Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

mirror and his brow creases.
    Sawyer presses a button on his Bluetooth headset to answer a call. “T . . . I wanted to let you know Mrs. Grey is with me.” Sawyer’s eyes meet mine once more before he looks back at the road and continues. “She’s unwell. I’m taking her back to Escala . . . I see . . . Sir.” Sawyer’s eyes flick from the road to mine in the rearview mirror again. “Yes,” he agrees and hangs up.
    “Taylor?” I whisper.
    He nods.
    “He’s with Mr. Grey?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer’s look softens in sympathy.
    “Are they still in Portland?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Good. I have to keep Christian safe. My hand strays down to my belly, and I rub it consciously. And you, Little Blip. Keep you both safe.
    “Can we hurry please? I’m not feeling well.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Sawyer presses the accelerator and our car glides through the traffic.
    Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen when Sawyer and I arrive at the apartment. Since her car is missing from the garage, I assume she’s running errands with Ryan. Sawyer heads for Taylor’s office while I bolt to Christian’s study. Stumbling in panic around his desk, I wrench open the drawer to find the checkbooks. Leila’s gun slides forward into view. I feel an incongruous twinge of annoyance that Christian has not secured this weapon. He knows nothing about guns. Jeez, he could get hurt.
    After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the pistol, check to ensure it’s loaded, and tuck it into the waistband of my black slacks. I may need it. I swallow hard. I’ve only ever practiced on targets. I’ve never fired a gun at anyone; I hope Ray will forgive me . I turn my attention to tracking down the right checkbook. There are five, and only one is in the names of C. Grey and Mrs. A. Grey. I have about fifty-four thousand dollars in my own account. I have no idea how much money is in this one. But Christian must be good for five million dollars, surely. Perhaps there’s money in the safe? Crap. I have no idea of the number. Didn’t he mention the combination was it his filing cabinet? I try the cabinet, but it’s locked. Shit. I’ll have to stick to plan A.
    I take a deep breath and, in a more composed but determined manner, stride to our bedroom. The bed has been made, and for a moment, I feel a pang. Perhaps I should have slept here last night. What is the point of arguing with someone who, by their own admission, is Fifty Shades? He’s not even talking to me now. No—I do not have time to think about this.
    Quickly, I change out of my slacks, pulling on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers and put the gun in the waistband of my jeans, at my back. From the closet I fish out a large soft duffle bag. Will five million dollars fit into this? Christian’s gym bag is lying there on the floor. I open it, expecting to find it full of dirty laundry, but no—his gym kit is clean and fresh. Mrs. Jones does indeed get everywhere. I dump the contents onto the floor and stuff his gym bag into my duffle. There, that should do it. I check that I have my driver’s license as identification for the bank and check the time. It’s been thirty-one minutes since Jack called. Now I just have to get out of Escala without Sawyer seeing me.
    I make my way slowly and quietly to the foyer, aware of the CCTV camera which is trained on the elevator. I think Sawyer’s still in Taylor’s office. Cautiously, I open the foyer door, making as little noise as possible. Shutting it quietly behind me, I stand on the very threshold, up against the door, out of the view of the CCTV lens. I fish my cell phone out of my purse and call Sawyer.
    “Mrs. Grey.”
    “Sawyer, I’m in the room upstairs, will you give me a hand with something?” I keep my voice low, knowing he’s just down the hallway on the other side of this door.
    “I’ll be right with you, ma’am,” he says, and I hear his confusion. I’ve never telephoned him for help before. My heart is in my throat, pounding in a jarring, frenetic rhythm. Will this work? I hang up and listen as his footsteps cross the hallway and go up the stairs. I take another deep steadying breath and briefly contemplate the irony of escaping from my own home like a felon.
    Once Sawyer’s reached the upstairs landing, I race to the elevator and punch the call button. The doors slide open with the too-loud ping that announces the elevator is ready. I dash inside and frantically stab the button for the