Page 49 of Blood Queen
We don’t speak. We don’t have to.
I just hold on.
By the time we reach North Carolina, the sky is a warm orange. Truman and I step off the bus with our bags, stretching our legs. His parents gave him money to purchase necessities when he arrives so that he wouldn’t have to haul a boat load of belongings with him on the bus.
“She said she’d meet us at a café near the station,” he says, scanning his phone.
We walk a few blocks, the city humming with life. I stare at everything—the people, the traffic lights, the way the streets seem to breathe with movement. It’s overwhelming, but Truman stays close, his palm resting against my lower back like an anchor.
We spot Marcy before she spots us. She looks younger than I expected, with sharp eyes and a leather notebook clutched in her hand. She’s tapping furiously at her phone when we approach.
Truman clears his throat. “Marcy?”
She looks up, assessing us in a blink. “Truman and Kid, I presume.”
I nod. “That’s us.”
She waves us inside, gesturing toward a booth in the corner. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
Truman slides in beside me, close but relaxed. I know better, though—he’s watching, assessing, making sure she’s trustworthy.
She folds her arms, leaning in. “So. What made you reach out?”
I glance at Truman, and he nods.
“I think you have an idea.”
Her lips curve slightly. “Maybe. But I want to hear it from you.”
I meet her gaze, steady. “I want to know the truth.”
Marcy studies me for a long moment, then exhales. “Alright, then,” she says, flipping open her notebook. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Truman’s hand tightens around mine beneath the table. I squeeze back and take a breath.
“Holy shit. You’re really her? Little Evany Testa?” Marcy leans back in her seat stunned at all the information I just dumped on her.
Marcy is sharp. Too sharp. The kind of person who sees everything at once and decides which piece of information to sink her teeth into first. She hasn’t stopped watching me since we sat down, her pen tapping rhythmically against her notebook. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it.
Truman doesn’t look away either. But his attention is on her, his posture tight, his jaw locked.
“I’ll get straight to it,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Would going to the FBI do any good? Would they help her?”
Marcy exhales through her nose, flicking a glance at me before leaning back in the booth. “Maybe,” she says. “But the key word there ismaybe.”
Truman’s frown deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Testas have people in a lot of places,” she explains, propping her chin on her hand. “And while the FBI isn’tknownfor being corruptible, I wouldn’t bet my life on every agent being clean. The wrong one catches wind of Evany, and suddenly, they know exactly where to find her. You willing to take that risk?”
Truman tenses beside me, his hand tightening into a fist against his thigh.
I don’t blame him. My options seem rather limited. Maybe Papa was right, maybe I should disappear into the wind and live a quiet life forever.
I can feel the weight of her words in my bones. The cold, creeping knowledge that no matter how far I run, how many miles stretch between me and these people, I am still tangled up in their world.
“So what?” Truman challenges. “You’re saying we donothing?”
Marcy studies him, then me. Her eyes are calculating, like she’s measuring us up for something. And then she says it.
