A Blind Eye by Julie Daines

to the car.
    We couldn’t stay here. And I wouldn’t go home. I’d never get into Canada with Scarlett, not legally anyway. I had no idea how to attempt an undercover border crossing, so that ruled out my aunt’s house.
    â€œOkay. Here’s the plan”—at least the best plan I could come up with—“I’ll take you back to Portland. We can hang out there for a few hours, blend into the crowd, until this Simon guy answers his phone. Then we’ll figure out a way to get you on a plane back to London. Will he meet you at the airport?”
    She nodded. “I think so. Or I can take the tube.”
    I dialed his number and passed the phone to Scarlett.
    â€œHe’s still not picking up,” she said.
    Shoot. I could give her some money to pay for a taxi when she got to the London airport. Maybe I could throw in some extra. I had a couple grand, but was it enough to get her back on her feet? To help her move out of Simon’s apartment? They must have assisted living places for people with disabilities, and she’d mentioned a government stipend. Would the men who’d searched the cabin go all the way back to England to kidnap her again? It was hard to believe they’d gone to all that trouble to kidnap her just because she dreamed about a murder. It didn’t seem like she posed that much of a threat.
    After a quick stop at a fast-food drive-thru, we merged onto the highway, backtracking west toward Portland.
    â€œScarlett, where were you when you found my car? Before the cemetery? If I knew how you got away from them and into my car, maybe we can find out who is behind all this.”
    I hoped that if I had something solid, some real evidence, I could convince Scarlett to go to the police. I’d already proven I was no Jason Bourne. These were problems for professionals—CIA, FBI—whoever solved nasty crimes that spanned two continents. If I couldn’t get her home soon, I’d have to go to the police whether she wanted to or not. But if we could figure out who had taken her, maybe the police would be more willing to listen and do something about it.
    â€œWhen they put me in the suitcase, they must’ve drugged me,” she said. “When I woke up, I was inside a locked room. Sometimes being blind pays off, because the gits did nothing to secure the windows. I waited until dark—it wasn’t long—then crawled out.”
    â€œHow did you know you wouldn’t fall five stories to your death?” It seemed like a big risk. But maybe that was a gamble she was willing to make rather than end up on the operating table.
    â€œI smelled grass and mulch and felt coolness from the earth on my face.”
    The kidnappers weren’t the only ones to underestimate the blind girl—though I hated lumping myself in with them. She continually surprised me with her ability to use her other senses to navigate the darkness of her world.
    â€œI went in the direction of quiet. I walked for a long time, until I found myself in a cemetery. I hid as best I could, not knowing for certain if I was totally concealed. Then I heard your car, and I figured, why not? It couldn’t be worse.”
    She wrenched the knife stuck in my guilty heart, twisting it relentlessly. “You mean until I dumped you on the interstate? I know I said this already, but I really am sorry about that.”
    â€œI know. It’s over, and you’ve made up for it, and more.”
    â€œSure.”
    She leaned her head back and lifted her face toward the sun again. She seemed to like that. I turned on the stereo and selected a playlist. At the very least, I could try to do something that might bring her a little happiness before I sent her home. Something fun. What would a British punk girl like?
    I considered stopping at Multnomah Falls for some sightseeing but quickly decided that was a worthless idea. Then I remembered her comment about not having