by Sara Wolf
My mind goes white, a horrible keening noise starting in the back of my skull.
“She what?”
“She knows! She saw it! She went out and found it herself because she’s Isis and that’s what she does!”
Something in me plummets.
“What do we do?” I whisper, my own voice surprising me by how hoarse it is. Wren’s eyes grow brighter.
“You tell her the truth. Before this emailer does, and gets her involved deeper.”
“You forget she doesn’t acknowledge my presence anymore.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Wren says. “Just promise me you’ll tell her when I give you the opening.”
“You’ve become quite the little dictator,” I sneer.
“I’ve had it,” he clenches his fist. “With running away. Every time I do, someone’s gotten hurt. But not this time. I won’t run this time.”
He turns and leaves before I can verbally cut him down to size.
I watch Isis from the parking lot, feeling every bit the stalker, but bent on studying her face in a new light. She knows what I did that night. That’s why she’s ignoring me. She’s too smart not to put two and two together. And she knows about Tallie.
My biggest secrets are in her hands, now. Just as I’ve known hers for months. I’ve had her number for months. But I’ve never texted or called. Until now. My thumbs fly over the keyboard.
‘We’re even’.
I see her stop and pull her phone out, Kayla chatting aimlessly at her. She looks up and scans the parking lot, and our eyes meet for the briefest moment. For one second, the warm amber engulfs me, and I let it.
And then I let it go, and turn away.
***
Tonight is the last night.
This woman is the last woman.
She’s older – the trophy wife of a lawyer, confined to a house and left to treadmill and Martha Stewart her way into being ignored by her husband, who has enough hookers and blow to far outlast a wife. They have no children. She is miserable and in shape and anxious, and the hotel room is nicer than normal, and when she’s satisfied and exhausted, she starts crying.
“Thank you.”
I pull on my jeans and nod cordially.
“How – how old are you? I know I asked that in the lobby, but really, you can’t be twenty-three–”
I flash her a smile. “Over eighteen. You’re safe.”
She covers her eyes with her arm. “Oh Jesus. I practically cradle robbed.”
I think of all the women who came before her, who were deceived by the fact I’d looked twenty-one since I was fifteen. She has no idea. I grew up fast, and she has no idea.
“This is my last night,” I say as I button my shirt. “Of this job.”
“Oh? That’s good. Someone as nice as you doesn’t need to stay in this field. It ruins good people.”
And yet you still use our services. I curl my lip where she can’t see it. She showers and dresses, and I take my laptop out and sit on the bed, taking advantage of the free wifi.
“The room is yours for the night,” she says when she comes out, now in a pressed pink suit and perfectly styled red hair.
“Thanks,” I grunt. The woman – I forget her name – leans over my shoulder.
“Ooh, what are you doing? It looks fascinating –”
“I’m running seventy-two targeting executables for a free-roam IP trace.”
She gives me a blank look. I sigh.
“I’m trying to find someone.”
“Oh! Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend?”
Tiresome. Women always jump straight to romance. I roll my eyes.
“An anonymous email sender.”
She laughs nervously. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again.”
“It was a pleasure doing business with you.” I nod. It was no pleasure at all. The last time I felt honest pleasure - not sickly release - from sex was the last time Sophia and I slept together. And that was nearly a year and a half ago.
I wait until the door clicks shut behind the woman to pull up the trace results. I parse them down twice – once using the email address name, and once using Isis’ email address. Which I also happen to have. She didn’t exactly hide it when she put up posters around the school asking for people to contact her with dirty information bits about me.
‘She knows about Tallie.’
I shake Wren’s words out of my head and work quickly. I’m by no means gifted at computer hacking – if you could even call it that – but I know my way around a program or two. Ruby and C++ are far easier languages than any drivel humans speak.
After fifteen minutes of process parsing, I’m left with a hundred and thirty-seven possible IP addresses the email could have originated from. I could go through them all one by one, but there has to be some connecting factor. And that factor is no doubt Isis. Why her? I check Maryland, and Washington D.C. There are two IPs there, but none of them from the federal bureau where the investigators have the tape. The tape Wren gave to them behind my back.
I’m not mad about it. I was at first. But then I learned the tape was badly damaged, and video imaging technology back then wasn’t the best. And with no physical evidence, the police declared Joseph Hernandez missing. The other three were conveniently paid off by Avery’s parents, and never spoke a word of what happened.
That reminds me - Belina will be needing the check sometime soon. I’d give it to Wren, but this was the last lump sum I’d have for a while. Of course, I’d invested a small amount in a hedge fund so she wouldn’t be completely cut off when I went off to college, but she’d quickly run out in a year or two. Hopefully, by my second year, I’ll have an internship that pays well. No, I have to have one. It’s the only option.
By then, Sophia’s surgery will be over.
And she will either be dead or alive.
I press my fingers to my temple and try to focus. The majority of the IP address near-matches are located in Florida. I narrow my eyes. Florida is where Isis used to live. That can’t be a coincidence.
But there’s one IP address that bucks the norm, way out in Dubai. The rest are in America. Whoever this person is, they clearly know how to access information that isn’t theirs. They’re good. Rerouting their IP through proxy servers to Dubai would throw anyone looking for an American off the trail. Unless they kept their IP in Florida, purposefully, knowing something like Dubai would stick out like a sore thumb. Basically, every one of these dots is suspect.
I sigh and pick up the phone to order room service. It’s going to be a long night.
Between coffee and eggrolls at one a.m, I get a text. From someone in my phone I’ve labeled ‘Never’. I ignore the palpitation in my lungs at the sight of that name on my phone.
‘What would you do if everyone hated you?’
I pause and consider my answer carefully. Everyone has hated me at some point. Women, because I turn them down. Men, because I turn the women they love down.
‘I would ignore them.’
I try not to stare at my phone, waiting. I have work to do. But I slog through it reluctantly until her answer comes, ten minutes later.
‘That’s what I’m doing. But I don’t like it much.’
‘Then stop doing it. Do what you like, not what you don’t.’
‘But what I like hurts people. I get in the way. I mess things up.’
‘Sometimes people need to be messed up. It reminds them life is short.’
There’s a long silence. Just as I start regretting what I said, my phone lights up again.
‘She would have been a very pretty baby.’
My eyes sting. The cold numbness of the woman I’d fucked earlier and the single-minded focus on finding the mystery emailer melts. Just like that; with a single sentence.
‘Thank you.’
-9-
3 Years
29 Weeks
6 Days
The dark trees loom like massive sticks of cinnamon. Lake Galona
gah at midnight looks like a sheet of glazed black sugar. The moon resembles a perfectly white round of brie cheese.
I am lost as hell. Also, hungry. But that’s nothing new. I am hungry approximately 364 days of the year. The one day I am not hungry is Hitler’s birthday. And also the day after Thanksgiving. Thankfully these two days are not on top of each other, otherwise we would’ve named it ‘ThankgodHitlerkickedthebucketbackinthe40’s’ and that assuredly does not carry the same ring capitalist America likes so much for their holidays.
In my vast and strenuous consideration of the importance of holiday cheer, I manage to get myself even more lost. Contrary to popular belief, flashlights don’t contribute all that much to awesomeness other than being a cool thing you can use to put on a makeshift rave. I rave alone for two whole seconds and since it is horrible and quiet I give up immediately and sit down. On a skunk’s home. The great brute is understandably displeased, and pokes his butt out just in time for my ankle to get completely soaked by hellacious spray.
“Oh holy –” I gag and cover my nose with my hoodie sleeve. “You knave! Hear ye, hear ye, this stripey beast of yonder wood is an ASSHOLE! Oh Christ this is never going to come out, is it?”
The skunk admires his work for a split-second before taking off. I shake my fist at it impotently. I can’t mess around with the local bitchy wildlife. I have to find Tallie again. The forest in the day is way different from the forest in the dead of the night, and when I hear a crow caw hoarsely I start to regret my decision to wander onto the apparent set of The Blair Witch Project. But I stick to the cliffside, careful to always know where the edge is, and follow it around.
Finally, the white cross peeks out of the trees, and I dash to it. The dirt’s still soft where I dug it up and put it back, and I dig it up for the second time. Graverobbing isn’t my ideal job, but I’m getting pretty freakin’ good at it. Not that anyone needs to know that. Ever.
“Hey, Tallie,” I say in a low voice. “I’m back.”
The little pink bundle is dirty. I brush the mud off, and pick pine needles off it. Tallie looks up at me with her empty eyes. They’d be blue, since Sophia has blue eyes and so does Jack. I bet they’d be stunning, like lapis lazuli, or the ocean on a summer day. And she would’ve been beautiful – with Sophia’s hair, and Jack’s height and face. I smile and open the bundle and grasp the bracelet with her name on it.
“Is it okay if I take this with me?”
Tallie lies there, and I nod and take it, the silver flashing in the moonlight. I close the bundle back up and rebury it for what I hope will be the last time.
“I’ll come visit,” I say. “I’ll bring you a toy, okay? I know where to get all the good ones.”
“Hey! This way!”
Someone’s voice cuts through the night, and the forest rustles with newcomers. Footsteps, heavy and deep, reverberate through the ground. Lots of them. Lots of potential serial killers ready to chop my head off with a fire axe. Or it’s Avery’s parents. Either way, I’m fucked. I duck behind a rotting log and hold my breath. I can barely hear their words; they’re a good distance away, but close enough.
“Find anything?”
“No, sir. Are you certain this is the place?”
“Of course. My source is reliable. Keep searching. We need that evidence.”
Evidence? My foolhardy marvelous curiosity gets the better of me, and I peek over the log. A man in an impeccable tweed suit stands with two other men in dark, matching suits. The man in tweed is so tall, and broad-shouldered. His hair is a shocking white, and he has an old-white-guy-in-charge aura about him that makes me instantly dislike him. Not Avery’s dad – I’ve seen him at open house. And he’s rich, but not rich like this guy – Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes, and anybody who runs around with two guys in suits taking orders from them is rich enough to have a lot of enemies.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking – is Jack Hunter really worth all this trouble? He’s just a high school student,” One of the suits asks. Tweed-guy sighs.
“Yes. He’s in high school. But he’s four months away from college. It’s just a matter of time before the Harvard scouts sniff his brilliance out, and I intend to recruit it before them. I won’t let Aramon take this one from me. He’s too smart, too ruthless, and too perfect. He is the future of my company. Now, get back to searching. The body has to be here somewhere. Look for a badly-dug grave, six by two feet.”
Body. They aren’t talking about Tallie’s body. They’re after a full-grown, adult body. How do they know about that night? How are they so sure it’s buried here at all? And who the heckle is Tweed-guy’s source?
I move my leg because it's cramping, and it's the last thing I ever do. Theoretically. In the alternate reality where they have guns. But they don't. All they have are ears. Which is slightly problematic.
"What the hell was that?" One of the suits looks up.
"Deer?" The other offers.
"No deer here," Tweed-guy says. "Moriyama, check over there."
A suit starts moving towards me, his back hunched and his fists clenched. Saying I don't wanna get caught by these guys is like saying being on fire is a mild discomfort. My heart throbs in my ears. I scrabble for a rock and chuck it to the left of me. The suit freezes, and starts gravitating towards the noise, and I move in the opposite direction around the log, slowly.
And then something fuzzy scampers over my leg, and, unable to contain my fabulous voice, I yelp. Or sing an opera. I can't be sure, because all of a sudden there's chaos, and I'm running, and someone's running after me, and the Tweed-guy is shouting, and a hand grasps my hair and I stop dead in my tracks and duck, and he goes soaring over my head down the hill, a chunk of hair in his hand.
"Thanks for ruining the do, doo-doo!" I scream. My gloating's short-lived, as the other suit catches up with me and puts his arms around my torso, pinning my own arms to my side.
"Fuck you! Unhand me at once!"
"Don't think so, princess." He struggles to contain my flailing. I switch up my voice to make it sweet.
"Please let go of me. Your future children will thank you."
"What?"
I take his moment of confusion and dig my heel into his crotch. He lets out a strangled moan and collapses, and I tear away and slide down the hill. My car isn't far down the trail. Air burns like cold flame as it goes down. My legs want to collapse and never work again. It's not fear. Okay, it's a little bit of fear. But like, 15%. 60% is elation at what a fantastic ninja I'd make, and the last 25% is my mind screaming at me to let Jack know about these fuckers. Platonically. We'd texted earlier and I said some dumb shit about Tallie, but he didn't seem mad. Hopefully my luck sticks long enough. Hopefully my stupid newfound butthead fear of him keeps it's voice down.
Finally the trail gives way to the parking lot, and I scrabble into my lime-green Beatle. Don't let me down baby. It coughs and sputters as it starts, and I glance wildly back at the trail entrance. "C'mon, c'mon, now is not the time to fart out on me! Pick another time! Like, you know, when I'm not running for my life from mysterious gangsters with thousand-dollar suits and tiny nuts!"
The engine roars to life, and I do the greatest u-turn in Ohio. Which is saying a lot, because everyone here drives like they just got their license and are celebrating with six beers.
***
I pull over only when there are ten miles between me and Lake Galonagah, and fourteen McDonald's to choose from. They'll never find me. Unless they saw my car in the parking lot and are looking for it now, which is likely. I consider a midnight paintjob. Maybe I could just, I dunno, bathe it in the blood of my enemies really quick and turn it red? Avery doesn't have enough blood, though, and I feel kind of sorry for her, and the only other people I really hate are the people chasing me, and they are not an option because they are chasing me, and -
"Did you want ketchup with that?"
I look up, the cashier handing me my order of fries. Just fries. An entire bag of fries.
He looks appropriately enlightened. I head to the nearest, least-greasy table and inhale my kill. When my writhing stomach is appeased slightly, I text Jack.
"I need to talk to you. In person. Right now."
His response is nigh-instantaneous.
"What happened? Is something wrong?"
"I don't wanna talk about it over text. Where are you?"
"Come to the Hilton, on first and broadview street. I'll meet you in the lobby."
I grab my bag of fries and head out. I shouldn't be scared. I shouldn't be feeling nervous. I told him off but I'm the dragon, and he's just a prince, and I breathe fire and I meddled and hurt the people he loves, and him, but I'm still the dragon, and I can fly away if I need to. I'll be fine. I am always fine. I survived Nameless. I survived Leo. I can survive this. I'm fine. I'm fine.
I find a parking space four blocks away. The Hilton is small compared to the one in Columbus, but it's fancy - fresh orchids and a fountain in the marble-floor lobby. The concierge smiles at me. Jack is waiting, sitting in a leather chair with too-perfect posture and a lazy flannel shirt and jeans. He's on edge. The second I walk through the doors he bolts up and walks over.
"What happened?" He demands. "Are you alright?"
"I won a million d-dollars," I say. I can't look at his face for some reason. Shame. Shame and guilt, probably.
"You're shaking like a leaf. Come. It's warmer in the room."
"No - I -" I pull away. "I just, I just want to tell you something, and then I'll leave. I don't want to - I don't want to -"
"Be in the same room as me?" His voice is low.
"Just…don't be nice to me. I'd appreciate it if you'd just momentarily forget I've been pretending you don't exist for the last few weeks long enough for me to tell you this. Just like, develop amnesia. Wait, shit. Don't. I've been there. It's terrible. Also, there's a lot of jello involved."