You Won't See Me Coming

by Kristen Orlando

  “I prefer the classics too,” Fernando says, settling into his seat behind his desk. The dark leather squeaks as his body adjusts to find just the right spot. “My favorites are probably 1984 and In Cold Blood.”

  “Both equally haunting,” I answer, still standing at the edge of his desk. I can feel the body heat from the two guards lingering just a few feet behind me and I have to bite down hard on my tongue to suppress the shudder threatening to slide up my spine.

  “Indeed,” Fernando says, leaning back in his chair, examining me. His eyes start on my tied-up arms and then slowly move up my frame before circling around the features of my face. Finally, he lands on my eyes, his stare penetrating through mine before he says, “I prefer stories that stay with you long after you’ve finished the last word.”

  Fernando and I stare at each other, the fire and wood cracking and popping behind me, filling the strange and silent space.

  What do you want, old man? My mind whispers as I try to keep my face unmoved and expressionless.

  “Please, take a seat,” Fernando finally says, gesturing toward a dark leather chair on the other side of his desk. I look at him and then back at the chair, like this is some kind of trick. I wait for razor blades or nails to rise out of the rich upholstery. Like he has a button on the other side of his desk, ready to cut me after one harsh word. I stare at the chair for another beat. Nothing happens. I shake my head, clearing my mind’s wicked imagination, and then carefully sit on the chair’s edge, unable to lean back with my restraints.

  “Okay,” I say quietly, looking back up at Fernando. “What is it you want from me?”

  “It’s not what I want,” Fernando begins, resting his elbows on both armrests and bringing his fingertips together, like five little points. “It’s who I want.”

  I stare at the diamond shape Fernando’s fingers are creating and shake my head, my eyes returning to his. “I’m sorry, you want a person? Not information?”

  “We want Cameron Conley,” Fernando answers, his voice gruff, and I can feel my face contort.

  “Cam Conley,” I say slowly, his name curled around my heavy tongue. “What do you want with Cam?”

  “I need him on my team,” Fernando answers, settling his hands on his desk blotter. “He’s one of the best hackers in the world. My source tells me his skills have guaranteed him a spot in the training academy. I need his expertise.”

  “For what exactly?” I ask, my eyes narrowed and mind racing with what in the world Cam could do for a drug enterprise.

  “With technology, our business is getting more complicated,” Fernando answers, leaning forward, his chair whining under the changing weight. “We need someone who can help us hide assets. Transfer money. Pay off our network. Visible money trails are getting businesses like ours in trouble and landing people like me in prison. We need someone who can keep us underground. Help us run this empire. Cameron Conley knows how to do that.”

  “Why can’t you just get someone down here?”

  “Tech prodigies in Colombia are attending college in America. MIT. Stanford. Harvard. And they’re not coming back. I need someone like Cameron. And you will be the one to get him down here.”

  “He’ll never agree to work for you,” I spit out, my mind reeling from the request. “His parents were nearly killed by your people…”

  “That was Santino,” Fernando says, throwing his hands in the air like he’s an innocent man. “That wasn’t me.”

  “It won’t matter to him,” I say, shaking my head. “He’d never agree to work for you.”

  “This isn’t exactly a job opening I’m hoping he’ll apply for,” Fernando answers, his voice rough and edging toward anger. “You are the one who damaged our business. So you will do this for me. You will get Cameron away from CORE. We will take him. And he will be flown down to Colombia.”

  “Yeah, in zip ties and against his will,” I say, my head tilting to one side.

  “We will give him a nice life here,” Fernando says, his hands waving around the stunning room. “Look at this home. He’ll live in luxury. And so will you. We’re already preparing the guesthouse for you and your friend. Once Cameron is down here, we’ll move you two in there. It’s gorgeous. Two bedrooms. Your own bathrooms. A small kitchen and living space. Fireplace. I designed it myself. It has everything you could ever need.”

  Including bars on the windows and guards stationed outside the door.

  “You’ll all have access to great cuisine,” Fernando continues. “The finest of everything. We’ll treat you well if you do this for us. And we’ll treat Cameron well. You have my word.”

  “No, you won’t. Because he’ll refuse to work for you. You’ll torture him until you kill him. And I won’t do that to him. Do you think I’d really put him in that position and—”

  “You do it or he dies anyway,” Fernando explodes and pounds his fists against the desk. Pens and a silver lighter jump on the desk blotter before landing back in place, forty-five degrees from where they started. Fernando takes in a shaky breath, trying to control his growing temper. He rubs his left hand over his eyes and down his cheeks before returning his icy stare back to me.

  All three Torres brothers have the exact same eyes. You’d think their dark shade would come across as warm, even deceptively kind. But their shape and short eyelashes make them appear cold and on the dangerous side of crazy. Their clothes and demeanor tell a different story, paint a much more elegant, even sophisticated, picture. But their eyes give away exactly who they are.

  “You will get him down here,” Fernando says, each word measured and deliberate as his finger jabs in the air, pointing at my face. “Or I’ll keep going down my list.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my arms suddenly roaring with pain behind my back.

  Fernando leans back in his chair, staring into my face, studying me again, and in that splintered silence, every nerve within me ignites. He wants to remember this. Whatever he’s about to tell me, he wants to remember this moment, the look on my face before I knew so that he can relish in the aftermath.

  He watches me as he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a piece of paper, folded into a perfect square. His callous eyes sparkle and a small smile rises up his right cheek, as he unfolds it once, then twice, opening it up. He looks down at the paper in his hand, clearing his throat, as though he’s preparing to read a speech in front of a crowd. “‘New Albany High School Lacrosse Star Found Dead,’” he reads from the paper, looking back up at me.

  The room spins, colors blur, and I feel the desperate need to throw up. I try to steady myself on something. I grab for the arms of my chair, but my hands are immediately pulled back together, still tied behind my back.

  The guard at my side turns his eyes to me, but I do my best to just stare and stare and stare.

  “Luke Weixel, age eighteen, was found shot to death in the woods behind a Waterloo, Iowa, motel early on Christmas morning,” Fernando continues, his voice deepening, as if he’s a news anchor reading the words off a teleprompter. “The shooting death is being investigated as a homicide, though family and friends say they don’t know why Weixel was in that part of Iowa over the holiday. Weixel led the New Albany High School Lacrosse team to their first State Championship during his sophomore year. He was a member of the local JROTC branch and an honor roll student. Blah, blah, blah … accolades, accolades, accolades … boring, boring, boring … such a nice guy … etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. He is survived by his mother, father, and younger sister. Oh … how sad for them.” He looks down at the paper, his lower lip pouting with a fake frown. Fernando then looks back up at me and smiles. “And how sad for you, Reagan.”

  I try to breathe, but air won’t come. Invisible hands grip my neck, pressing down on my throat. “I don’t believe you,” I somehow spit out, even though I do. I can feel my muscles beginning to twitch underneath my sweatshirt, but I try to overpower them, control the overwhelming urge to scream or pass out or spin out o
f control.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Fernando says, turning around the piece of paper and leaning across his desk to bring it closer. It’s an article printed out from the Columbus Dispatch. He points at the date in the corner. “Look … December 25. Dead on Christmas Day.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him,” I say through gritted teeth. “If it’s me you want, you didn’t have to kill Luke.”

  “But it’s not just you I want,” Fernando says, his voice unnervingly composed. He stands up and walks around to my side of the desk. He bends his knees, lowering his body until he’s eye to eye with me. “Killing you, that would be easy. I want Cameron Conley down here in twenty-four hours. You will figure out how to get him away from CORE. And you will make sure he gets down here. Or I will start killing the people you love. One by one. Until there’s no one left but you. Torture of the heart is far worse than torture of the body.”

  “You don’t know where they are,” I say, my eyes filling with tears. I try to swallow them down, but they rise, insistent on making their presence known despite my frantic attempts to make them disappear. “You can’t hurt them.”

  “But I do. And I can,” he says and smiles, noticing the gleam in my eye, and I hate myself for being weak. “You know I’ll find them. You know I’ll kill them all if you don’t do what I want. So what’s it going to be?”

  I snap my eyes shut, struggling to contain my tears, hoping darkness will push them away, but I feel a single tear escape and run down my cheek. When I open my eyes again, Fernando has moved closer, his face beaming, his hand outstretched. And before I can stop him, his thumb sweeps across my face, wiping the tear away and my already scalding face inflames at his touch.

  “There, there, Reagan Hillis,” he says in a voice that’s fatherly. “Don’t cry yet. That’s just one death. One body. If you refuse to help me apprehend Cameron, there will be more.”

  “Leave them alone,” I say, my voice trembling. “They’ve done nothing to you. Leave them alone.”

  “Just like you left my family alone?” he answers, now standing up, his lunatic smile fading and voice rising.

  “So then kill me!” I explode, my eyes filling with tears again. “Just kill me. These are innocent people you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t get to make the rules, Reagan,” Fernando booms, throwing the article in my face. “So if you don’t get Cameron Conley down here by sunset tomorrow, I will make sure you suffer the way I’ve suffered. I will keep you alive to watch every person you love die. I’ll start with that blonde in the basement. You don’t think I’ll slit her throat in front of you? Because I will.”

  With that, Fernando turns on his heel and heads for the door. “Take her back downstairs,” he yells over his shoulder. “And only bring her back up when she’s ready to contact Cameron.”

  The guards yank me off the chair. I hear Fernando’s heavy footsteps walking down a different hallway before he slams a door behind him, the sound rattling through the quiet house.

  He’s going to kill them. He’s going to kill them all.

  I suck in my quivering lip, trying to control it between the grip of my teeth. I look down on the floor and see the crumpled article and Luke’s pale blue eyes staring back at me. I recognize the photo. It was taken on our first day of senior year for the yearbook. He hated that picture and his lopsided smile. But I always loved that photo. I had it tucked away in my nightstand. Love, Luke. That’s how he signed it. I remember my heart leaping at that one word. Love.

  My eyes stare down at the headline, fixated on two words.

  Found Dead. Found Dead. Found Dead. Found Dead.

  I read them over and over again, wishing there was a way to rewrite them. To undo everything. To bring him back.

  “Move,” one of the guards says, dragging me forward. I cannot feel my legs and struggle to put one foot in front of the other. As they push me from behind, my heart falls through my body. It’s like that aching organ could slide out of my toes and through this wood floor, disappearing and never stopping.

  Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke, my mind whispers over and over again as they practically carry me down the hallway, down the basement steps, and through the storage room door. They push me inside, slamming the door hard and locking it behind them, the finality of the sound echoing in my brain several seconds after they’re gone.

  “Reagan,” Harper says quietly from the ground, her small body still curled up against the wall, watching me. I lift up my heavy head, my eyes a blurry haze as I stumble toward her, my knees giving out, collapsing next to her onto the mattress. Harper lunges forward, grabbing me by the shoulder. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s dead,” I whisper, staring down at the white, quilted upholstery. “Luke is really dead.”

  My face finally turns toward hers. Harper’s cheeks are already streaked with tears, like she knew it from the moment I was shoved back into the room. Luke is gone.

  We collapse into each other, crying until our ribs ache and eyes burn. Crying until there is not a single tear left.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  I stare at the pipe next to me, counting the number of drips.

  Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four.

  It’s been dripping on and off all day. I wonder if it only makes that sound when someone is showering or running the dishwasher or doing laundry.

  Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.

  I lie on my side, shivering, my hands still tied behind my back. I feel like I’ve been cut open, my blood slowly dripping from my body and soaking into the mattress. My skin feels like it’s barely above freezing and I cannot stop shaking.

  Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two.

  My brain counts to stop me from thinking about Luke. But the dripping and the counting and the made-up distractions are fruitless. All I see is his face. All I hear is his voice. And I swear, somewhere in this room, I smell his cinnamon gum.

  When Santino Torres killed my mother, he stripped away pieces of me. The pieces that were good and kind and joyful. But with Luke, they’ve stolen so much more. All that I had hoped for and wished for and pictured are now black and blank and empty. And layered in between this boundless grief is a searing guilt. Because it’s my fault that he’s dead.

  I rub my face against the mattress and think back to the conversation we had on that snowy, tense drive to New York City. How one moment, one decision can change your whole life. If he’d just gone to that AP bio class, he’d be at West Point right now. He’d miss me, he’d wonder what happened to me, but he’d be safe.

  He’d still be alive.

  “Reagan, are you sleeping?” Harper whispers softly next to me. I stare at the pipe, my back still turned toward her. I think about not answering, pretending to be lost in the bliss of a REM cycle. But then I remember, she’s lost Luke too. And I don’t want her to be alone.

  “I’m awake,” I answer, my voice still hoarse from sobbing. I stare at the pipe, too sore and too tired to turn around and face her. But I feel her stand up and step over my body. Harper sits down on the mattress beside me, her back against the wall. Her hands reach out and stroke my hair. The wet strands that stuck to my tear-stained face have dried into clusters. They scrape across my face with each stroke, the short length forcing them back down toward my chin again.

  “What are we going to do?” Harper asks, her voice timid.

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About staying alive,” Harper responds. I finally push my body so I can look up into her face. We stopped crying an hour ago, but the fair skin on her face and neck are still blotchy. She always does that. When Harper cries, it’s hard to hide the evidence. It lingers on her for hours. “What are you going to do about Fernando? About Cam?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer, my breath pulling from my body through my mouth, the wound inside of me growing until it feels like it’s about to split.

  “Are you givin
g up on me?” Harper asks, her mouth pressed into a straight line.

  “No, I’m not giving up on you,” I answer even though part of me wants to. I feel dead already. And if I don’t get Cam on a plane, even if we somehow manage to escape, who will be left? What will I have to live for?

  I squint my eyes, looking away from Harper as an epiphany needles at the center of my chest.

  “What is it?” Harper says, her hands touching me gently on my shoulder.

  “Nothing, I just…” I begin, rolling my body away from her, my eyes focused on the heavy aluminum HVAC chambers running across the ceiling.

  “You just what?”

  “I just realized that I’ve never really lived for myself,” I answer, the sudden insight tumbling out of my mouth. “I’ve only lived for other people.”

  “Don’t we all live for other people?” Harper asks.

  “We do, but…” I say, my voice trailing off as I stare up at the overlapping wires and piping and exposed wood. “Like you … you’ve lived for your parents and friends. But you’ve also lived for the unknown. The excitement of not knowing what’s going to happen to you next. The hope of what could.”

  “And you haven’t?” she asks.

  “No,” I say and shake my head. “I trained my whole life to be a Black Angel. There was no real question about what I’d do. So I’ve lived for the people I love. And I guess I’m just terrified of making the wrong move here because if I screw this up, if I somehow lose them … even if we escape…”

  I won’t know how to keep living, my mind finishes, my mouth unable to compose the weak and feeble words.

  My eyes make their way back to Harper, who is staring down at me, the splotches on her skin burning an even brighter shade of red. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again, still thinking. “I don’t know,” she finally says quietly. “I don’t know how you go on living when everything you love is taken from you.”