I said. It sounded more like a question than an order.
“If that’s what you want.”
I was about to ask Patch if he’d noticed anything strange on the Archangel, when I stopped myself. I was too scared to ask. What if I hadn’t fallen? What if I’d imagined the whole thing? What if I was 113
seeing things that weren’t really happening? First the guy in the ski mask. Now this. I was pretty sure Patch’s mind-speaking was real, but everything else? Not so sure.
Patch walked a few parking spaces over. A shiny black motorcycle rested on its kickstand. He swung on and tipped his head at the seat behind him. “Hop on.”
“Wow. Nice bike,” I said. Which was a lie. It looked like a glossy black death trap. I had never been on a motorcycle in my life, ever. I wasn’t sure I wanted to change that tonight.
“I like the feel of the wind on my face,” I continued, hoping my bravado masked my terror of moving at speeds upward of sixty-five miles an hour with nothing standing between me and the road.
There was one helmet—black with a tinted visor—and he held it out for me.
Taking it, I swung my leg over the bike and realized how insecure I felt with nothing but a narrow strip of seat beneath me. I slid the helmet over my curls and strapped it under my chin.
“Is it hard to drive?” I asked. What I really meant was, Is it safe?
“No,” Patch said, answering both my spoken and unspoken questions.
He laughed softly. “You’re tense. Relax.”
When he pulled out of the parking space, the explosion of movement startled me; I’d been holding on to his shirt with just enough of the fabric between my fingers to keep my balance. Now I wrapped my arms around him in a backward bear hug.
Patch accelerated onto the highway, and my thighs squeezed around 114
him. I hoped I was the only one who noticed.
When we reached my house, Patch eased the bike up the fog-drenched driveway, killed the engine, and swung off. I removed my helmet, balancing it carefully on the seat in front of me, and opened my mouth to say something along the lines of Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you on Monday .
The words dissolved as Patch crossed the driveway and headed up the porch steps.
I couldn’t begin to speculate what he was doing. Walking me to the door? Highly improbable. Then … what?
I climbed the porch after him and found him at the door. I watched, divided between confusion and escalating concern, as he drew a set of familiar keys from his pocket and inserted my house key into the bolt.
I lowered my handbag down my shoulder and unzipped the compartment where I stored my keys. They weren’t inside.
“Give me back my keys,” I said, disconcerted at not knowing how my keys had come into his possession.
“You dropped them in the arcade when you were hunting for your cell,”
he said.
“I don’t care where I dropped them. Give them back.”
Patch held up his hands, claiming innocence, and backed away from the door. He leaned one shoulder against the bricks and watched me step up to the lock. I attempted to turn the key. It wouldn’t budge.
“You jammed it,” I said, rattling the key. I dropped back a step. “Go 115
ahead. Try it. It’s stuck.”
With a sharp click , he turned the key. Hand poised on the handle, he arched his eyebrows as if to say May I?
I swallowed, burying a surge of mutual fascination and disquiet. “Go ahead. You’re not going to walk in on anyone. I’m home alone.”
“The whole night?”
Immediately, I realized it might not have been the smartest thing to say.
“Dorothea will be coming soon.” That was a lie. Dorothea was long gone. It was close to midnight.
“Dorothea?”
“Our housekeeper. She’s old—but strong. Very strong.” I tried to squeeze past him. Unsuccessfully.
“Sounds frightening,” he said, retrieving the key from the lock. He held it out for me.
“She can clean a toilet inside and out in under a minute. More like terrifying.” Taking the key, I
“If that’s what you want.”
I was about to ask Patch if he’d noticed anything strange on the Archangel, when I stopped myself. I was too scared to ask. What if I hadn’t fallen? What if I’d imagined the whole thing? What if I was 113
seeing things that weren’t really happening? First the guy in the ski mask. Now this. I was pretty sure Patch’s mind-speaking was real, but everything else? Not so sure.
Patch walked a few parking spaces over. A shiny black motorcycle rested on its kickstand. He swung on and tipped his head at the seat behind him. “Hop on.”
“Wow. Nice bike,” I said. Which was a lie. It looked like a glossy black death trap. I had never been on a motorcycle in my life, ever. I wasn’t sure I wanted to change that tonight.
“I like the feel of the wind on my face,” I continued, hoping my bravado masked my terror of moving at speeds upward of sixty-five miles an hour with nothing standing between me and the road.
There was one helmet—black with a tinted visor—and he held it out for me.
Taking it, I swung my leg over the bike and realized how insecure I felt with nothing but a narrow strip of seat beneath me. I slid the helmet over my curls and strapped it under my chin.
“Is it hard to drive?” I asked. What I really meant was, Is it safe?
“No,” Patch said, answering both my spoken and unspoken questions.
He laughed softly. “You’re tense. Relax.”
When he pulled out of the parking space, the explosion of movement startled me; I’d been holding on to his shirt with just enough of the fabric between my fingers to keep my balance. Now I wrapped my arms around him in a backward bear hug.
Patch accelerated onto the highway, and my thighs squeezed around 114
him. I hoped I was the only one who noticed.
When we reached my house, Patch eased the bike up the fog-drenched driveway, killed the engine, and swung off. I removed my helmet, balancing it carefully on the seat in front of me, and opened my mouth to say something along the lines of Thanks for the ride, I’ll see you on Monday .
The words dissolved as Patch crossed the driveway and headed up the porch steps.
I couldn’t begin to speculate what he was doing. Walking me to the door? Highly improbable. Then … what?
I climbed the porch after him and found him at the door. I watched, divided between confusion and escalating concern, as he drew a set of familiar keys from his pocket and inserted my house key into the bolt.
I lowered my handbag down my shoulder and unzipped the compartment where I stored my keys. They weren’t inside.
“Give me back my keys,” I said, disconcerted at not knowing how my keys had come into his possession.
“You dropped them in the arcade when you were hunting for your cell,”
he said.
“I don’t care where I dropped them. Give them back.”
Patch held up his hands, claiming innocence, and backed away from the door. He leaned one shoulder against the bricks and watched me step up to the lock. I attempted to turn the key. It wouldn’t budge.
“You jammed it,” I said, rattling the key. I dropped back a step. “Go 115
ahead. Try it. It’s stuck.”
With a sharp click , he turned the key. Hand poised on the handle, he arched his eyebrows as if to say May I?
I swallowed, burying a surge of mutual fascination and disquiet. “Go ahead. You’re not going to walk in on anyone. I’m home alone.”
“The whole night?”
Immediately, I realized it might not have been the smartest thing to say.
“Dorothea will be coming soon.” That was a lie. Dorothea was long gone. It was close to midnight.
“Dorothea?”
“Our housekeeper. She’s old—but strong. Very strong.” I tried to squeeze past him. Unsuccessfully.
“Sounds frightening,” he said, retrieving the key from the lock. He held it out for me.
“She can clean a toilet inside and out in under a minute. More like terrifying.” Taking the key, I
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