I stumbled back, reacting like a vampire confronted with a cross. “Wait. What? How?”
“How did I get this?” She shook the paper so it rattled in the air like a poster at a pep rally. “How? From the man who killed my boyfriend.”
My jaw fell toward the gritty concrete as the hate radiating from my friend notched up to a nuclear level. “What are you talking about? What?” I spoke four languages, yet I suddenly felt like I no longer understood what she was saying.
She exhaled, preparing herself for what came next. I did the same.
“It all happened as I said—the mugging, the fight, the knife. Only before I could get to Tyson, as he lay bleeding in a dirty street, dying, his murderer gave me this.” She extended her arm to shove the picture closer to my face. I flinched at the sight of myself wrapped around Marcus. “And that’s not all! It came with a message. Want to hear it?” She was smiling like the Joker in Batman, her eyes crazy and her tone wild. “The message is for you, after all.”
I didn’t move. My mind was so full of questions, my brain shut down, overloaded, short-circuited. I could practically smell the burning ozone; nothing computed.
Regina went on, her voice taking on a hollow monotone. “He said, ‘Tell Anastasia this isn’t over, and if she thinks she can hide from us, she’s kidding herself. We can get to anyone, and we will. Unless she gives us what we want.’” She eyed me pointedly. “Did I say that right? He made me practice it a few times to make sure I remembered it all, before he spit on Tyson’s body.”
I thought back to how Regina said she froze as she watched her boyfriend fight for his life. When faced with assassins—Craig Bernard, Luis Basso—my body reacted. I had innate instincts. I was brave. But facing my best friend right now—or the girl who used to be my best friend—had me stunned motionless.
“Regina,” my voice was barely a whisper, “I don’t know what to say…”
“You don’t know what to say?” she shrieked. “How about telling me what the hell is going on?”
“I…I can’t.” I blinked rapidly.
“Are you kidding me? Tyson died for you!” she shouted, crumpling the photo in her hands, squeezing it into a ball like she wished it were my head. “While you were running off kissing some boy, Tyson was bleeding to death!”
“It’s not like that.”
“Yes it is! What have you gotten yourself mixed up in? What did you get us mixed up in?” She stomped toward me like she wanted to hit me, like she wanted me to stand as still as a punching bag and let her take her revenge. I almost did. I deserved it, but I needed to find the words to explain.
“It’s Keira…”
“She’s not dead, is she?” Regina interrupted, the accusation written in every crease of her face.
I didn’t know what the right thing to do was. If I told her the truth, I’d be putting her in more danger; I’d be giving her information about people who apparently were willing to kill for a lot less. But could I actually stand there and lie to her after what she’d been through?
“After Keira disappeared, everything went to shit,” I admitted, trying to find any words I could offer. “I’ve been trying to get out of this, figure out what’s going on and end it, but if I tell you any more, I’ll be dragging you into it—”
“Tyson’s dead! Because of you! You already dragged us into this. Don’t you get that?” Her hands swung, willing me to get within striking distance even though we both knew she couldn’t fight. Not that she needed to. She was hurting me enough with the truth. “Did you once think of us? Maybe think to give us a heads up? Maybe a phone call to let us know you were in trouble, that we might be in trouble?”
“I never thought anyone would involve you,” I defended honestly. Sure, I worried they’d go after Marcus’s brother, maybe Charlotte or even Julian. But kids from my high school who no longer had any contact with me, why would they do that? How evil was this organization? And was this how Department D acted when my parents were around? Were Mom and Dad like this?
“Obviously, you were wrong about everything,” Regina hissed. “So who are these people? Drug dealers? Mobsters? Do you owe someone money? Somebody killed Tyson to send a message to you! What’s next?”
I have no idea.
I dropped my chin, suddenly feeling sweaty in the cold Boston air. My face was flushed, my vision blurring like I’d stood up too fast. Regina was right to blame me in her eulogy; I just didn’t realize how much so. Everything was my fault. Why didn’t I warn them? Who was next?
Keira. I have to call Keira.
They knew I’d be at this funeral. What if they killed Tyson to make that happen? What if this was a set up? What if they were going after her now?
My head shot up. “Regina, I have to go.”
“What?” She looked as though I’d gone from evil to mental case.
“I have to go. I’m sorry.” Slowly, I felt my brain start to reboot, my senses returning. I thought of Craig Bernard. “The man who attacked you, did he have a scar on his lip? Dirty blond hair?”
“No.” She shook her head, confused.
“An Italian accent? Short and stocky?” I continued, picturing Luis Basso.
“No.” She sounded even more perplexed. “He had red hair. Freckles. Skinny. He looked like a wuss until he started fighting…”
“Did you tell the police about all of this?” I had to know everything if I was going to protect us. I had to know how bad this was.
“I gave them the guy’s description but not the message. He said if I told anyone other than you, especially the cops…he…he said…he said he’d kill me. He’d kill my parents,” her voice croaked, tears flooding her eyes. The fear she’d buried so deep below her rage exploded, on her face, in her breathing. She hyperventilated, bending over. No wonder she looked so conflicted; her grief was thrown into a pot of a fear so thick I wasn’t sure the two would ever separate.
“Oh, Regina!” I wanted to hug her but knew she’d sooner beat me senseless. “God, I’m so sorry! That’s not going to happen.” I reached for her, guilt cutting me so deep I felt physical pain in my chest, but she slapped my palm away.
“How do you know? You’re the one who did this to us! This is your fault! I should just turn you in, tell the cops everything, maybe they can—”
“No!” I snapped, fingers flared. “You can’t. And I’m not saying this to protect me; I’m saying this because we have no idea who we can trust. And I’m talking about the cops.” I thought back to my sister’s disappearance, to how unhelpful the Boston PD had been, how they were giving updates to Randolph Urban, how Department D was headquartered in their city. “I can’t get into it. It’ll only make things more dangerous for you, but believe me, I’m going to do something.”
“Like what?” she asked, disbelieving, already knowing I couldn’t possibly have an answer.
And I didn’t.
But I had a place to start.
…
Keira was safe. I spoke to her myself, told her everything in a flustered conversation as I darted down Boston sidewalks through bursts of welcomed, icy air gusting off the Charles River. Julian assured me he’d hire security that would be there within hours, and once again, I was appreciative of our British friend’s willingness to expend cash to keep us safe, to keep my sister safe. Both he and Marcus swore they wouldn’t let Keira out of their sights, let alone out of Julian’s apartment.
Then I called Charlotte at her parents’ house, and before we hung up, she moved up our flights to Europe to tomorrow. It wasn’t safe for us to be separated and exposed. We needed a new plan. Tyson’s death, that message, changed everything.
My brain pulsed with the echo of Regina’s morbidly flat voice: Tell Anastasia this isn’t over, and if she thinks she can hide from us, she’s kidding herself. We can get to anyone, and we will. Unless she gives us what we want.
The last line was everything: “Give us what we want.”
My parents. They wanted my parents, and th
ey thought Keira and I had the ability to “give” them. We didn’t. At least, we didn’t think we did. After three and a half years of abandoning us to fend for ourselves, our parents potentially came out of hiding in Venice when my sister was kidnapped—if you were to believe Keira’s drugged recollections of hearing their voices. I wasn’t sure I did. Keira was desperate and high on sedatives; her brain could have been playing tricks. But if it wasn’t, if she was right, if Craig Bernard was telling the truth and our parents were alive, then every enemy they ever made now thought that hurting us was the key to drawing them out.
Tyson was the first casualty.
And the message was sent to me. Whoever did this knew me well enough to know that Tyson and Regina were my best friends in Boston. They knew how much Tyson’s death would affect me, and they also had possession of a photo of Marcus and me kissing in Cortona. A photo that was shown to Keira, in captivity, while she was being held by Department D agents. That made Randolph Urban an obvious suspect. Only he had just sent a baby picture to Charlotte via email, knowing it would reach me. And it did. He clearly had ways of sending me a message that didn’t involve killing anyone, so why would he do this?
But if it wasn’t him, then who was it? Who else wanted my parents? How long was that list?
I didn’t know, but I did know two people who might, and they worked in a skyscraper in the middle of Boston.
Marcus’s parents.
I’d called ahead. They were in the office.
My black boots skidded to a halt on the pavement, almost careening into a man in a suit talking into a cell phone and staring into space. He cursed and shoved past me as I stood motionless on a busy city sidewalk staring up at the soaring building. Compared to its neighbors, the blue glass skyscraper was unremarkable in the Boston skyline. It didn’t have a famous antenna like the Prudential Building, and it didn’t glow in neon like the Citgo sign. It could be plopped into any city, American or otherwise, and no one would notice it.
Yet it was home to everything that was wrong in my life.
I stepped inside the lobby, its slick black marble floor gleaming as a giant digital wall advertised the accomplishments of the Dresden Chemical Corporation. I knew from experience that behind the wall was a massive pit of employees with blood-red desk chairs, frantically dashing about while executives looked down from exposed hallways that led to their closed office doors. I’d never been to the NY Stock Exchange, but from what I’d seen on TV, stockbrokers held a similar frenzied activity. Now I wondered if every single one of Dresden’s employees was a criminal or if any really did think they were working for a high-tech chemical corporation as the wall of digital images suggested. My eyes glazed over the smiling, multicultural stock photography faces posed in front of hospitals and power plants, as the enormous screens skipped from one exotic locale to the next. Names of chemical inventions flashed, some used every day by ordinary people in their kitchens and some used to protect our armed forces. Biomedical advancements were touted along with the number of lives they reportedly saved or helped each year.
This was a great company, an important company. And it was all a lie or, more specifically, a front. But I guessed even the Italian restaurants laundering money for the mob still had to make meatballs.
I bit my thumbnail as I waited for the Reys to descend from their corner offices. I didn’t have to announce who I was when I arrived, the security guard welcomed me by name and assured me that the Reys would be down momentarily. It seemed my phone call to the operator asking for their whereabouts was easy to track. Or maybe they’d been tracking me for months.
“Anastasia, welcome!” greeted a very cheery voice with a thick Madrileño accent. “Ay, familia!”
I turned to see a middle-aged woman gliding my way. She was probably only five foot two, but she was wearing sky-high heels that lifted her to my height. The crimson soles of her shoes matched her ruby suit, its jacket flaring slightly and its skirt clinging to her curves in a way that suggested a very expensive tailor. But what stood out more than her power suit was her demeanor: she was moving so confidently that guys half her age turned to look in appreciation. Beside her, about a foot taller, was Marcus’s doppelganger, only aged a few decades and with Antonio’s facial hair—he had a salt and pepper beard and matching mustache. He wore rimless glasses in front of his distinctive dark eyes, and his round rosy cheeks smiled to reveal two dimples that matched his boys’.
“Aanastaaasthia,” cooed Marcus’s mother, drawing out the sound of my name with Spanish flare, much like her son. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you!” She hugged me like we were old friends, and I stiffened in her embrace, my arms at my sides. Then she kissed both my cheeks and let go only so her husband could do the same. Suddenly, I had a new understanding for my sister’s aversion to displays of affection.
“We’ve heard so much about you!” Marcus’s dad greeted, pressing his lips to the sides of my face in a way that would have been creepy even if I didn’t suspect him as working for the enemy. He was Marcus’s dad. Yuck. “I’m Carlos Rey, and this is my wife Rosario.”
“Rosa, please!” she corrected him. “We’re all family here.”
We are? My brow furrowed. That was news to me. I was under the impression we just met.
“Um, hi,” I muttered, not sure what to make of the overly familiar introduction from two people who might have killed my best friend and might be trying to kill my entire family, myself included.
“Por favor, tell us, how is Marcus?” asked Carlos, his grin impossibly wide.
“Okay, I guess.”
I wasn’t sure what I expected when I walked into the building. At best, I was hoping for answers, some hint as to whether they knew anything about what happened to Tyson or Keira. At worst, I’d considered armed guards rappelling from the ceiling with machine guns ready to whisk me away to a secret bunker while they forced me to tell them where my parents were hiding. But in all the scenarios I’d mentally considered, hugs and kisses weren’t on the list.
“And how’s Antonio? He’s with you now, no?” Rosario questioned.
“Yes, he and Marcus are together.” I chose my words carefully. “Seems Antonio is happy not to be working here anymore.”
If my dig bothered them, they didn’t show it. Their smiles stayed firm, like my parents’ would have. “Ay, sí. I wish he would have told us how he was feeling,” Rosario offered.
“We just want him to straighten up, entiendes? Stop the partying,” said his dad, then he eyed me with a devilish smirk. “Not that a few drinks is so bad…” he teased.
“Oh, Carlos!” Rosario playfully patted his arm.
Who are these people?
“We heard about your sister, Keeirra. She’s okay, yes?” Rosario continued, her tone suddenly somber and her face full of concern. She reminded me of a news anchor asking a question of a bereaved family member, her face oozing sympathy on camera while she secretly checked her lipstick and fluffed her hair between breaks.
“Yes. Thankfully, I was able to rescue my sister from her violent kidnapping.” My tone was intentionally hostile as I attempted to squash their charm, jostle out the real them. My best friend was killed to send a message to me, their boss was sending me baby pictures, and my parents might not be dead. I was done playing mind games. “Antonio tells me that news of Keira’s survival made its way around Dresden, or should I say Department D?”
Rosario’s eyes flexed only slightly as she placed a palm on her heart, the red tips of her fingers looking like fiery daggers on her porcelain skin. “Ay, gracias a Dios. I’m so glad she’s safe.”
“I’m sure you are.” My sarcasm was thick.
Carlos leaned toward me. “I can imagine what you must be thinking, what Marcus must be thinking. Please tell our son our dealings with Department D are nonexistent. Our work is focused on Dresden.”
“So you wouldn’t have forced Marcus to do Department D’s bidding, like you did Antonio?” I stared him straight in
the eyes.
My parents started this awful organization, so I had no intention of giving anyone else’s parents the benefit of the doubt. These people worked here. They knew of Department D’s criminal activities which, in my book, made them at least partially guilty for what happened to Keira and Tyson (if not entirely guilty).
“Antonio has issues with responsibility. If he spent as much time studying and working, as he did drinking and partying, we would have recommended him for a job at Dresden. But he has no discipline, no ambition. He wants everything easy, easy, easy.” Rosario flicked her manicured hand in the air, sounding exasperated, as if not realizing she was mocking her own son. “We thought he could start at Department D, prove himself a little bit, and then maybe we could move him to Dresden or, even better, get him to go back to college.”
“Marcus is our good boy,” Carlos went on, nakedly displaying favoritism for his younger son. “We would have never let him touch Department D. He’s too good for that.”
“Well, I’m sure Antonio will be happy to hear it.” Oddly, I felt offended on Antonio’s behalf, and I barely liked the guy. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to his parents.
“So how are you and Marcus doing, with everything?” asked Rosario, her voice low like she didn’t want to be overheard. There were only a couple of other people in the lobby, and none within earshot, but still, I doubted Department D was a discussion they wanted to have in the lobby of their legitimate enterprise. “It must be a shock to learn about all of this. We want to explain it to Marcus, but ever since he found Antonio, he doesn’t want to talk to us. Antonio’s poisoned him.” She looked disgusted by the “bad” son, as if this were his fault. When really, they recruited him. They chose this.
Maybe Antonio was telling the truth when he said he’s been desperate for a reason to run from here?
Lies That Bind Page 9