Keep Me(83)

He turns toward me, and his brown eyes go round with shock. “Nora? What—what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know . . . just—just some shopping . . .” I hope I don’t sound as dumbfounded as I feel. Leah and Jake? My best friend Leah and my former crush Jake? It’s as if my world just tilted on its axis. I had no idea they were dating. I knew Leah broke up with her boyfriend a couple of months ago because she mentioned it in an email, but she never told me she’d hooked up with Jake.

As I look at them, standing next to each other with identical uncomfortable expressions on their faces, I realize it’s not altogether illogical. They both go to the University of Michigan, and they have an overlapping circle of friends and acquaintances from our high school. They even have a traumatic experience in common—having their friend/date abducted—that could’ve brought them closer together.

I also realize in that moment that all I feel when I look at them is relief.

Relief that they seem happy together, that the darkness from my life didn’t leave a permanent stain on Jake’s. There’s no regret for what might have been, no jealousy—only an anxiety that grows with every minute Julian spends in Al-Quadar’s hands.

“I’m sorry, Nora,” Leah says, giving me a wary look. “I should’ve told you about us earlier. It’s just that—”

“Leah, please.” Pushing aside my stress and exhaustion, I manage to give her a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to explain. Really. I’m married, and Jake and I only had one date. You don’t owe me any explanations . . . I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Do you want to, um, grab some coffee with us?” Jake offers, sliding his arm around Leah’s waist in a gesture that strikes me as unusually protective. I wonder if it’s me he’s protecting her from. If so, he’s even smarter than I thought.

“We could catch up since you’re in town and all,” he continues, and I shake my head in refusal.

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” I say, and the regret in my voice is genuine. I desperately want to catch up with them, but I can’t have them near me in case Al-Quadar chooses this particular moment to strike. I have no idea how the terrorists would get to me in the middle of a crowded mall, but I’m certain they’ll find a way. Glancing down at my phone, I pretend to be dismayed at the time and say apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m already running late . . .”

“Is your husband here with you?” Leah asks, frowning, and I see Jake’s face turning white. He probably didn’t consider the possibility of Julian being nearby when he extended his invitation to me.

I shake my head, my throat tightening as the horrible reality of the situation threatens to choke me again. “No,” I say, hoping I sound halfway normal. “He couldn’t make it.”

“Oh, okay.” Leah’s frown deepens, a puzzled look entering her eyes, but Jake regains some of his color. He’s obviously relieved that he won’t be confronted by the ruthless criminal who’s caused him so much grief.

“I really have to run,” I say, and Jake nods, his grip on Leah’s waist tightening to keep her close.

“Good luck,” he says to me, and I can tell he’s glad I’m leaving. He’s been raised to be polite, however, so he adds, “It was good seeing you,” though his eyes say something different.

I give him an understanding smile. “You too,” I say and, waving goodbye to Leah, I head for the mall exit.



* * *



I forget about Jake and Leah as soon as I step out into the parking lot. Painfully alert, I scan the area before reluctantly pulling out my phone and calling for a cab. I would hang out at the mall longer, but I don’t want to chance running into my friends again. My next stop will be Michigan Avenue in Chicago, where I can browse some high-end stores while praying that I get taken before I completely lose my mind.

The cold wind bites through my clothes as I stand there waiting, my thigh-length peacoat and thin cashmere sweater offering little protection from the chilly temperature outside. It takes a solid half hour before the cab finally pulls up to the curb. By that time, I’m half-frozen, and my nerves are stretched so tightly I’m ready to scream.

Yanking the door open, I climb into the back of the car. It’s a clean-looking cab, with a thick glass partition separating the front seat from the back and the windows in the back lightly tinted. “The city, please.” My voice is sharper than it needs to be. “The stores on Michigan Avenue.”