by Katie Klein
I never told a lie. That was the first lie I told this girl. It would be so easy to give in—to give her the tiniest of hints. It's not that I don't love her, it's that I can't love her—not right now. But if she can hold on a few more weeks. If she can wait. If she can hang in there for me, she'll understand. She'll know why I have to do this, and everything will make sense. Then I'll tell her I love her—a thousand times a day I'll tell her I love her.
She will never be my second place.
"It's better this way. Trust me."
"For who?" she challenges.
Me. Because I'm a selfish prick. Because I care more about getting this job done than the person I love most. Because that's who I have to be right now.
"Look me in the eye, tell me you don't love me, and I'm gone." She glares at me, jaw tightening, resolute.
I take a deep breath, pulling strength from parts of me I didn't know existed, all to say the words that follow: "I don't love you. I don't have any feelings for you. I'm not one of your projects, and I don't need you or your food or your sympathy."
She steps back, eyes glistening, filling with tears. The realization—it's like I've punched her in the stomach. The look she gives me—heartbreak written into every feature—it's like she's punched me right back.
Then, just as quickly, she composes herself, proving that she is, in fact, the Jaden everyone knows. The Jaden everyone can count on—the person everyone expects her to be. The strong one. The Jaden who doesn't "lose it" in front of other people. Who refuses to cry.
"Fine, Parker. Consider it a clean break. You can run away knowing you didn't leave anything behind. Good luck with that."
She returns to her car, pushing through overgrown grass and weeds. I watch her climb inside, listen as the engine roars to life. She shifts to reverse, glances over her shoulder, and backs out of the driveway.
It's all I can do to remain still. To stay where I am. To let her go.
But I do.
And she leaves.
And she doesn't look back.
Jaden: Four.
Parker: Wins.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"All right, Whalen. This is your assignment. How do you want to work this?" Chief Anderson asks.
I slide my chair away from the table, standing. The tiny conference room—once an office—is crammed with eight of my colleagues and me and the Chief. Taylor, West, Rusch—it's like nothing's changed, like I never went undercover, like I haven't spent a day away from this precinct. Fluorescent lights flicker, humming overhead, and in the corner sits a snack cart—a half-empty tray of donut holes and a pot of stale coffee left over from this morning.
"The school parking lot. The suspect met me there two days ago, no questions asked. I know he'll do it again."
"What about students?" Rusch asks.
I shake my head. "It's a small school. The lots are cleared within thirty minutes of the final bell. Even most of the teachers are gone. Staff stays until five, but they're at the front of the building. I talked to Howell. Doors are locked by three-thirty anyway, except for the gym and the locker rooms. Our one conflict is baseball practice, but if I can get Vince to confirm, Howell said he could cancel it. No student will be on campus at the time of arrest."
"What's the area like?" the Chief asks, arms folded as he paces the length of the room.
"The school has major neighborhoods on three sides. The front driveways take you to the road. The side lot—where the students park—takes you through one of those neighborhoods. It's the fastest way out, so we'd need at least two guys there, just in case he decides to run."
"Is there a way to block off that exit?" Anderson asks.
"Without drawing suspicion?"
He exhales a sigh. "This sounds risky, Whalen."
"It's no riskier than trying to make up a lie to lead him to Hamilton," I argue. "And it's definitely riskier to corner him at one of his parties. There are too many people. There's too much chaos. We've done this before, so he won't suspect anything. He doesn't suspect me."
"Is there a way for us to surround the school?" Taylor asks.
"Not safely," I reply. "There are three entry points. If he takes either of the front entrances, we'll be spotted. You can position some officers inside the school, on foot. Otherwise, that neighborhood is our best alternative, at least until we have him in sight."
"You're assuming you can take this guy down on your own," the Chief says.
"I've spent time with him. He has a history that goes back a couple of years, but we're not talking Juarez. He's not linked to any gang activity, he's not pushing any hard drugs, and he's flying under the radar by catering to high school and college kids."
"Don't underestimate this guy, Officer," Anderson warns.
"I'm not underestimating, Sir. I'm being cautiously optimistic."
"If this isn't Juarez," West interjects, "then why are we so concerned? We could find a couple hundred guys like this walking downtown Hamilton right now. Why waste a perfectly good arrest?"
"Because," I reply. "Because it's Bedford. It's a small community. Everyone knows everyone. There's one fast food place. One restaurant. One grocery store. One high school. There aren't many towns like this anymore. I mean, Jesus. I'm the worst thing that's come along in years. And guys like Vince De Luca—they come in and they infiltrate. It starts with Vince and a few occasional joints. And yeah, it doesn't seem like a big deal, but when does it stop? You let this guy run the turf, and more guys come in, and more students get tied up in this shit, and soon you have another Hamilton. These people—these families—they deserve a safe place to live. This arrest is going to send a message to the entire town."
"Good God, Whalen. You sound like a fucking Lifetime movie," West teases.
"Language, Officer," Anderson warns. "And this isn't only about the high school. This guy is linked to sales on the Prescott campus, too. We have enough dirt to put him away for quite some time. Whalen has done a remarkable job."
West leans back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head. "He still sounds like a douche," he mutters, yawning.
"Would bother me if anyone gave a shit about what you think, West," I say.
He laughs. "I can't wait to get you back here, man. I've been so freaking lonely without you."
"Tell it to your girlfriend."
"All right," the chief says. "Settle down. Whalen will be back soon enough. We'll shoot for Wednesday. I'll assign vehicles and positions for each of you and we'll assemble in Bedford that afternoon."
"There's a gas station a block away," I say. "We can meet there."
"Get me the address. We'll convene early next week to go over the logistics."
* * *
Ethan Frome made a shitload of mistakes. Staying, first of all. Marrying Zeena. I don't know. Maybe falling in love with Mattie was a mistake. Maybe he would've been happier if they'd never met. Maybe his life—as cold and miserable as it was—would've been better without her. Or maybe the time they spent together—however brief it was—maybe the acknowledgement that she felt the same way—that she loved him, too—maybe that made everything worth it.
Maybe he should've sent her away like they planned—kept the memory of their time together alive. Alive and perfect. Maybe he should've tried harder. Maybe he should've told Zeena goodbye. He could've at least told her no. But killing themselves? There had to be a better way.
I toss my notes aside, lean back onto the couch, rub my aching eyes.
God. I can't even figure out who the real victim is in this story.
Ethan was desperate. Mattie was desperate. I'm desperate.
I'm desperate to see her. To feel her. To touch her. I'd settle for a phone call. To hear her voice. God. I miss her voice. I miss the quirk of her mouth when she finds something amusing or ironic or clever. I miss the surprised sparkle in her eyes when I say something she never expected to hear.
My world feels empty without her. Like I'm ripped apart, torn in half. Like I could
never be whole unless I have her. It doesn't make any sense.
I can't do this without her.
I need to know how she feels about Ethan and Mattie.
I need to know how to make sense of this tragedy.
I need to know if she would've tried harder. If she would've made it work.
If what we had was real....
A fucking shitload of mistakes.
But falling in love.... We are not them. And I'll be damned if we didn't do that right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I inhale, heave an anxious breath.
"You okay, Officer?" Detective Mendoza asks.
"I'm good. I'm ready," I assure him.
"Everyone is in position. You've got your vest, your weapon—just in case—and your wire. You're calling the shots today, Whalen. Use your judgment. Let's make this a clean, quick arrest."
I nod, adjusting my earpiece, making sure everything is in place. "Okay."
"Don't try to be a hero. If something is wrong—if he's not alone, if he's acting suspicious, whatever—we'll regroup, okay? No pressure."
I force a laugh. "No pressure."
This is just like any other deal. You've done this before.
But my heart—my heart feels like it's going to explode. Like it's going to hammer straight through my chest.
I take another breath. Exhale.
Relax.
Another breath. Exhale.
"All right. I'm heading over," I announce.
I latch my helmet, start the engine, and pull my motorcycle away from the gas station. I cut through the neighborhood, trying not to pay attention to the unit cars planted on the road parallel to the school. I stop at the end of the street and wait for my cue.
"Suspect is approaching," one of the officers finally says. He gives the make and model of Vince's car. He's alone.
We're good.
"I'm going in." And, just before I rev my engine, Mendoza's voice feeds through my earpiece, clear as day: "Think smart, Whalen. Relax. Focus."
Relax. Focus. Relax.
I repeat the words over and over in my head, like a mantra.
But my heart won't stop pounding, like it knows something I don't. Like it sees something I can't. And when I pull into the lot, everything is wrong. Everything is wrong because there is a white Honda Civic that doesn't belong, the shadow of a figure sitting in the driver's seat.
My earpiece buzzes to life: "Suspect is in the lot. We're moving in behind him."
I park at the end of the row and kill the engine. Vince emerges from the side of the building and parks in the back, directly behind Jaden.
"Fuck," I mutter.
"What's wrong, Whalen?" a voice rings in my ear.
I turn my head away from Vince. "Did anyone confirm the lot was clear?" I demand to know, keeping my voice as hushed as possible.
Another voice breaks in: "Do not copy."
"It's a student! Jaden," I reply. "She's still here!"
Vince climbs out of his SUV, saunters toward her. My heart stops beating. The entire world goes silent. Cold. Watching him closing in on her, knowing who he is and what he's capable of....
"Fuck." I rip off my helmet, toss it to the ground.
"What's going on, Officer?" Mendoza asks.
"Suspect is approaching the student. I'm calling it off," I announce, moving automatically, eyes trained on Vince. "This whole thing is off."
They said everyone would clear out. Howell promised no one would be left.
A clench of rage tightens my stomach.
Why the hell is she still here?
"Get everyone out," I say. "Do you copy?"
"Copy."
Vince reaches her before I do, hovers by her car, smiling, talking like he knows her. My body kicks into overdrive, fueled by adrenaline.
I have to get to her. I have to get between them. This guy shouldn't be anywhere near her. I swear to God if anything happens....
He spots me as I approach. "Hey, man! What's going on?"
"Not a whole lot," I reply, struggling to keep my voice calm, my tone casual. I can't screw this up. He can't suspect....
Vince greets me with our usual handshake, but I can't take my eyes off Jaden, sitting in that car. Alone. She's been crying. And when she sees me standing next to Vince De Luca—acting like one of his friends—it's like her whole world shatters. The hurt and confusion and disappointment etched into each of her beautiful features.
I'll explain everything. I promise.
I speak to her through my eyes, hoping she'll hear. That she'll understand.
"I got what you needed," Vince says, his hand disappearing inside his coat pocket.
My earpiece buzzes to life: "Another vehicle is entering the lot."
"Repeat, Officer."
I struggle to make out the conversation.
"A red pickup is making its way to the rear of the school."
It's Rusch. The voice—it's Rusch. My pulse spikes, fear coursing through my veins.
Shit. What the hell is happening?
"Was your position compromised?" Detective Mendoza asks.
"Cannot confirm."
I take the dime bag from Vince and reach for my wallet to pay him, trying to keep my hands steady, my fingers from shaking. The pickup pulls around the curb. I swipe the sweat from my forehead. It's too hot for a jacket.
"Here are my boys!" Vince says.
His boys.
Tony, Brandon, and Blake.
The officer's words echo inside my skull.
Compromised. Compromised. Compromised.
Vince moves in their direction. I spring for Jaden, kneeling at her car door, speaking through the cracked window. "You need to get out of here." I steal a glance over my shoulder. Vince is speaking to Tony through the passenger's side window of his truck.
"What are you doing, Parker? I thought.... You swore..."
"I said a lot of things, Jade," I interrupt. "But right now I need you to trust me, okay? You have to listen to me!" I struggle to keep my voice low. Steady. I need her to stay calm—to hear what I'm saying.
"What's happening?" she whispers.
Compromised.
"I can explain everything to you later, I swear. Just please do this for me. I need you out of here—fast."
"What do I do?"
"You need to crank your car, back out of this parking space, and pull away like nothing is wrong. Do you hear me? Do not let him think anything is wrong." She glances at Vince then back at me, anxiety darkening her features. Her eyes run empty. Lifeless. "Make a right turn onto the street and wait for me at the gas station at the end of the block. Go. Now."
She twists the keys in the ignition. The engine roars to life. I stand, and, hardly thinking, look toward that drive. That neighborhood. At the squad car parked along that street. Jaden follows my eyes, and she sees it, too.
Compromised.
"What the fuck?" Vince grabs my collar, spins me around, shoves me into the car. "Let her out!" he demands.
"No," I reply, righting myself.
"Step aside, or you'll both regret it."
I refuse to move, and, as I stand frozen, Vince smiles at me. Laughs. "Hanson has a few choice words for you," he says, voice mocking. And then to Jaden: "Sweetheart? You might wanna tell your boyfriend to start listening."
"Parker?" she calls.
"Stay inside the car," I order.
"Open the door!" Vince pushes me out of the way, reaches for his belt, and removes a nine millimeter. He drives the handle through the window. The glass splinters. Jaden flinches, covering her face with her arm.
"This has nothing to do with her!" I shout.
"What's happening, Whalen?" my earpiece asks.
"We'll see about that," Vince replies. He reaches through the broken window and lifts the lock. "Get out." The door swings open. He drags Jaden out of the car. She falls to the ground, thrashing, fighting to free herself. He grabs her ponytail and hauls her to her feet.
Her sc
ream pierces me to the very core. In a second my jacket is unzipped, fingers poised.
I'll kill him.
"Don't move," Vince warns.
I glance behind me. Blake and Tony and Brandon are out of the truck now, watching. I motion for them to stay back. "Stop it, Vince," I insist.
"Which one of you set me up?"
My eyes find Jaden's. They're red, full of tears, scared shitless.
I swallow hard, fighting to stay calm, drawing on everything I learned in training. "Come on. You had to know you'd get caught one day."
If I can keep him talking—if I can rationalize with him.... I just need to get her out of here. That's it. Please, God, help me get her out of here.
"She set me up!"
"I set you up!" I reply. "She has nothing to do with it, and this is only making it worse. Let her go. We'll talk. We can work something out. You have options."
"You were supposed to be my friend!"
"I'm not anyone's friend."
"I don't believe you," Vince says, teeth clenched. Then, not taking his black eyes off of me, he pitches Jaden against the car. The sound of her face cracking against metal is enough to make my heart stop beating. The sight of her body going limp is enough to kick-start it, every sense heightened, every muscle constricting, every instinct triggering to action.
I rip my gun from its holster and turn it on Vince.
The detective's voice rings in my ear: "We're moving in, Whalen. Hang tight."
But I barely hear the words. They hardly register. They don't even matter.
What matters is the blood pouring from the gash on Jaden's forehead. Crimson streams flowing down the side of her face and neck, dripping onto the pavement. Her choked sobs. Every nerve in my body fires, unhinged.
I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I will fucking kill him for this, becomes my new mantra.
Vince tightens his grip on her.
Jaden's chest rises and falls; she struggles to breathe. I feel every gasp, every panicked heave of her body.
My gun is cocked, ready, aimed at Vince's face. "Let her go. It's done, Vince. And I will not lose sleep over killing you. Don't make me."
"I dare you to try," he taunts. Time flows disjointedly as he swings Jaden in front of him, using her as a shield. He jams his gun into her temple.