The Vines Shelley Nolden (best way to read books txt) 📖

woman. When he pulled her attention back to him, she would make an offhanded comment such as, “Her nose is lovely. I bet she’s down-to-earth. You need someone like that.” Or, “The way she just wiped the rim of her wineglass: you wouldn’t have to worry about toothpaste marks in the sink.”

Just thinking about the potentiality of LAL now made him ache.

Exhaustion tugged at the edges of his brain. To stay awake, he knocked the back of his head against the fence and pictured his girlfriend in bed beside him. He imagined running his fingertips over her smooth skin, interrupted by cotton shorts and a tank top. She would be twirling a lock of her unruly hair, as black as the Mariana Trench. Too soon, she would try to slip away. At the last second, he would catch her ankle and pull her to him.

With his head resting against the fence, Finn conjured the aroma that came home with her from work—tree sap and soil. He breathed in, and the smell of decaying drywall obliterated her scent.

If he made it back to Brooklyn Heights, he would tell her all about his suspicions and this woman. Several times over the past week, he’d tried broaching the topic but had lost his nerve. Despite Lily’s reservations about marriage, he viewed her as part of his family. As a result, he didn’t want her to despise his father. But, if he really thought of her as family, didn’t that mean she had the right to know what he’d found? Absolutely.

Finn wiped at the sweat on his brow. The heat dragged down his eyelids like lead weights, and he blinked to keep them open. A short nap would make him more alert later. He set the timer on his watch for thirty minutes and stretched out on his side, facing the door.

Finn swatted his Timex to silence its chirping and sat upright.

Across the room, a metal cafeteria tray winked in the sunlight.

While he’d been sleeping, that door had opened. He’d missed his chance. Finn smacked the wall.

He moved to study the tray’s contents—a plate of weeds, a tin cup with a brownish liquid, and—he clasped his hands—his moleskin sketchbook, marred by the puncture from her scalpel. The elastic loop still held his pencil.

If she’d simply wanted him to mark the tunnel, she could have torn out the map on the first set of pages. Quite possibly she wanted to see what else he might draw.

Finn set aside the book to examine the dark liquid. Assuming it was potable, she’d either brought with her clean water or had a desalination kit. If Rollie had somehow compelled her to stay here as he tested the impact of different chemical reagents on her immune system, access to clean water might be one of his manipulation tools. Finn raised the cup and frowned. Its herbal smell could be masking a poison.

There were a million more satisfying ways she could snuff him out, Finn concluded, then took a sip. A bitter taste overwhelmed his mouth, so he quickly chugged the rest.

Turning to the salad, Finn noticed chunks of meat perfectly cooked. It had been forty-four years since New York City had disconnected North Brother from its power grid. And the smoke from a campfire would have alerted the Harbor Unit to her presence. Maybe she had a portable generator or sun oven. He poked a piece of meat that looked like chicken but likely wasn’t.

His stomach soured at the thought, but he needed the calories. He grabbed a strip and tore off a chunk with his teeth. It tasted surprisingly flavorful. He might as well try to savor this meal, considering it might be his last.

The insides of Finn’s cheeks felt brittle. The fuzziness in his brain had returned an hour ago, along with a headache.

Through the fence, he searched for a rustling treetop or burst of herons taking flight. Anything that might reveal her location.

A few broken rooftops poked through the leafy canopy, like mountain peaks among the clouds. Lily would love to paint this scene. That’s how they’d met: at a studio while he’d been on a date with a fellow grad student more interested in her wine than her canvas. Before he’d even noticed Lily, standing before her oil painting, he’d fallen in love with her talent.

He pictured her alone, pacing in their apartment, the mounting stress making her susceptible to a seizure.

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

His pulse quickened. Without turning, he knew the woman was standing beyond the observation window.

“It’s crazy this is in the middle of the city,” he answered. “So much… green.”

“I was referring to the Manhattan skyline.”

“Really?” Finn was always planning Lily’s and his next escape from that jumble of strangers, concrete, and foul-smelling garbage. Yet, from this caged view, he had to admit it did look stunning. “At sunset, when the steel glows orange, sure, but it doesn’t compare to this place.”

He shifted his gaze from the buildings jutting from the forest to the ivy-draped structures near the docks. In the shallows off the southwestern shore: that’s where his great-grandmother and great-aunt had drowned.

Each time he’d passed through those waters, he’d felt their presence. In his parents’ Long Island home hung opalotype portraits of Rolene and little Ingrid in a pinafore dress. As a child, Finn had been fascinated by their ghastly deaths.

He made a mental note to add a cross to the shoreline on his map.

Then he should sketch one of the distant high-rises for this woman. “Which is your favorite?” he asked loudly.

“The nurses’ residence,” she said in a wistful tone, free of its earlier hostility.

With renewed hope, he touched his compass. “I’d meant in the city.”

“Oh, then the Astor Hotel.” She closed her eyes, and Finn guessed she was picturing it at the heart of Times Square.

Considering that the landmark had been razed in the late 1960s, it was an odd choice. He pointed at the roof of the nurses’ home. “I can see