Truth Be Told

27

“Pro-yikes-fessionally,” Jane said, wincing as a buzzy little Fiat convertible cut in front of them. Why was everyone in such a crazy hurry? Being a passenger sucked. “Jake Brogan is a Boston detective. Why?”

Jane frowned, facing resolutely forward. She wanted to watch Peter’s expression, gauge where he was going with his “do you know Jake Brogan” question, but she felt bound to watch the chaotic traffic instead. Good-sport Jane had about had it with Hardesty’s aggressive driving. What’s more, good-sport Jane had also had it with his secrecy. If she couldn’t take the wheel, time to at least change the subject to one of her choosing.

“Peter? Ah, I hate to be a pain in the ass, but where are we-hey!”

Jane grabbed the strap again, closed her eyes, then didn’t. Then saw the shape of something in her side mirror, something that shouldn’t be there, but-

“Damn it!” Peter yelled, and Jane felt the boxy car try to swerve to the left, out of the way of the blue whatever careening into their blind spot and then shoving them into the left lane. Jane heard the skid, felt the wind in her hair and the force of Peter’s hard right turn throwing her against the seat belt, then back again. She closed her eyes, then opened them, then closed them, clenching her teeth and shoulders, waiting for the crunch and the crash and the sound of glass and metal, and how would they ever-

“Hang on, Jane!” Peter’s voice, terse, hard, demanding. The Jeep swerved again, a car in the other lane, too, boxing them in, no one’s fault but the idiot Fiat’s, and if Peter couldn’t-

“Ow!” The side of Jane’s head slammed into the window as Peter tried to yank the car back onto the highway after they’d jounced across two lanes verging on out of control, Jane could feel it, could hear the wheels and the horns and the honking, and she was bracing herself this was it, not a chance in the world they would-

The wheels skidded again, the car jouncing and bouncing over the grassy shoulder, bumping down the wildflower-filled culvert-Jane saw it almost in slow motion, pink and white lace, colors blurring as the Jeep lurched and staggered, wheels catching on whatever, Jane could see through the windshield, they were headed-what, down? She braced her arms against the dashboard, locking her elbows, wondering how it felt to be blasted by an airbag, wondering if she would even feel it, or if she would never feel anything again. One wheel hit, then the other, the car went sideways, almost, then not, and then almost, and if the car flipped over, they’d be-

Stopped. It stopped.

Silence.

Jane took a breath, realized she could take a breath. Every muscle in her body was still clenched.

“Peter?” She whispered the word, almost checking to make sure her voice worked, still looking forward. “Peter?”

Silence.

Lawyers. Jake’s phone was up to four bars now, for whatever good that did. Peter Hardesty was not answering. As a result, he would not know his client was about to be arrested. Jake could stall, certainly, until the judge actually granted the warrant. Sandoval-so adamantly protesting his innocence yesterday-was not much of a flight risk.

“Attention passengers at Gate C-one,” a voice came over the intercom. “JetBlue flight four-forty-three to Boston will soon be ready for preboarding. We regret the…”

A sliver of twilight moon emerged in the now-clearing sky. The tarmac glistened with a sheen of moisture, but other than that and a terminal filled with cranky passengers, it was as if the storm had never happened.

Jake clicked off the phone. He was under no obligation to leave a message for Peter Hardesty. If the lawyer wasn’t answering, he was clearly otherwise occupied.

That call could wait.

And Jane? He punched up her speed dial, glancing at the gate agent. The impatient passengers, the ones who somehow needed to board first, were already queuing near the gate agent’s desk, casually crowding, pretending they just happened to be standing there. Jake shook his head. They would all get to Boston at the same time.

He smiled, remembering his idea to surprise Jane, and ended the call before she answered. He couldn’t tell her about the Sandoval arrest until it was public. That was one of the tradeoffs they’d have to get used to. He’d not even been gone for a day. And it already felt-wrong. He missed her. Missed their connection.

Flowers, definitely. Wine. And a discussion about their future.

And, tomorrow, a slam dunk arrest.

“Peter?” Jane’s shook her head, slowly, carefully, feeling muscles in the back of her neck as she turned. Peter sat, back flat against the driver’s seat, hands still clutching the steering wheel, elbows stiff, looking straight out the windshield.

“You okay?” Jane asked again.

“Are you?” Peter said. “That idiot-”

“Really, check yourself out,” Jane said, doing the same thing. She lifted her shoulders, touched her face, ran her tongue across her teeth. One of the tennis rackets from the backseat was on the floor in front of her, both tennis balls had rolled onto the floor on Peter’s side. Jane’s coffee now splatted down one leg of Peter’s suit pants, tiny ice cubes scattered on the floor like melting confetti.

The whole front end of the Jeep was tipped, stopped by a wildflower-filled gully down the median of the highway. No windows broken, no airbags exploded. Jane heard a siren off in the distance, but the sound faded, and disappeared.

“Peter?” What if he’d hit his head? She searched for her phone, where was it? “We’ll need to get you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. “I’m so freaking sorry.” She heard him take a deep breath, run his hand through his hair, turn to look at her. He unclicked his seat belt, reached over, touched her bare arm.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I know,” she admitted. “It all happened so fast, though…” She was more scared now than when it happened. “It all happened so fast”-how many times had people she’d interviewed said that? Now she knew it was true. Six o’clock, the dashboard indicator said. Then, 6:01. The clock still worked.

Cars zoomed by, ignoring them.

“I am so sorry.” Peter opened his car door, slowly. “Some idiot ran us off the road, trying to get in my lane, then that other guy wouldn’t move so-shit.”

“One of those things.” Jane tried to stay calm. It’s over, random, not even Peter’s fault. And even though she’d thought he’d been driving kind of aggressively, he’d actually been amazing, keeping the car in control.

She opened her car door, too, stepped out onto the rangy grass. Peter had a hand on the hood, checked the front end, peered under the bumper, then examined each of the tires.

“Not even a flat,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked at her, intent. “Jane? Are you sure you’re…?”

“Yeah. Fine.” She didn’t move, feeling the weight of his hands, and the tiny breeze through the wildflowers, and the gratitude that this had not turned out a disaster. “Are you sure? Should we call the-?”

“I think we can back out,” Peter said. He took one hand off her shoulder, then the other. His shirt had come untucked on one side, his pants were coffee soaked, and his shoes were coated with dust. “If you’re truly okay. I’ll call nine-one-one if-”

“Really and truly,” Jane said. She touched the side of her head, feeling a spot where it was tender. “I might have a bruise, but I’ll be fine. Sorry about the coffee, though. You’re kind of-wet. You honestly think the car’s okay?”

“The Jeep’s pretty forgiving. The engine’s working, so step back. I’ll give it a try.”

She watched Peter tramp through the weeds, get into the driver’s seat, close the door. She felt safe with him, it wasn’t his driving that caused this. He hadn’t panicked. He’d focused, pulled it off. Didn’t try to blame anyone else.

They were lucky. Everything was fine.

Jake, she thought. What if I’d been killed in a car accident, and we’d left-like that?

The car’s engine rattled, then whirred, and Jane stepped farther back. The car lurched, then caught, and the front wheels rolled up the side of the ditch and back onto flat ground. A patch of crushed Queen Anne’s lace and two tire-patterned tread marks were the only signs anything had happened.

Jane opened the passenger door. Inside, Peter was smiling. Even the air conditioner was on. “What’s the verdict?”

“Good to go, looks like. Hop in.” Peter waited until she strapped herself in, then edged the nose of the car around, aiming it to the highway. “Ah, you’ve got a little dirt on-right there.”

Jane pulled down the visor, flipped open the mirror. A pale face looked back at her, blinking. A curling lock of hair hung over one cheek, her cheeks red and shiny with the heat, a smudge of grime painting her forehead.

“All good,” she said. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Wet pants, though, that’s a different story. Yours are never going to be the same.”

“Tell you what-let’s head to my place,” Peter said, gauging the traffic as it sped by.

Their heads moved in unison, watching two cars, then a white Boston cab, top speed, an eighteen-wheeler, then another, then-a break.

Jane pointed. “Now.”

Peter gunned it, and with one jounce, they were back in the fast lane.

“Good job,” Jane had to say. “You did great.”

“Got lucky,” he said. “Except for the pants thing. Let me change, and then head out. Make sense?”

As much as anything did. Jane was back at square one. “Peter? Where the-hell-are you taking me?”