Devious - Lisa Jackson [158]
He crushed out the Camel and met her at his bike, its chrome pipes and black paint so shiny it looked wet as it gleamed beneath the glowing fluorescent tubes.
“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual, even though his pulse had kicked up just at the sight of her. “What’s going on? What’re you doing?”
“Escaping,” she said, and flashed him a nervous smile that tore at his heart.
“From the convent.” It was a statement.
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get out?”
“We all know how. It’s not a prison, not really, though lately . . .” She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Can we just go?”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
“At one in the morning?”
“If that’s what time it is now, then yes.” Her big brown eyes implored him, and he figured, what did he have to lose? “Sure,” he said, wondering where the hell this would go. “Hop on.”
The honest thing to do, Lucia knew, as she sat in the all-night diner in the middle of the night, would be to ask Cruz to take her to the bus station, to tell him that she never wanted to see him again and ask him not to follow.
But that would only lead to more problems.
More lies.
More heartbreak.
And she wouldn’t really be able to disappear.
No, she had to carry out her hastily conceived plan. There were holes in it, yes, she knew that, but she would rely on God to see her through this.
She had to dupe him.
And then atone like crazy.
Please help me, she silently prayed, then dredged an oily French fry through a pool of ketchup in her shrimp basket. Cruz had found the diner, located on the outskirts of town, the place nearly dead.
Paddle fans moved lazily over a long Formica counter with a metallic trim and a row of empty stools covered in red faux leather. The only waitress, a slim African American, was refilling the slowly turning pie display with thick slices of key lime, Dutch apple, banana cream, and Georgia peach pies, if the boxes stacked on the counter were to be believed.
The place reeked of well-used cooking oil, fried onions, and a thin layer of smoke, which Lucia was able to view through the opening between the back of the counter and the kitchen. Past the hanging pots and pans, she noticed the open door that led to the parking area.
A fry cook in a grease-splattered apron was standing in the shadows, shoulder propped on the exterior doorjamb as he sucked hard on a cigarette. With the cook was a busboy who was leaning on a broom while lighting up.
Cruz and Lucia were seated in a corner booth, toward the back of the long, narrow building, away from the plate-glass windows looking out onto the highway. She was eating the remains of her shrimp basket; he was ignoring his cheeseburger but working on his second beer.
His hair was mussed and shining black, his eyes a deep chocolate brown and rimmed in suspicion. The tiny scar slicing one eyebrow, reminding her of the accident that nearly took her life, seemed a little more evident today.
“So you’re leaving the convent, and you think it’s best if you run away?” he asked, his brown eyes slitted as he studied her.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of the murders. It’s . . . unsafe.”
“You think the killer will come after you?”
She wanted to tell him about the voice, about her fear, about how she was compelled to do its bidding, whatever it was, but she couldn’t—didn’t want to sound as if she’d totally gone off her rocker.
Cruz knew enough about her ESP, or curse or whatever you wanted to call it, as it was.
“You found the bodies?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“I . . . I was up. I guess I heard something. I can’t really say. I just know that I sensed something was wrong.” That was downplaying the urgency she’d felt, the compulsion to go where her mind led her, the urgency with which the hiss had prodded her.
“You’re the one who sent Camille Renard’s prepaid cell phone to the police, right?”
“Oh. You . . . you know about that?”
“Put two and two together. Found you near the post office, then overheard my brother telling