Free Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) by Abigail Graham Page B

ties to organized crime. Guy like that can’t run for office unless it’s to sell books.”
    “Does he?”
    “What, sell books?”
    She sighs. “No, have ties to organized crime.”
    “I don’t know.”
    We’re both silent for a moment. The only sound is road noise and the throaty hum of the engine. I squeeze the wheel harder.
    “Do you remember what happened that night?”
    “No. Last thing I remember is going to the restaurant. I blacked out then I woke up weeks later in the burn ward. They’d already done the skin grafts.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I know. Everyone is.”
    “I mean I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
    Ellie looks at me in the rearview mirror. With her in the passenger’s seat to my right, I can’t see her face. She has her hood pulled over the scars.
    “You can put your hood back. You don’t need to hide your face from me.”
    “Yeah, whatever. I need to hide it from everyone else.”
    “Ellie—”
    “Somebody might recognize me. If they don’t recognize you first.”
    I keep driving.
    “Do you even have any idea how to get where we’re going?”
    “I could put it in my GPS, but where’s the fun in that?”
    When the exit comes up to head west on the interstate, I take it.
    “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Ellie mutters.
    “Me either. I didn’t think you’d come. Why did you?”
    She slinks down in the seat, lowers her hood, and fiddles with her hair, like she doesn’t know whether to pull it back or drape it over her face.
    “I don’t know. I…” She looks out the window.
    “We’re going to get caught.”
    “Yeah, but I want my father to have time to cool down before he catches me. I’m less likely to end up in a ditch that way.”
    “You really think he’d hurt you?”
    I choke the wheel in my hands again. “He ripped my heart out. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
    “What do you mean, he ripped your heart out?”
    I glance at her quickly.
    “Oh.”
    “I didn’t want to go. They literally carried me onto the plane.”
    I grip the wheel harder. “He said to me, ‘I’m not going to let you fuck up your life over your first pussy.’ I didn’t say anything, so he just kept talking. ‘A congressman or a senator can’t have a wife with a fucked-up face. If you make it to the White House, your wife has to be on the cover of Mom’s Magazine or some shit. The scars will earn you some sympathy points at first, but people will get disgusted with her quick. Last thing anybody needs to see is you making out with Frankenstein.’ I tried to argue with him but he just said half your face was fucked up and if you even lived, you’d be a freak show.”
    It just pours out of me all at once. I scrub at my eyes and force myself to slow my breathing. Christ, Jack. Get it together.
    Ellie just sits there.
    “He said that about me?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What did you say?”
    I drive for a while and squirm in the seat. I scrub my hand over my chin and scratch at my cheek.
    “I told him I didn’t care how you looked, I love you.”
    “Ten years, Jack.”
    “Eight. I wasn’t even an adult for two of them.”
    “You had summers off from college.”
    “Actually,” I sigh, “I didn’t. I did a double major in business and economics. I had to take summer courses to graduate on time. All three summer interims.”
    “Okay, fine, but—”
    “I was in the Army, Ellie. You can’t just go bopping halfway around the world for the weekend. They kinda tell you when you’re allowed to leave.”
    “You could have tried calling me, or…”
    “If I tried calling, my father would know. He pays for my phones. Or one of his assistants would know.”
    “So—”
    I sigh, exasperated. “I wrote letters.”
    “You did?”
    “Yes. I sent one every week at first, then once a month when you weren’t answering. When I was in combat it was tough getting them out, but I did. Once every six weeks or so. You never got any?”
    She sits up and shakes her head. “No.