by Jack Mars
“Hey,” Sara said simply.
“Hi.” Maya snapped out of the initial surprise of seeing her dramatically different sister and smiled. She dropped her green duffel and stepped forward for a hug that Sara seemed grateful to return, almost as if she’d been waiting to see how she might be received by her big sister. “I missed you. I wanted to come home right away when Dad told me what happened…”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Sara said candidly. “I would’ve felt awful if you left school for me. Besides, I didn’t want you to see me… like that.”
Sara slid out of her sister’s arms and grabbed up the duffel bag before Maya could protest. “Come in,” she beckoned. “Welcome home, I guess.”
Welcome home. Strange how little it felt like home. Maya followed her inside the condo. It was a nice enough place, modern with lots of natural light, though rather austere. If not for a few dishes in the sink and the television humming in the living room at low volume, Maya wouldn’t have believed anyone actually lived there. There were no pictures on the walls, no décor that spoke to any sort of personality.
Kind of like a blank slate. Though she had to admit that a blank slate was appropriate for their situation.
“So this is it,” Sara announced, as if reading Maya’s mind. “At least for now. There are only two bedrooms, so we’ll have to share a room…”
“I’m fine with the couch,” Maya offered.
Sara smiled thinly. “I don’t mind sharing. It’d be like when we were little. It’d be… nice. Having you around.” She cleared her throat. Despite how often they had talked over the phone, it was painfully obviously how oddly awkward it was to be in the same room again.
“Where’s Dad?” Maya asked suddenly, and perhaps too loudly, in an effort to diffuse the tension.
“Should be home any minute. He had to stop off after work and get a few things for tomorrow.”
After work. She made it sound so casual, as if he was leaving an office for the day instead of CIA headquarters in Langley.
Sara perched herself upon a stool at the bar-like countertop that separated the kitchen and small dining room. “How’s school?”
Maya leaned against the countertop on her elbows. “School is…” She trailed off. Though she was only eighteen, she was in her second year at West Point in New York. She’d tested out of high school early and was accepted to the military academy on the merit of a letter from former President Eli Pierson, whose assassination attempt had been thwarted by Agent Zero. Now she was top of her class, perhaps even top of the whole academy. But a recent tiff with her sort-of ex-boyfriend Greg Calloway had evolved into hazing and some bullying. Maya refused to give in to it, but she had to admit it made life irritating lately. Greg had a lot of friends, all of them older boys at the academy whom Maya had shown up at least once or twice.
“School is great,” she said at last, forcing a smile. Sara had enough problems of her own. “But kind of boring. I want to know what’s going on with you.”
Sara almost snorted, and then held her hands out at her sides in a grand gesture at the condo. “You’re looking at it. I’m here all day, every day. I watch TV. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t have any money. Dad got me a phone on his plan so he can keep an eye on my calls and texts.” She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s like one of those white-collar prisons they send politicians and celebrities to.”
Maya smiled sadly at the joke, and then cautiously asked: “But you’re… clean?”
Sara nodded. “As I can be.”
Maya frowned at that. She knew a lot about a lot of things, but recreational drug use wasn’t one of them. “What does that mean?”
Sara stared at the granite counter, tracing a small circle on the smooth surface with an index finger. “It means it’s hard,” she admitted quietly. “I thought it would get easier after those first few days, after all the junk was out of my system. But it didn’t. It’s like… it’s like my brain remembers the feeling, still craves it. The boredom doesn’t help. Dad doesn’t want me to get a job just yet, because he doesn’t want me having any extra money lying around until I’m better.” She scoffed and added, “He’s been pushing me to study for my GED.”
And you should, Maya very nearly blurted out, but she held her tongue. Sara had dropped out of high school after she was granted emancipation, but the last thing she needed right then was a lecture, especially when she was opening up like she was.
But one thing was clear: Sara’s problem was worse than Maya had realized. She’d thought her younger sister had just been experimenting recreationally, and that the near-OD on pills had been an accident. Yet the opposite was true. Sara was a recovering addict. And there was nothing that Maya could do to help her. She didn’t know anything about addiction.
But is that really true?
She suddenly recalled a night, about two weeks earlier, when she’d woken her dorm mate by coming in from the gym at one in the morning. The irritated cadet had grumbled at her, half-asleep, something about being a “workout junkie.” And then Maya had stayed up for another hour studying, only to be out on the track for a jog at six the next morning.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized she knew all about addiction. Wasn’t she addicted to proving herself? Had she not been chasing a dragon of her own success?
And her father, even after all the tumult of the last two years, had still gone back to the job. Sara still craved the chemical high the way that Maya craved accomplishment and their dad craved the thrill of the chase—because maybe they were all just a family of addicts.
But Sara is the only one that’s acknowledged it. Maybe she’s the smartest of all of us.
“Hey.” Maya reached over and put her hand on Sara’s. “You can beat this. You’re stronger than you know. I have faith in you.”
Sara smiled with half her mouth. “I’m glad someone does.”
“I’ll talk to Dad,” Maya offered. “See if he won’t relax a little bit, give you some freedom—”
“No,” Sara interrupted. “Dad isn’t the problem. He’s been great to me; probably better than I deserve.” Her gaze swept the floor. “The problem is me. Because I know damn well that if I had a hundred bucks in my pocket and could go wherever I wanted, he’d have to come find me again. And next time he might not get there fast enough.”
Maya’s heart broke at the obvious torment reflected in her sister’s eyes, and then again at the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help. All she had were empty words of encouragement, which were all but meaningless in the scope of solving her problems.
Suddenly she felt incredibly out of place in that foreign kitchen. They had been through so much together. Growing up. Mourning their mother. Discovering their father. Family vacations and fleeing from would-be murderers. The kinds of things that anyone would assume would bring two people closer together, create an unbreakable bond, had instead created the vacuous silence that ballooned in the space between them.
Was this how it was going to be now? Would the girl before her just continue becoming more and more unrecognizable until they were mere strangers who happened to be related?
Maya wanted to say something, anything, to prove herself wrong. Reminisce about some happy memory. Or call her Squeak, the childhood nickname that hadn’t been used in god-only-knew how long.
Before she could say anything at all, the doorknob rattled behind them. Maya spun as the door swung open, her fists balling instinctively at her sides. Her nerves still jumped when it came to unexpected intrusions.
But it was no intruder. It was her father, carrying two grocery bags and taking seemingly cautious steps into the kitchen of his own home at the sight of her.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He set the grocery bags on the floor and took a step toward her, arms opening, but then paused. “Can I…?”
She nodded once, and he put his arms around her. It was a ginger hug at first, a hesitant hug—but then Maya noticed,
strangely enough, that he still smelled the same. It was an overpoweringly nostalgic scent, a scent of her childhood, of a thousand other hugs. And maybe she was older, and maybe Sara looked different; maybe she still wasn’t entirely sure who her father was and maybe they were standing in a new place that she was supposed to call home, but in that moment none of that felt like it mattered. The moment felt like home, and she leaned into it, squeezing him tightly.
*
Maya tugged open the sliding glass door at the back of the condo, pulling on a hooded sweatshirt against the chilly night air. The condo had no yard, but did have a small deck outfitted with a stubby table and two chairs.
Her dad was in one of them, sipping from a glass of something amber-colored. Maya lowered herself into the other, noting how clear the night was.
“Sara asleep?” he asked.
Maya nodded. “Dozed off on the couch.”
“She’s been doing a lot of that lately,” he said, sounding troubled. “Sleeping, that is.”
She forced a light chuckle. “She’s always slept a lot. I wouldn’t read too much into it.” She gestured to the glass in his hand. “Beer?”
“Iced tea.” He grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t been drinking since going back to work.”
“And how’s that going?”
“Not bad,” he admitted. “I haven’t been on any field assignments lately, since I’m taking care of Sara and still getting back into shape.”
“I was going to mention that you lost some weight. You’re looking much better than…”
Than the last time I saw you, Maya was going to say, but she stopped herself, because she didn’t want to dredge up the memory of that visit, when she’d brought Greg to the house, got angry, stormed out, abandoned Greg there, and told her dad she never wanted to see him again.
“Thanks,” he said quickly, clearly thinking the same. “And school is going well?”
She had already told him so earlier, over dinner, but it seemed as if he didn’t quite believe her—and she reminded herself that part of his job was the ability to read people. There was little use lying to him, but that didn’t mean she had to share either.
“I don’t really want to talk about school,” she told him plainly. She didn’t want to talk about how things sometimes went missing from her locker. Or how boys shouted unkind things at her across the quad. Or the feeling she couldn’t shake that it was only the beginning of the torment, that the more she tried to ignore them the more the boys at West Point would escalate.
“Fair enough.” Her dad cleared his throat. “Um, there is something I should mention though. I should have asked you first. But Maria had nowhere to go tomorrow, and it didn’t seem right…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Maya grinned at his awkward attempt to ask her permission. “Of course I don’t mind, and you don’t need to clear it with me.”
He shrugged. “I guess you’re right. It’s just—you’re so grown up now. Both of you. I missed out on some important parts.”
Maya nodded slightly, though she didn’t feel the need to vocalize her agreement. Instead she changed the subject. “It’s a good thing you’re doing for Sara. Helping her like this. She sounds like she really needs it.”
This time it was her dad who nodded slightly, staring out over the deck at nothing in particular. “I’d do anything I could for her,” he said wistfully. “But I’m afraid it still won’t be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a sip of his iced tea before he explained. “Last week we went to dinner, just the two of us, to this place downtown. It was nice. We talked. She seemed okay. When the check came, I paid with a hundred-dollar bill. And something happened; it was like a shadow passed over her. I saw her look at the money, and then the door, and…”
Her dad fell silent, but Maya didn’t need him to explain any further. Now she understood Sara’s comment from earlier; she had actually been thinking about grabbing the money and making a run for it. She wouldn’t have gotten far with only a hundred bucks, but she was probably thinking in the very short term. Getting a fix wherever she could.
“I’m sure you noticed,” her dad continued, “the place is pretty plain in there. I haven’t really put much out, because…”
Because you’re worried she might steal it. Pawn it. Run off again. The CIA hadn’t sent him anywhere in the time that Sara had been living with him, but sooner or later they would—and then what? Would Sara just sit here and wait for him to come back? Or would she be a flight risk, if left to her own devices and demons?
“It’s so much worse than I thought,” Maya murmured. Then, resolutely and without a second thought she added, “I’m staying.”
“What?”
She nodded. “I’m staying. There’s only three more weeks of school before Christmas break. I can make up the work. I’ll stay here through the holidays, go back to New York after New Year’s.”
“No,” Zero told her firmly. “Absolutely not—”
“She needs help. She needs support.” Maya wasn’t sure what sort of help or support she could offer her sister, but she would have time to figure it out. “It’s okay. I can handle it.”
“It’s not your job.” Her dad leaned over and touched her hand. She nearly flinched, but then her fingers closed around his. “I appreciate the offer. I’m sure Sara would too. But you have goals. You have a dream. You’ve worked hard for it, and you need to see it through.”
Maya blinked, a little taken aback. Her father had never once shown support for her goal of joining the CIA, of becoming the youngest agent in history. In fact, he had often attempted to talk her out of it, but she remained steadfast.
He smiled, seeming to pick up on her surprise. “Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t like it at all. But you’re an adult now; it’s your life. Your decision to make.”
She smiled back. He had changed. And maybe there was a chance after all to get back to what they once were. But there was still the matter of what to do about Sara.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that Sara might need more help than we can give her. I think she might need some professional help.”
Her dad nodded as if he already knew it—as if he’d been thinking the same thing himself, but needed to hear it from someone else. She squeezed his hand gently, reassuringly, and they let the silence reign over them. Neither of them knew what would come next, but for now, all that mattered was they were home.
CHAPTER THREE
Whoever named New York “the city that never sleeps” has never been to Old Havana, Alvaro mused as he wound his way toward the harbor and the Malecón. In the daylight, Old Havana was a beautiful part of the city, a rich blend of history and art, food and culture, yet the streets were jammed with traffic and the air was filled with the sounds of construction from the various restoration projects to bring the oldest part of Havana into the twenty-first century.
But at night… night was when the city showed its true colors. The lights, the scents, the music, the laughter: and the Malecón was the place to be. The narrow streets surrounding Calle 23, where Alvaro lived, was vibrant enough but most of the native Cuban bars closed down at midnight. Here on the broad esplanade at the edge of the harbor, the nightclubs stayed open and the music swelled ever louder and the drinks continued to flow in many of the bars and lounges.
The Malecón was a roadway that stretched for eight kilometers along Havana’s sea edge, lined with structures painted sea green and coral pink. Many of the locals tended to snub it because of the staggering tourist population, but that was one of the many reasons Alvaro was drawn to it; despite the increasingly (and irritatingly) popular Euro-style lounges, there were still a handful of places where a lively, addictive salsa beat combated the EDM from neighboring buildings.
There was a joke among locals that Cuba was the only place in the world where you had to pay musicians not to play, and that was certainly true in the daytime. It seemed as if every person who owned a guitar or a tr
umpet or a set of bongos set up shop on a street corner, music on every block accompanied by the rumble of construction equipment and the honking of car horns. But nighttime was a different story, especially on the Malecón; live music was dwindling, losing the fight to electronic music played through computers—or worse, whatever pop hits had recently been imported from the States.
Yet Alvaro did not concern himself with any of that, so long as he had La Piedra. One of the few genuine Cuban bars left on the seaside strip, its doors were still open—quite literally, both of them propped with doorstoppers so that the dynamic salsa music floated to his ears before he stepped inside. There was no line to get into La Piedra, unlike the long queues of so many of the European nightclubs. There was no swarming throng, six deep of patrons vying for the bartenders’ attention. The lighting was not dimmed or strobing, but rather bright to fully accentuate the vibrant, colorful décor. A six-piece band played on a stage that could hardly be called such, just a one-foot raised platform at the farthest end of the bar.
Alvaro fit in perfectly at La Piedra, wearing a bright silk shirt with a white and yellow pattern of mariposas, the national flower of Cuba. He was tall and dark-featured, young and clean-shaven, handsome enough by most standards. Here in the small salsa club on Malecón, he was not just a sous chef with grease under his fingernails and minor burns on his hands. He was a mysterious stranger, an exciting indulgence. A tantalizing story to bring back home, or a sultry secret to keep.