Page 44 of Intersect
I blow out a heavy, aggravated breath. Does she not realize how much danger she’s in? Does she not realize having her there would only make things worse, and that I just want to know she’ssafe?
She rubs a finger over her lower lip and looks out the window, where the sun is shining and life isn’t painful,ending, for the people who walk by. “Let’s get out of here. Please. I don’t want to think about thisnow.”
“We will,” I tell her. “Soon. Let me just take care of a few things first.” After she agrees, I walk out of the hospital and head straight to mycar.
Honesty, I’ve decided, is highlyoverrated.
* * *
Outside,the air is crisp, less humid than normal, the first hint that summer might be on the way out. It’s start-of-the-school-year weather. When I was a kid, it always felt like a time for new beginnings, for optimism, but when I arrive at Sarah’s pristine Georgetown home, all optimism fades. I’d expected, for some reason, to find the kind of place you’d see in a horror film—a creepy old Victorian, shutters hanging ajar, a broken window or two. But it couldn’t be further from that. Like every other place on the street, it’s worth millions. Confirming what I should have known all along: there is nothing this woman needs and therefore nothing I can bargainwith.
I start up her walkway anyhow, but pause when I see the three newspapers in her yard. It means she probably hasn’t come home since her little adventure in thehospital.
Fuck.
I’m not going back to the hospital empty-handed, and I’m sure as shit not setting this up so Quinn can return with me. Something needs to happennow. I glance around. The street is mostly empty, and even if someone’s looking out their window, it’s Sunday morning—I doubt anyone’s going to pay much attention. I head down the small alley leading to the rear of her home and climb the stairs to her back deck, laughing at the futility of what I’m about to attempt. It is wildly unlikely a woman with this much money has left a door unlocked. It’s also wildly unlikely she doesn’t have a security system. I’m going to wind up in jail today, and then what? Who tracks this woman down while I’m behind bars? Jeff would be more likely to imprison Quinn in his home than help usout.
The door is locked—no surprises there—so I look for something I can wrap around my hand to punch in the glass. I’m about to remove my shirt when I glance at thedoormat.
She wouldn’t leave a key, would she? It would be idiocy, and she doesn’t strike me as a stupid woman. Yet when I use the tip of my shoe to lift the mat, brass gleams. It’s as if the key was waiting here just forme.
I slide it into the lock, pausing for a moment to strategize. I’ll only have a minute before the alarm goes off, and maybe another minute or two before cops arrive. So three minutes max, and I don’t even know what I’m lookingfor.
I take a deep breath and push the door open. I’m as surprised by the lack of a warning chime when I enter as I am by what I find inside: Sarah lives very well. Not that I’ve ever given a lot of thought to what a time traveler’s home would look like, but I guess I’d have expected antiques, lace doilies, needlepoint pillows, and creepy dolls. Instead I stand in a kitchen with thick marble countertops, gleaming fixtures. A glass table without a single fingerprint on it. Quinn’s aunt is either OCD or has a whole lot of cleaninghelp.
I carefully place one foot after another, making my way through the kitchen, not sure what I’m looking for. I guess she wouldn’t have left anything quite so obvious as a list of her diabolical plans. Just beyond the kitchen I find a small room that appears to be Sarah’s office. Books and files are stacked to the ceiling, but I may not have to investigate any of it because there, atop the glass desk, is Sarah’s planner. I slide it toward me, scanning the August calendar. A small sticky note rests on yesterday’s date:IAD to CDG, 6:30p.m.
Dulles Airport to Charles De Gaulle. The next three weeks are blockedout.
She is in fucking Paris for the next threeweeks.
I slam my hands down on the desk. I don’t know if Quinn evenhasthree weeks to wait. I’ve tried to be optimistic, but my gut feeling is that if the tumor makes another leap like the last one, she will not leave the hospital the next time she goesin.
I flip through the planner, looking for any other sign of where she may have gone, and come up with only this—scribbled on the back of an envelope, an address: 37 Rue des TroisFreres.
I could go there. It’s such a fucking longshot, but it’s all we have. I can’t imagine leaving Quinn right now, when anything could happen—these might be our last weeks together—but I can’t not try. Ican’t.
I head out the back door, replacing the key under the mat. Shocked that I’ve gotten away with it. But next comes the really hard part: telling Quinn I’mleaving.
22
QUINN
Nick’s “last-minute things” takeforever.
Some of my impatience has to do with Sarah, but mostly it’s the way the clock is ticking faster. Nick and I no longer have a year. We might not have a month, or a week. At the start of each new hour, I acknowledge the possibility that it could be my last. And I don’t want to spend it here, especially away fromhim.
By the time he finally returns, I’m going nuts. I know he has other obligations, but how does he not see the urgencyhere?
“You ready?” he asks. His face is deadly serious, and there’s a rigidity to his shoulders that wasn’t there when heleft.
I was irritated a second ago. Now I’m just scared. “Is everythingokay?”
“Yeah,” he says, but his glance flickersaway.
He’s quiet during the drive home, his fingers twined so tightly through mine it almost hurts. What happened after he left my room? There are so many things it could be—my prognosis or his job seem the most likely contenders—but I’m praying it’s something simple. Maybe he’s just eager to get back towork.
We get into the house and I turn to him. “Don’t feel like you have to stay home with me today. I know you’ve got a lot going on.” Every bone in my body wants to beg him not to go, but what I want even more than that is to fix this, whatever itis.