Hadley & Grace Page 8

  “What?” Hadley says.

  Grace doesn’t answer; instead she pivots away and starts running again, even more frantically than before.

  Hadley hurries after her.

  “Please, Grace,” she says as Grace pushes through a door with blue sky blazing through the glass. “At least tell me who they are.”

  The door starts to swing closed, but Mattie races past to push it open before it shuts. She holds it for Hadley, and Hadley hops through. In front of her, Grace has stopped and is scanning around her. They are in the back lot of the hospital, most of the spaces empty, a few ambulances parked off to the side.

  Grace’s eyes dart left, then right, and Hadley watches as she tries to switch the car seat to her left hand, but the diaper bag gets in the way, so she returns it to her right.

  “Please, Grace, who are they?”

  Grace’s head snaps sideways to look at her. “How would I know?”

  “Because you do. You freaked out when I mentioned their shoes. You know something.”

  Grace’s nose flares once; then she exhales and says, “I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say feds. Business suits with ugly shoes is kind of their trademark. They were probably watching the money.”

  “The money?”

  “What money?” Mattie says.

  Hadley ignores her. “Someone was watching the money?”

  Grace rolls her eyes. “It’s probably dirty. We stole dirty money, and they were watching it.”

  “You stole money?” Mattie says, her eyes flicking between Hadley and Grace.

  “Blue?” Skipper says, not following the conversation but confused just the same.

  “It’s okay, buddy, hang in there.” She looks back at Grace, trying to make sense of it. Dirty money? She’s never even had a speeding ticket, and now the FBI is chasing her because she stole dirty money?

  “But how?” she says. “How did they find us?”

  Grace considers the question, then looks down at the diaper bag. She pulls her phone from the front pocket, walks to the trash beside the door, and drops it in the hole; then she turns back to Hadley. “Now leave me alone.”

  She hurries away, racing quickly as she can toward the mall on the other side of the street.

  19

  GRACE

  Mrs. Torelli, Mattie, and the boy are racing behind her and gaining ground. Miles’s car seat, along with the diaper bag, makes it impossible for her to outrun them. Her arm trembles from the weight of the car seat, and it feels like it’s going to snap off. The day is scorching hot, making her hand slippery, and she struggles to hold on as she races toward the Nordstrom across the street.

  “I’ve got it,” Mattie says, hustling up and lifting the car seat before Grace can react.

  She wants to grab it back and scream at the girl to leave her alone, but Mattie is already racing away, carrying the car seat with surprising strength and speed.

  Mattie glances back over her shoulder. “Come on, Champ, keep up,” she says. “Run like you’re rounding third and heading for home. Fast, fast, fast.”

  Awkwardly, the boy pumps his arms and clomps his feet to catch up. He passes Grace and leaves Mrs. Torelli huffing and puffing as she crutch-hops behind.

  Grace’s heart pounds. She’s desperate for this not to be happening. She looks at Miles in his car seat and prays she has not just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  20

  HADLEY

  It takes all Hadley’s focus not to miss a landing that will send her sprawling onto the asphalt. Mattie is forty yards ahead carrying the baby, Skipper right behind her.

  After Hadley dumped her cell phone in the same trash in which Grace dumped hers, Mattie pieced things together. She ditched her own phone and took off after Grace, intuition or logic telling her that sticking with Grace was their best option.

  Hadley doesn’t disagree. Grace seems oddly adept at this, whatever this is—knowing toilets conceal safes, knowing you need to flick off the safety before you shoot a gun, knowing bad shoes with nice suits add up to the FBI.

  The cool air of the store smacks Hadley as she races after them into the Nordstrom. Grace has retaken the lead and now weaves in and out of the makeup department.

  The heel of Grace’s left shoe flaps against her foot like a flip-flop, the sole unglued, and Hadley finds herself staring at it, the defect having a profound effect on her and making her very angry at Frank.

  They dart through the shoe department and then the purses and finally into a family restroom. As soon as Hadley is through the door, Grace locks it behind them.

  Hadley collapses against the wall, her breath coming in gulps, and silently she swears that if she gets through this, she is going to quit smoking for good.

  She slips the backpack from her shoulders, and it thumps to the floor.

  Mattie sets the car seat on the changing table and places her PlayStation console beside it; then she kneels beside the backpack and unzips the main pouch. Her eyes grow wide when she sees the bundles of cash, and she looks up at Hadley. “You robbed a bank?”

  If the situation weren’t so awful, Hadley might laugh. But there is nothing funny about what is going on, and no explanation is possible, so all Hadley manages is to shake her head.

  Mattie turns to Grace. “You’re a bank robber?”

  Grace glances at her, then ignores her, her eyes flicking side to side as she paces. The room is small and crowded with the five of them, but Grace takes two steps, pivots, then takes two steps back, her bottom lip sucked in like she is thinking.

  The baby stares wide eyed; then his mouth skews sideways, and Hadley pushes off the wall, unhitches the harness, scoops him up, and drapes him over her shoulder.

  Absently, Grace hands her a half-full bottle from the striped bag, and Hadley lowers him into the crook of her arm and pops it in his mouth.

  He sucks on it greedily, entirely content, and Hadley wishes she could trade places with him.

  Skipper squats in the corner on his heels and rocks back and forth, his eyes narrowed on the black and white tiles at his feet.

  “Hey, Champ,” she says.

  He doesn’t look at her, but she feels his stress. Slow and steady is the only pace that works for Skipper, and she knows this must be terrifying.

  Awkwardly, being careful not to jostle the baby or put weight on her ankle, she lowers herself beside him. His eyes shift from the floor to the baby.

  “Would you like to feed him?” she says, forcing the quake from her voice.

  His eyes grow wide, and she watches as his stress dissolves into a look of awe at the prospect of being entrusted with such an important task.

  “Sit crisscross,” she says.

  He scoots onto his butt, then stares in wonder as the baby is placed in his arms.

  The baby looks up at him, still contentedly sucking on his bottle, and Skipper’s face melts into an expression of pure love. Hadley adjusts his left arm so it supports the baby’s head; then she shows Skipper how to hold the bottle so there’s no air in the nipple.

  “Got it?” she says.

  He nods, his eyes still fixed on the baby, his gold hair draping across his forehead.

  Mattie shifts to squat protectively beside them, there if Skipper needs her, but Hadley knows he won’t. Skipper’s incredibly trustworthy when it comes to being responsible.

  Grace continues to pace—two steps, pivot, two steps—her brow furrowed. On her sixth rotation, she stops an inch from the wall and screams, “Fuuuudge!” the word ricocheting off the tile.

  All of them freeze.

  Grace spins to face Hadley. “What was he into? Frank? Why are they following you?”

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t know,” she stammers.

  “Dad?” Mattie says. “It’s Dad’s money?” She almost sounds disappointed to discover they’re not bank robbers.

  Hadley nods as Grace runs her hands through her hair in frustration.

  “What now?” Hadley says.


  “I think he’s done, Blue,” Skipper says, and Hadley looks over to see the baby smiling up at Skipper, formula dripping from his mouth.

  She places a burp rag on her shoulder and lifts the baby to drape him over her shoulder so she can burp him.

  “What happens now,” Grace says, her eyes on the baby, “is that you are going to take your kids, and you are going to leave me alone.”

  Hadley blinks at the harshness of her words.

  “Right. Of course,” she says; then, without meaning to, she starts to cry. It’s not intentional. She’s always cried easily. Any emotion can do it—sorrow, fear, happiness . . . stress. She tries to blot the tears away with the hand not holding the baby, but they stream down her face faster than she can wipe them away.

  “Christ,” Grace says.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Hadley stammers. She uses the corner of the burp rag to dab at her face. “Of course you should go. Here.” She holds the baby out to her.

  Grace doesn’t take him. Instead she glares at Hadley, her arms folded across her chest. Hadley pulls him back, cradling him against her as she sniffs back her emotions.

  “Blue?” Skipper says, unsure what is happening.

  “It’s okay, Champ,” Hadley manages. “We’re okay.”

  “For criminy’s sake,” Grace says; then, with a huff of aggravation, she adds, “Fine. I’ll help get you out of here, but then, after that, that’s it. You’re on your own.”

  21

  GRACE

  Grace has always had a weakness when it comes to crying. Whether it be Miles or a grown woman, tears set off an alarm in her brain that floods her with a crazed need to do whatever it takes to stop them. So now, instead of her and Miles being safely on their way to freedom with close to a million dollars in her pocket, she is in the bathroom of a Nordstrom arguing with Mrs. Torelli, which is making her seriously regret her impulsive, stupid offer to help her.

  “No.” Mrs. Torelli shakes her head back and forth to emphasize the point, her black hair swaying in front of her face.

  “We need a car,” Grace says, irritated beyond belief that this woman, who she is putting her neck on the line for, is giving her a hard time.

  “I also need a smaller ass, but I’m not going to steal one.”

  “We’re not going to steal one,” Grace says. “We’re going to borrow one. They’ll get it back in a day or two.”

  Mrs. Torelli shakes her head harder. “We are not pointing a gun at someone and borrowing their car. Not for a day, not for a minute.”

  “You have a better idea?” Grace seethes.

  Mrs. Torelli’s green eyes snap wide. “Actually, I do,” she says, sounding surprised. She reaches into the backpack at her feet and pulls out a bundle of hundreds. “Catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She waves the bills back and forth so they fan the air.

  The statement catches Grace off guard. It was one of her grandmother’s favorites.

  “You okay?” Mrs. Torelli says, stopping her money waving.

  Grace manages a nod, the disconcerting feeling of free-falling returning.

  “Better idea than a gun, right?” Mrs. Torelli says.

  Grace blinks and nods again, a bit amazed that Mrs. Torelli, who doesn’t seem to have a sensible thought in her head, has had not only an idea but a rather good one—a very obvious, very sensible idea. They have money, a fact Grace keeps forgetting. Like june bugs bouncing off a windshield, the idea simply won’t stick. She has money. Lots and lots of money. Which means they can pay someone to borrow their car. Which is actually a great relief, since Grace really doesn’t want to stick a gun in some poor unsuspecting person’s face.

  Mrs. Torelli smiles a smug see-I-told-you-I-had-a-good-idea grin that Grace very much wants to swat off her face.

  “Come on, tell me I did good,” Mrs. Torelli prods.

  “I’ll tell you you did good when you actually manage it,” Grace says. “We still need to find someone willing to loan us their car for that bundle of cash, which is a whole lot easier said than done.” In Grace’s experience, strangers aren’t exactly trusting of other strangers.

  “Follow me,” Mrs. Torelli says, grabbing her crutches and hopping confidently out the door.

  She follows Mrs. Torelli across the store and out the opposite exit from where they entered. Mattie carries the car seat and the diaper bag, and Grace holds Miles, who is sound asleep on her shoulder.

  “Wait here,” Mrs. Torelli says when they’re outside but still beneath the canopy of the entrance. She sets the backpack on the ground at Grace’s feet and slides a bundle of hundreds into her skirt pocket. She hops on her crutches into the parking lot, where she stops beside the handicap spots, both of them empty.

  For several minutes, nothing happens. It’s steamy hot, and sweat pools beneath Grace’s shirt. She hasn’t showered since yesterday and is still wearing the same clothes she wore to work yesterday. Aware of her stench, she takes a small step away from Mattie.

  A few shoppers come and go, and Grace watches as Mrs. Torelli smiles sweetly at them but lets them pass without a word.

  What’s she waiting for? Grace thinks. If it was the FBI at the hospital, they’re probably studying the surveillance tapes at this very moment. She imagines them clicking frame to frame until they spot the five of them leaving through the back parking lot and heading toward the mall.

  A car, circa before-Grace-was-born, makes a wide turn into the parking lane, then an even wider turn to pull into the handicap spot nearest the entrance. It takes an eternity, but finally, the driver’s door opens and a woman with white cotton hair, a brightly colored blouse, and black sunglasses that wrap all the way around the sides of her head steps from the driver’s seat.

  The woman is frail, white, and dotted with liver spots, and Grace tenses, worried that, if Mrs. Torelli approaches her, either she will give the woman a heart attack or the woman will scream bloody murder because she thinks she is being mugged.

  Beside her, Mattie shifts her weight, nervous as well. Together they watch Mrs. Torelli hop forward, a smile on her face as if she has run into a neighbor or an old friend. She lifts her hand from her right crutch to offer a wave, and the woman stops. She looks up from her stoop and tilts her head curiously, like perhaps Mrs. Torelli is someone she might know but has forgotten.

  Mrs. Torelli says something that causes the woman to smile, and Grace relaxes. At least the woman doesn’t think she’s being mugged.

  “What do you think she’s saying?” Mattie whispers.

  “I have no idea.”

  Mrs. Torelli’s hands move with her mouth as she continues to talk, very animated as if she is telling a great story. The woman listens and several times reacts in surprise. Then she turns toward the entrance, her black glasses aimed at Grace and the kids.

  Grace, not knowing what else to do, waves, and Mattie does the same. Then, before Grace realizes what’s happening, the boy runs from her side. He crosses the street and crashes into Mrs. Torelli’s hip. His arms wrap around her, and the old woman looks down at him. The boy pushes off Mrs. Torelli and tilts his head one way, then the other, and then he reaches out to touch the woman’s shirt.

  It’s an odd gesture and one that, coming from anyone else, might be offensive, but coming from this curious kid in a Dodgers uniform, it’s nothing but sweet.

  She points to the spot he’s touching, and Grace squints to see that the pattern on her blouse is of birds, a colorful print of parrots and toucans. The woman says something, and her expression softens into a smile; then she moves her finger to another spot on her shirt and says something else.

  The boy nods along, his eyes wide and his grin mirroring hers, and as Grace watches the strange exchange, she notices how remarkable the boy is. There is something almost ethereal about him. Though he’s awkward, he is also beautiful—his eyes oversize and the soft color of worn blue jeans; his lips pink, small, and perfectly formed; and his skin so pale it glows.

  When the woman lo
oks back up at Mrs. Torelli, her face is transformed, still serious but more open and welcoming. Mrs. Torelli says something as she tousles the boy’s hair; then she points to Grace and Mattie, and Grace and Mattie wave again.

  “Do you think she’ll do it?” Mattie says.

  “I have no idea,” Grace says, unable to believe Mrs. Torelli’s gotten this far and that the woman is even considering it.

  The exchange goes on for another three or four minutes, the two women now chatting and laughing like old friends, and Grace feels her pulse rate rising with each passing second, certain that, at any moment, the feds are going to descend on them. She considers throwing something at Mrs. Torelli, like a shoe, but decides against it. Ask to borrow her car. And let’s get the hell out of here.

  And Mrs. Torelli must hear her because suddenly the money appears, and in the next second, the woman is holding out her keys.

  Mattie nudges Grace’s shoulder excitedly, and Grace nudges her back, her insides lit up with relief and disbelief, unable to believe Mrs. Torelli has done it, managed to convince the woman to loan them her car.

  She picks up the backpack, and she and Mattie walk toward the car.

  As the woman passes them, she lifts her raisin-skinned face to Grace’s and says, “I hope you get there in time.”

  Grace has no idea what she’s talking about and frankly doesn’t care, her focus entirely on hightailing it out of there.

  22

  MARK

  “Tell me you’re joking?” Mark says as he pulls his shirt from his skin, the cotton soaked through with sweat.

  It’s one of those weeks where the humidity chokes you, each breath so cloying it’s like inhaling mold into your lungs. Though he has lived in DC almost two years, he still thinks of it as his temporary home, like he is a foreign organism surviving in an unsuitable environment. The weather is always either too hot or too cold, and always too wet. Boston has weather, but it has a more clear opinion of it—fall, winter, spring, summer—all of it crisp, clear, and breathtaking.

  “Sorry, boss,” Fitz says.

  Mark closes his eyes and clamps his mouth around the expletives that threaten to escape. In front of him, Shelly holds on to the wall of the pool. Around her, half a dozen other six- and seven-year-olds cling to the edge as well, all of them watching the swim instructor, who is teaching them how to blow bubbles underwater.