“C’mon, Axel, this is your moment,” Elijah offered, his caterpillar eyebrows knitting together. “Here’s the part where you’re supposed to say, Welcome to Grandma’s Pantry.”
88
“Newark Airport? You’re sure?”
Seabass nodded.
“Think they got on a flight?” Reagan asked.
Seabass shook his head, pointing to the little red triangle on their GPS, then scrolling sideways on the map.
“A police station? Why would they park by a police station?”
That’s the question, Seabass said with a glance. Flashing his plastic mouth guard, he was trying to look animated, but really just looked paler than ever. The gauze on his cheek was clean, the bleeding stopped. But the way he was clenching his jaw, the white in his eyes now yellow . . . He could lie to most people. But not to her.
“Sebby, I’m dropping you off,” she said, tugging the steering wheel toward the next exit.
Don’t, he pleaded, grabbing the wheel, the car swerving back into its lane. I’m fine.
“You look like death.”
We do this together, he insisted, pointing to her, then back to himself. That was their rule, for years now. He tightened his glance. That’s how it’s always done. Together.
She nodded, knowing he was right, hoping he was right, adrenaline kicking in as her anger—at Zig, at Roddy, and especially at herself—swallowed her in a rage. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked, glancing over.
Seabass forced a grin, quickly sitting up straight. He couldn’t break his sweat. Coppery saliva slid down his throat—he was swal lowing blood, and it was getting worse. On his left, he glanced over at Reagan, who was clenching the steering wheel, staring straight ahead with that inferno in her eyes. There was nothing more attractive than someone who knows what they want. How could he deny her that?
I’m fine, he told her, smiling excitedly with his eyes.
“You sure?” She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder, to physically feel if he was telling the truth.
Reagan, I’m fine. I swear.
She nodded like she believed it. She had to believe it. “Just five minutes,” she said, hitting the gas and steering toward the exit for Newark Airport. “That’s all it’ll take.”
As the curve of the exit ramp sent him leaning against the car door, Seabass gave her a thumbs-up. Five minutes and they’d be done. Simple as that.
89
Zig was trying to ignore the light drizzle, trying to keep up with Elijah and the guard in the blue windbreaker, Axel, as they darted through the empty parking lot. Axel tried making an excuse about leaving his post, but he didn’t have a choice.
Along the side of the building was a parked trailer. There was a refrigeration unit on top. They had trailers like these back at Dover—overflow freezers for when the bodies piled up. Here, they kept trailers like this to ship across the country, which is what they did when COVID first hit. Yet as Zig got closer, he caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes peeking out from below the trailer, reflecting through the darkness like tiny milky mirrors.
Initially, he thought it was a cat, but the snout . . . the pointy nose . . . plus that thick rope of a tail . . . A possum, fat and crouched like a ball, was nibbling furiously at something.
To Zig, who would never admit to being superstitious, just the sight of it felt like a bad omen, though the science side of his brain knew that was absurd. A hot drop of summer rain hit Zig at the center of his forehead, like a bull’s-eye. He wiped it away almost frantically.
“You okay?” Axel called back, still chomping on his nicotine gum.