buzzer sounds and my door clicks open. A guard appears with his hand on his weapon. “Flynn, you’ve got a visitor.”

“Awesome, finally someone to talk to in this shithole.”

Did I mention rule six? Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can stick to these rules. Because jail, and especially county jail, sucks ass. And you will have no choice but to wish for company, think about the shitty clothes, the poisonous food, your crime—real or imaginary—and your girl, who probably left your ass as soon as she heard you were incarcerated.

I pass by the guard and then follow the hallway until I get to a door. This visitor can only be one of two people. Elise—and I’m so hoping not, because she’s gonna cry and shit and that’s just not good for the baby—or Rook. Because our partnership rules state that Spencer and Ford are not allowed to come visit.

They buzz me into the visiting area where a few guys are already talking to their friends or family, and then the guard barks out, “Last stall.”

I can’t see my visitor as I walk down the aisle because they have cinder block walls between each visiting station. Thick Plexiglas separates the prisoner and the visitor, so there is no hope of any contact at all. And a phone hangs on a holder affixed to the wall. I try not to notice a dude crying his eyes out to his pregnant significant other, another guy pressing his hand up against the plastic as his little girl presses back on the other side, and some kid who doesn’t even look like he’s old enough to be in the county lockup as he tries to comfort a woman who might be his mother.

I am fully expecting Rook to be my visitor, but it’s not Rook.

It’s Clare.

I stop and do not approach the bench where I’m supposed to sit and talk. I look her in the eye and mouth the words, What the fuck are you doing?

She picks up her phone, then taps it on the Plexiglas, indicating I should sit down.

I do. I pick up the phone and all I hear is her breathing.

“What the fuck are you doing, Clare?”

“She ran, Ronin.”

“Who?” I ask, even though I know who.

“Rook, she’s missing. She left sometime in the middle of the night, she—”

I don’t catch the rest because I hang up the phone and walk away.

So much for rule number five. I go to the door, wait for the buzzer, and then exit back into the hallway. There’s no guard this time. That fuck Abelli is waiting for me.

“Mr. Flynn, we’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind actually, I’m still waiting on my lawyer.”

A guard grabs my arm and escorts me the opposite direction from where I came from, then Abelli opens a door and waves me inside. “No need for lawyers, Flynn. Just an informal chat about your missing girlfriend.”

I take a deep breath. Games, Ronin. Keep cool, they’re baiting you, Spencer’s voice says in my head. Just games, dude.

Right. Shut the hell up, Spencer.

This is what a little bit of alone time in a cell does to you, so yeah, rule number four creates condition number one. Two-way conversations with people who are not, in fact, present.

“Sit,” Abelli commands.

I sit, because I might as well play a little, pass the time, right? I’m in no hurry to get back to my cell, that’s for sure.

“We know where your girlfriend is. Would you like to know?”

“OK, sure,” I answer. “Tell me.”

“Well, see, we were hoping you’d do a little information exchange with us if we give you that info.”

And this, little grasshoppers, is what I like to call the no-lose situation. Pay close attention, because here’s how it goes down.

“OK, you go first, tell me what you know. Where’s Rook?”

“Bahahaha, Mr. Flynn, not so fast. We deserve an answer to one of our questions first, don’t you think? Since we’re the ones with the information you need?”

Just agree at this point. The correct answer would be, ‘uh, fuck no,’ but you want to keep them rolling. “Sure. Shoot, how can I help you folks?”

“What do you know about the contents of the security box in Las Vegas?”

Ah, Vegas box again. So this is about Rook. See, grasshoppers, this is all I needed. I am free to move about the cabin because I already got what I want from Abelli. He’s got nothing on Rook’s whereabouts because obviously she would know more about said Vegas box than I would. So, Clare’s right. Rook left. Which means Rook’s doing something. Which means this guy wants to know what she’s doing. As do I, but I’m not gonna get that info from Abelli.

In addition, I also found out this is not about my illustrious obstruction of justice career, but about this guy and his obsession with this stupid box in Vegas. And this, in combination with the slip-up during my polygraph, means this is personal for him.

His ass is on the line. Somehow, some way, Abelli is in deep.

“I’m done here.”

He eyes me cautiously. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, but you just answered all of mine. So I’m done here.” I fold my hands over my chest and wait him out.

He talks, he screams into my face, flinging his spit all over my cheek, he stomps around like a baby, he sends in the good-cop partner and that guys flips out when I start humming a pretty dead-on balls accurate rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody—the Wayne’s World version complete with head bang and air drums—and then finally, some fat higher-up comes in and says they need the room back.

I am escorted to my cell to wait it out alone, ready to put all the rules back into practice.

Spencer drifts off some time after two AM. I know because I wake up around midnight, hoping they’ll be asleep already, but no such luck. Ford, on the other hand, lasts until almost four. And say what you will about Ford, but he takes his sentry duty very seriously. He sits in a chair in the pitch dark, no lights on in the house, no lights on outside the house, staring out the window for hours.