by Rachel Rust
“That’s why we went to Krissy’s house, isn’t it? The two of you had to figure out what to do with me.”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you just bring me to the police station or something? Or put security on my house?”
“We knew the police department was compromised, so we couldn’t trust them. We had to keep them in the dark. And we were so close to nailing Little Bobby, and when we get within reaching distance, sometimes we have to take calculated risks to get the bad guy.”
“So my safety was a calculated risk?”
He sighed. “I know you never trusted me much, but it might come as a surprise to you that I actually did know what I was doing. And I sure as hell would never have let you become one of Little Bobby’s girls.”
“I did trust you for a while, until I realized you had been lying to me.” I glanced up at the sky. “And now? I don’t know what to think.”
“That’s okay. It’s a lot to process.”
“What did Brody have to do with it? He wasn’t The Barber, was he?”
“No, people like The Barber don’t get involved in the low-level stuff. They tend to hide out in the open. Community people. Business leaders. But Brody was a pretty major player working directly under him. He was the one working at Kennedy. Pretty good at it, too, if neither your brother nor I knew about it.”
“You’re not gonna bust Josh for being a pothead are you?”
Vic—Eddie smiled. “No, I’m not gonna bust him. People have been smoking stuff for thousands of years. Always will be. I’m only interested in trying to keep the damage to a minimum. To keep pieces of shit like Brody Zane from ruining lives.”
I picked at my nails. My jeans were filthy, full of dust, with droplets of dried blood.
“I’m sorry for what I said about your father,” Eddie said. “Doctors aren’t really the problem.”
“Seems like the whole system is messed up.”
“Maybe you can change that someday, Dr. Mancini.”
I laughed an unpleasant laugh. “Dr. Mancini is my dad, not me. I don’t want anything to do with pre-med or medical school. I just wanna…” My words drifted into a sigh. “I don’t know what I want to major in yet and I think I’m okay with that for now.”
“Columbia’s a good school. You’ll think of something.”
“But I have to get there first. And there’s one big problem.”
He hung his head. “No government assignment.”
“Half of an assignment,” I corrected. “But I’ll figure something out. I suppose no one could blame me if I stayed home sick from school today.”
Eddie looked at his phone. “You got two and a half hours to decide.”
The sky beyond Little Bobby’s house had grown more purple as I sat on the back of the ambulance. “How am I going to get home?”
“Whenever you’re ready, I can have someone drive you to your car.”
“It won’t start.”
“Mary checked it. Battery was disconnected is all.”
I shook my head with a disgusted chuckle. Brody had pretended not to know anything about cars, but he knew damn well that the battery had been disconnected. I hopped off the ambulance bumper, ready to put the entire night—especially Brody—behind me. “I’m more than ready to get out of here. Who’s going to drive me?”
He stood up, jangling keys between us. “Let’s go.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
“Every time I get into a car with you, bad stuff happens.”
He grinned. “Every time you got into a car with Victor, bad stuff happened. But you’ve never been in a car with me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s go.” He walked me to a gray, four-door pickup. “You don’t drive as cool of a car as Victor did,” I said, getting into the passenger seat. Eddie started up the truck, then pulled away from the curb. “Aren’t you going to light a cigarette?”
“No.” He took the first right out of the neighborhood. “I smoked back in high school and most of college and—”
“Only tobacco?”
He smiled. “And maybe some other stuff, but I quit smoking my junior year of college. I didn’t pick up a cigarette for over two years until I got into this operation. And I hate it. I need to quit again.”
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Ohio State.”
I raised my fist limply. “Go Buckeyes. What degree do you have? A bachelor’s in being rude and bossy?”
“Pre-law, actually.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You wanted to be a lawyer?” My eyes scanned his silhouette in the darkened cab, trying to picture him in a suit and tie. I nearly laughed.
“Yeah, that had always been my plan. But when I was applying for law schools, I decided I wanted something different and ended up at Quantico instead.”
Quantico. I had never heard that word spoken outside of movies and television. It was a real place. I scanned Eddie’s muscular arm, down to his hand gripping the steering wheel. A real place that churned out real FBI agents. Like the one beside me with a handgun strapped to his side.
I didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.
He parked behind my car, in front of Mary and Mason’s house. The sky behind us was purple. Stars along the horizon were losing the battle. He leaned his head back on the headrest and looked at me.
“I suppose you’re done at Kennedy,” I said. “No point to returning to high school, huh?”
“I’ll be heading back to New York tomorrow.”
“New York City?”
“That’s where I live. Sort of. It’s like my home base.”
My finger hooked into the car door handle. There was no reason to stay in the cab of the truck with him. The night was over. He was Eddie, not Victor. He had to deal with his own life. I had to go back to Mr. Kellen’s class and save my grade. Separate paths. Separate people.
There was no reason to stay next to him, yet I didn’t open the door. “I’m glad I got partnered with you,” I said. It made no sense, but it was the truth.
“I’m sorry you had to get stuck with me. I’m not good in the high school scene. I told them that from day one. But I was the youngest, so lucky me.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I thought you were convincing as a student.”
“How’s that?”
“You were a jerk like all the other guys at school.”
He smiled. “And now?”
“Now you’re a rule-abiding adult. You didn’t even run a red light all the way here.”
“Can’t win either way, can I?”
“Guess not.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“When you get in your car, please drive straight home. No pit stops. No coming back here or to Little Bobby’s house. Promise.” His lip twitched into a slight grin. Apparently, I had proven myself less-than-trustworthy when it came to keeping myself out of trouble all night. He would probably be double-checking his backseat later to make sure I hadn’t once again snuck into his car.
“I promise,” I said. And I meant it.
“Your house is clear. We’ve got our people watching it. You’ll be fine there.”
“Okay.” I finally unlatched the car door. “Now I understand why you were always asleep at school. You probably didn’t get much sleep at night with things like this going down.”
“Most nights were just paperwork and meetings, but no, not much time for sleep.”
“Or homework, apparently.” I gave him a little grin. He returned it. I studied his dark eyes, trying to commit them to memory—the heavy lashes, the way they turned down a bit in the corners when he smiled. “You should find yourself a desk job where people don’t hit you over the head with guns.”
He smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed the car door open. “You should get s
ome sleep for a change, you look like shit.” He laughed, running a hand through his wild hair. The tattoo on his wrist was barely visible in the interior light. I took his hand, cradling it in both of mine. My finger traced the 22. “What does it mean?”
He didn’t pull his hand away as he spoke. “My training squad at Quantico. There were thirty-nine on day one, but only twenty-two of us graduated. We all got tattoos.”
I traced the number one more time, then gave him his hand back. “I’m going to go home now.” I put one leg out the door, then turned to look at him. “Go live your life, Eddie Martinez. And thanks for saving mine.”
“I think that goes both ways.”
I hopped down from the truck and gave him a little wave before shutting the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The familiar smell and feel of my car was made even better when the engine started right up with the turn of the key. It smelled of home and I was on my way home.
Eddie followed me out of the neighborhood. At the first stoplight, I turned right and he went left. The taillights of the pickup disappeared in my rearview mirror, taking the only good part of the night with it. My chest tightened. I cranked the radio louder to drown out my self-pitying thoughts. Only eleven hours ago, I had pulled up in front of Victor Greer’s house, scared to death of him, despising Mr. Kellen for pairing me up with such a dickhead. And now, Eddie Martinez was gone. And it hurt.
Taylor Swift sang about her broken heart. I changed the station.
Kelly Clarkson sang about an evil ex. I changed the station.
Some country singer crooned about a bitch of an ex-wife who took all of his stuff. I turned the radio off.
It was a few minutes after six when I made it to the south side of town, near my neighborhood. School was in less than two hours. Just enough time to shower, dress, and mentally prepare for all the excuses I’d need throughout the day—I walked into a wall. I slipped and hit my face on the shower knob. I’m sorry, Mr. Kellen, but I only have one interview completed.
The whole day was going to be a big ball of suck.
My stomach gurgled. My head pounded. I needed food. And caffeine. My fingers tapped on the steering wheel, anxious for sustenance. Grand Canyon-sized cracks covered my lips and my throat was dry and tight. The laced water from Brody hadn’t exactly been thirst quenching.
Dammit, Brody. The cutest boy in school turned major criminal. It wasn’t fair.
I drove another half a block then turned right into the parking lot of a strip mall. Sandwiched between an orthodontist and a bookkeeper was a coffee shop and bakery. The gigantic Open sign in the front window was like a homing beacon. I could practically taste the pastries.
A twinge of guilt plagued me. Ten minutes in, and I had already broken my promise to Eddie about going directly home. But I needed to shove caffeine and carbs into my mouth before I could drive another ten blocks home.
I parked and went inside. A girl with long red hair stood behind the register. The scent of coffee made my head feel better. The interior was decorated minimally with burnt-orange walls, dark wood floors, and dark wood tables and chairs. The menu behind the counter was a chalkboard. The redhead greeted me with a braces-filled smile. Her smile then faded and she blurted out a quick, “Good morning.”
I was too tired to smile back and in that moment, realized I hadn’t looked in a mirror in hours. My fingers touched the tips of my hair. It was all down. I doubted there was much mascara left over, so my eyes were probably fairly clean. But the redhead’s eyes, despite her attempts not to, kept staring at my cut cheek.
“A large black coffee and a cinnamon roll,” I said, barely able to peel my eyes from the squares of cinnamon dough behind the display glass, their tops slathered with copious amounts of thick, white icing. I needed one in my mouth, like, yesterday.
The girl’s eyes darted away from my face and she spun around to the coffee pot behind her. A splash of liquid spilled over the cup as she fumbled with the machine.
A man came in from the back room. He was in his forties, about my dad’s age, with short brown hair tinged with gray at the temples. His square jaw was clean-shaven. He gave me a wide smile, looking like he should be in a razor commercial.
“First customer of the day,” he said, with a greater ability to not look at my cheek. “How’s your morning so far?”
Shitty. “Fine.”
“Here’s your coffee,” the redhead said with a nervous glance at the man. “I’ll grab your cinnamon roll.”
“I can get it,” the man said. “Why don’t you go take the trash out, Alexis?”
She stared at him with big eyes before finally replying, “Sure thing.” She disappeared into the back room.
The man grabbed a cinnamon roll from the front display, using a square of wax paper. He placed it into a small box and snapped the lid closed, then hit a few buttons on the register. “Seven forty-two.”
I handed him a ten.
“You go to school around here?” he asked, getting my change.
“Yes.”
“Kennedy?”
My fingers curled around one another. “Yes.”
“You must know my nephew, Brody.”
Had there been anything inside my stomach, it would have decorated the floor. I stared at my clasped fingers as the man gathered money from the register’s drawer. In my state of disorientation from the night, I had driven on automatic pilot, not evening realizing I had headed to the Zane family’s coffee shop, The Platter.
The man handed over my change. “Brody Zane? He’s a senior.”
“I know the name,” I muttered, shoving the money into my pocket. I grabbed the roll and the cup of coffee, then spun around toward the door.
But my feet didn’t move any farther. My empty stomach lurched once again. Outside the door, Alexis, with her red hair blowing in the morning wind, was locking the door from the outside. She stared at me for a moment with her big eyes before spinning around and running away.
“Oh, I think you know Brody pretty well,” the man said. Footsteps came up behind me. The man stepped up to my back and lowered his face until his cheek was against mine, chin resting on my shoulder.
Despite a plea from the sensible part of my brain to stay calm, my arms holding the roll and coffee quivered.
“Where’s Brody?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He knocked the small box out of my hand. It thudded to the ground and popped open, exposing the icing-laden cinnamon roll. “Where’s Brody?” he asked again.
“He…he was arrested.”
“Okay then. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now I’m going to ask you another question. What’s the name of your friend who followed you here?”
My eyebrows wrinkled. “No one followed me here.”
“Sure he did.”
I stared out at the parking lot. It was barely light enough to see the cars, and there was no pickup. No Eddie. Although with the initials FBI now attached to his name, I knew just because I didn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
The man smiled. “Feels good to have people watching out for you, huh? But I’ve got people watching you, too. And people watching your people.”
“You’re The Barber,” I whispered.
He let out a soft, singular laugh. “I hate that name. Besides, I already know who I am. I want to know your friend’s real name.” He removed the plastic lid from my coffee, then placed his hand under the cup, angling it so that with one move, the scalding liquid would pour onto my hip. “This is going to be real simple. I ask questions, you answer. Got it, Natalie Mancini?”
My own name was a spear into my gut. Eddie had been right all night—they knew exactly who I was. I was never Delilah. I was always Natalie.
“The name of your friend?”
“Eddie.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
He bumped the cup and a splash of coffee hit my thigh. My skin lit on fire. I
jerked back with a cry.
“Last name?”
“Martinez.”
“Who does he work for?” His fingers lay against the cup again. “This time it’ll be all of it.”
My face clenched, fresh tears falling freely. “FBI.”
He took the coffee cup and placed it on the table next to us. Grabbing my arms, he spun me around, then led me past the counter and into the back room. He shoved me down. I crouched up next to a cabinet, arms wrapped around bent-up knees.
He grabbed a flip phone out of his pocket, then punched in a number. “Detective Novotny, please.” My stomach heaved at Novotny’s name. I hated myself for having trusted him with even a smidge of information. A muted male voice picked up the other end of the call, and The Barber said, “Eddie Martinez, FBI. Have him call me back on this number.” There was a pause and then the murmur of Novotny’s voice. The Barber cut him off and said, “I don’t care how you do it, just get him to call this number.” He ended the call, then knelt down beside me and brushed a lock of hair from my face. He looked at my cut cheek. “Brody do that to you?”
I nodded.
“Kid’s got a quick temper,” he said. “I keep telling him this business takes patience, but he thinks he knows it all.”
The Barber’s phone began playing an old fifties doo-wop song. I took the distraction as an opportunity to canvass the back room. There was an emergency exit along the back wall. I was fairly sure those couldn’t be locked from the inside due to fire code. The emergency handle had to be functional.
The Barber answered his phone right in front of me. “Yeah?”
“This is Martinez.” Eddie’s voice was muffled, but distinct. My face pinched with tears at the sound of it, wanting nothing more than for him to bust through the back door at that very moment.
“Someone here needs to say hi to you,” The Barber said. He placed the phone to the side of my face.
“Vic—Eddie?” His name barely choked out from my closed up throat.
“Natalie? Where are you?”
The Barber yanked the phone away. “She’s with me. You have exactly twenty minutes to release Brody Zane or the girl dies.” He ended the call.