Hans has been very calm since we left the hotel.
He casually drove us to an apartment building not far from where we live, and he had us get out of the pickup truck and into a Prius.
It’s the least likely car I could imagine Hans driving. But that’s probably the point since we’re driving back into our neighborhood, and no one who’s looking for either of us would look at this silver hybrid.
Hans makes a few turns and pulls over to the side of the street behind a giant pickup truck with the name of a construction company on the back.
I know we’re close to Holly Court, but I honestly don’t know all the little streets around ours to pinpoint our current location. With the thick trees between lots, it’s hard to tell sometimes.
The house we’re parked in front of is under construction, with half of a garage attached to the front of it. Through the partially framed walls, I can see a few guys milling around inside, but no one is paying attention to us.
Hans turns the car off, then faces me. “I don’t want you to come, because there’s a chance we might run into trouble. But I’m not going to leave you here alone, so you’re coming with me.”
I eye the house. “We’re going inside?”
“No, we’re going behind,” Hans says, then pushes his door open.
Well, that was cryptic.
I follow him out of the car.
Hans is back in his all-black getup, minus the gun holster and knife, and I’m in a pair of pink jean shorts and a worn boy band T-shirt. Both items of clothing I instantly recognized as things I’d misplaced months ago. I’d said a silent thank-you to my mom for teaching me to only keep clothing I like and to donate anything that doesn’t fit anymore. I can’t imagine what I’d do if Hans had packed a bag full of stuff that stopped fitting two sizes ago.
Meeting Hans on the sidewalk, I take his offered hand.
Side by side, we probably look mismatched. The girly girl and the intense assassin. But my palm fits in his perfectly.
