Sara doesn't know if she's awake or dreaming. Michael is with her—but then, in the past few hours she's dreamed of his return a thousand times. Footsteps draw her out of her daze, heavy against the blue tiles. When her eyes open, she sees black leather derbies, and her back stiffens against the wall.
Kellerman.
"Hey."
A moment as she gets her thoughts back in order. Does their deal include making small talk?
"You've been here a long time. I was worried."
A few blinks, and her surroundings click into place. The restroom down the hall, near the waiting area. Her legs wobble as she gets to her feet—when did she sit down? Kellerman's suit is different, so maybe today is tomorrow. An urge to check her phone spears through her hand.
"Any news on Michael?" she says.
Kellerman's face hardens. "The plane took off from Yemen a couple of hours ago. Everyone's aboard. They should be here—"
"Michael's with them?"
She fishes through her purse, not waiting for a reply. Where did she put that damned phone? Ten unread messages from the gang, and her body grows numb as she takes them in.
Michael's alive.
Flying back now. They tailed us all the way to the plane but they can't chase us into the sky. Talk more when we land.
Sara's eyes stammer over that first text, not daring to blink for fear the words will go away.
Michael's alive.
Kellerman clears his throat. She doesn't take her eyes away from the text. Whatever she's promised him, there's no room for him in this moment, in the absolute joy that breaks over her wave after wave, as the rock she's been carrying for the past four years rolls down her chest.
No.
Until Michael is with her, in her arms, she doesn't dare to believe it.
"I had a room cleared for you," Kellerman says. "You'll be more comfortable there."
She gives zero damns about comfort. Scrolling through the texts, she finds none from Lincoln, and a tinge of guilt throbs through her chest. He's not much of a texting person, of course. She never gets more than a couple of words out of him, usually along the lines of: "Be here soon" or "On my way". Lincoln's a man of few words.
"You can go get some proper rest. I'll have someone bring you breakfast. You haven't eaten."
How does he know this?
Sara shoves her phone back inside her purse and meets his eyes. Not many men make her feel short, but Kellerman towers a good head above hers. The fugitive in her scans the room for escapes, almost as a reflex. Her back is too close to the wall. It takes effort to remember none of this matters. In a way, it's better to do as he says. Take the room. Make him feel in control.
He wants to get her out of his head. This much is obvious. And on this one point, Sara couldn't agree more.
It's about time they stopped playing that game, tortured and torturer. He drowns her, she strangles him, he wants to fuck her and she fucks him over. Let that be the last chapter in their sick back and forth. For him to have his revenge and for her to have her husband.
She follows him to a room that looks like the office of the mind-bogglingly expensive therapist her father made her go to, before he gave up on her mental health altogether. A desk, book-filled shelves and a long sofa that glows velvet red when it catches the light from the fireplace. He actually had a fire lit for her. What does he expect? Five stars on TripAdvisor?
For a second, she wonders if that's the place he has in mind for the—the fulfillment of their deal.
Warm breath tickles her neck and she swivels to face him.
"You've changed your hair," he says, then waits in vain for her to acknowledge he's said something. "You know, it's actually good to see you—"
"There's still over ten hours until the plane gets to New York. If you don't mind, I'd rather wait alone."
His eyes drill into her, hard as gemstones. Maybe he'll hurt her more for this when the time comes. Let him do his worse. She may not have much control over what's going to take place, but at least, she's not going to beg.
"Right," he says, and glides toward the door. But he looks back at her. "You haven't changed, you know."
I know.
She says, "Then you better get out of here before I start looking for an iron."