The Getaway Read Free

now,” Seth murmured. “You’re all right. I have you. You’ve got to breathe.”
    She let him hold her and tried to obey, snatching deep, shuddering breaths of air. Her head throbbed, the heavy acceptance of Donatti’s death suddenly pushing against everything else she had to worry about—Cyrus, the ruined car, the fact that she was lost in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn’t know. A man who was warm, and comforting, and had probably saved her life.
    Why would she think that?
    “Bathroom,” she murmured.
    He drew back. “What?”
    “I’m sorry. I think I...need a bathroom.”
    “Of course.” He rubbed her shoulder, settled a hand at the small of her back and guided her gently inside. He pointed across the bedroom. “Through there, to the right. Can you make it?”
    She nodded and hitched a watery smile. “Thank you.”
    “Any time.”
    Jazz followed his directions and closed herself in a spacious bathroom appointed in rustic splendor. Almost everything was wood, from the walls and floor to the cabinets enclosing the sink and the large corner bathtub. Even the toilet seat was polished wood. At the far wall, sheer curtains covered a block-glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling.
    She relieved herself, and the fluttering nausea in her gut abated a little. She’d have to get it together fast. Get hold of Akila and Ian, tell them what happened. Somehow make arrangements to retrieve Donatti’s body.
    Jesus. They’d have to bury him. Have a funeral. The thought sent her stomach roiling again.
    She fought it, stood and dressed. The shelves by the window caught her eye. Folded towels, soap, bottles of shampoo. And a...toaster? Frowning, she moved closer and stared. It was an old radio. A ‘60s-style transistor, streaked with rust and dented near the top. Beside it was a scratched Polaroid camera with a cracked eye—not the plastic flip-out style, but a metal monster with an accordion lens. The kind that hadn’t been made since the ‘70s.
    Her mind flashed to the decades-old wrecks they’d passed last night, and a cold splinter lodged in her chest. First classic cars, now this battered old junk. It didn’t make sense.
    Neither did waking up unharmed. She knew she’d smashed into the wheel.
    She made her way to the sink and turned the faucet on with trembling hands. This was all wrong. And it wasn’t a dream. She washed, splashed water on her face and glanced up, expecting to catch a glimpse of her own disturbed face.
    There was no mirror.
    With no concrete idea why that bothered her, she dried with the towel hanging by the sink and scanned the room. No mirror on the walls or the back of the door. Block glass window. The French doors in the bedroom had been mesh screen panels, framed with more block glass. There were no smooth, reflective surfaces.
    The djinn could use reflective surfaces as transporters to move them anywhere in the world that had a mirror or window they could picture in their heads. Donatti could’ve used one to get them home in a few seconds. If he wasn’t dead.
    The reminder dizzied her, and she grabbed the sink to keep from falling over. Pull it together, Jazz. She had to get out of here, find other people, phones, transportation. Get away from Seth, before she found out what was wrong with him, with this place. Instinct told her that once she discovered the truth, it’d be too late.
     
    * * *
     
    “ W as he your husband?”
    Jazz, seated at a table in a charming little kitchen that made her want to puke some more, gripped the mug he’d given her and avoided meeting Seth’s eyes. She wanted to tell him not to refer to Donatti in the past tense, but that wouldn’t do any good. “No,” she said. “My...boyfriend. I guess.”
    Seth sat across from her. “You guess?”
    “My son’s father. We live together.” Lived together. Grief bubbled through her, and she blinked rapidly as her hands around the coffee cup blurred. She’d never get used to this.
    “You