even if Eudora was just an innocent messenger, why give that package to me? Certainly if they’d intercepted this from Grand Cayman, they knew what they had. They could have found someone in their employ to decode it.”
“They couldn’t before, when you gave them the notes and disk from the first deposit box, assuming that’s what they really were. They must have decided to send it on and let you do all the hard work for them.” John straightened and gathered up the binder. “We need to get out of here, Cali. Now.”
Cali tried not to react to the sudden urgency in his tone. She felt as if she’d ridden the world’s steepest roller coaster at warp speed. Her analytical mind was begging for time to sort through all the information she’d dumped into it. She also didn’t realize until that moment that she’d veered from terror over the certainty that she was going to die, to hope that a way out of this mess was possible after all. And even if they couldn’t find a way out, there was no loss in believing there was one until the last moment.
What else did she have to hold on to?
She looked at John. She had John—he was the source of her hope.
“Okay. What do we do? Where do we go?”
He was sliding the binder in her backpack, but he paused to look at her. “Did you just agree to do something without an argument?”
“I’m sure I’ll make up for it later.” There was a hint of something underneath his gibe. It sounded far too much like concern. Hope she needed, strength she needed. Concern and tenderness from John she didn’t need right now. It made her want to surrender what control she had to him, give herself entirely over to his very reliable, more than capable hands. It made her feel weak.
And weakness was the one thing she definitely could not risk. Not now. Not ever.
She turned away and went about cleaning up. She carefully disposed of the used chemicals and returned everything to its place.
Even her plans for a distracting attempt at friendship were beginning to look like a fool’s endeavor. She was coming to understand that any relationship with John McShane would not be done in half measures.
Once the sheet was passably dry, she protected it in a cover, then went to the door, flipped off the safelight, and turned the regular light back on. The sudden brightness made her squeeze her eyes shut. “What are we going to tell Quéval?”
From a point way inside her personal space, he said, “Nothing.”
She slowly opened her eyes. He was standing right in front of her. He reached for her. She braced herself for his touch, not having enough time to raise her defenses after her little internal assessment of her relationship with John.
It never came. Instead his hand went past her to the light switch. She automatically groped behind her for the doorknob as the small room was plunged into complete darkness.
“Now,
this
is a darkroom.” Her nervous laugh fell into the silence.
“I thought you had the door.”
“I do.” And an overactive imagination too. She found the knob and started to turn. His hand fell unerringly on her shoulder. She stilled.
“Cali—” His voice was rougher. Or maybe it just vibrated differently in the dark. He paused, then made a small sound, as if he was clearing his throat. Her own throat tightened.
“What?” She barely squeezed the word out.
“I, uh …”
John McShane, stuttering? She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered. In reality, she was both. “What’s wrong, McShane?” Using his last name didn’t establish the critical distance she needed to feel from him right at that moment. She wasn’t sure anything would have.
“You really are handling this—all of this—well.”
She exhaled, certain that wasn’t what he’d been about to say, but nonetheless relieved that he had. “Thanks,” she tossed off. She twisted the knob again.
“Nathan would be proud of you, Cali.”
Her hand slid off the knob. She made some noise in her
“They couldn’t before, when you gave them the notes and disk from the first deposit box, assuming that’s what they really were. They must have decided to send it on and let you do all the hard work for them.” John straightened and gathered up the binder. “We need to get out of here, Cali. Now.”
Cali tried not to react to the sudden urgency in his tone. She felt as if she’d ridden the world’s steepest roller coaster at warp speed. Her analytical mind was begging for time to sort through all the information she’d dumped into it. She also didn’t realize until that moment that she’d veered from terror over the certainty that she was going to die, to hope that a way out of this mess was possible after all. And even if they couldn’t find a way out, there was no loss in believing there was one until the last moment.
What else did she have to hold on to?
She looked at John. She had John—he was the source of her hope.
“Okay. What do we do? Where do we go?”
He was sliding the binder in her backpack, but he paused to look at her. “Did you just agree to do something without an argument?”
“I’m sure I’ll make up for it later.” There was a hint of something underneath his gibe. It sounded far too much like concern. Hope she needed, strength she needed. Concern and tenderness from John she didn’t need right now. It made her want to surrender what control she had to him, give herself entirely over to his very reliable, more than capable hands. It made her feel weak.
And weakness was the one thing she definitely could not risk. Not now. Not ever.
She turned away and went about cleaning up. She carefully disposed of the used chemicals and returned everything to its place.
Even her plans for a distracting attempt at friendship were beginning to look like a fool’s endeavor. She was coming to understand that any relationship with John McShane would not be done in half measures.
Once the sheet was passably dry, she protected it in a cover, then went to the door, flipped off the safelight, and turned the regular light back on. The sudden brightness made her squeeze her eyes shut. “What are we going to tell Quéval?”
From a point way inside her personal space, he said, “Nothing.”
She slowly opened her eyes. He was standing right in front of her. He reached for her. She braced herself for his touch, not having enough time to raise her defenses after her little internal assessment of her relationship with John.
It never came. Instead his hand went past her to the light switch. She automatically groped behind her for the doorknob as the small room was plunged into complete darkness.
“Now,
this
is a darkroom.” Her nervous laugh fell into the silence.
“I thought you had the door.”
“I do.” And an overactive imagination too. She found the knob and started to turn. His hand fell unerringly on her shoulder. She stilled.
“Cali—” His voice was rougher. Or maybe it just vibrated differently in the dark. He paused, then made a small sound, as if he was clearing his throat. Her own throat tightened.
“What?” She barely squeezed the word out.
“I, uh …”
John McShane, stuttering? She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered. In reality, she was both. “What’s wrong, McShane?” Using his last name didn’t establish the critical distance she needed to feel from him right at that moment. She wasn’t sure anything would have.
“You really are handling this—all of this—well.”
She exhaled, certain that wasn’t what he’d been about to say, but nonetheless relieved that he had. “Thanks,” she tossed off. She twisted the knob again.
“Nathan would be proud of you, Cali.”
Her hand slid off the knob. She made some noise in her
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