by Holly Hart
This is on my head.
I fish out my watch. Sixteen hundred hours, but there’s nothing to do. Took the week off to take care of her, but she doesn’t want anything. I help her to the bath twice a day, try to get her to eat, and that’s it.
Maybe she’d let me brush her hair. I wander over to her vanity. Her brush is right there, where she left it: an ornate, gilded thing, soft-bristled, with her initials on the handle. Looks sentimental. Like something her mother would’ve gotten her. I rifle through the rest of her things: a matching mirror, a set of makeup brushes, a nail file. A watch with some Italian inscription on the back. Just what she came with. The rest of them—they all got straight to work, spending my money. Filled the place with everything under the sun. Stella wanted the comforts of home.
Home. I could get her something from there. Italian food, or.... Or.... I’m drawing a blank. I’ve never asked. Never been curious enough to find out.
I sit down and dig through her drawers. There’s not much there, either—makeup, hairpins, a few pairs of earrings. The string of black pearls she wore to her interview with Katrina. I remember those. She kept touching them on the way out. When she thought we couldn’t see her any more.
This isn’t helping. I need to get her off that couch, whether she wants it or not. Drag her back to the land of the living.
“Sir?” Starkey’s hovering in the doorway. At least he’s dressed today.
“What is it?”
“I could go out, if you want. Pick up some stuff. Her favorites....”
“I can do that myself.”
Starkey doesn’t flinch, but the corners of his mouth quirk downward. Guess there’s no need to snap, but I hate the insinuation he knows her better than I do. He doesn’t. He can’t. He might be the one who does her shopping, but I’m the one who takes her to dinner. Listens to her stories. Lets her steal from my wardrobe. That’s my shirt she’s snuggled into right now. Not Starkey’s.
“I’ll just—”
“No.” I hold up my hand. “Go. That’s a good idea.” And it’ll get him out of here for a while.
I follow him out to the living room and plunk myself down on the loveseat. Might as well let her sleep a while longer. At least till Starkey gets back.
The fall weather’s finally here. It’s been windy for days, gray skies for miles. The rain’s drumming on the windows again. No wonder Stella won’t wake up: it’s like a goddamn white noise machine. One I can’t turn off. I’m getting drowsy myself. Heavy-eyed.
I let my head droop. Doesn’t matter if I nap. The door’ll wake me up. Always been a light sleeper. Well, almost always. It was different for a while—those blue lake days, after....
I jolt upright, startled by...nothing. Nothing’s changed. Stella’s still sleeping. The rain’s coming down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, moving toward the horizon.
Must be going nuts, cooped up in here. I fumble for my train of thought. The blue lake: how I pictured my Vicodin haze. After the incident. Fathoms of water, flattening me to the lakebed. Not painkillers, but guilt. The terrible decision I couldn’t take back. I felt it for the first time before the hospital, in the desert, Erik crouched over me, packing gauze into the gaping hole in my belly.
Magnus was digging a hole. Ferris was staring at the sky, McHugh curled on his side, like he’d fallen asleep.
I wondered things, then, in my cocoon of shock. Fuzzy little questions, like how Erik and Magnus had found me so fast. How they’d found me at all. How they’d strolled in so easily, like they belonged. Questions I never let myself ask again, because it was too late.
What was done was done.
Stella stirs in her sleep, but doesn’t rouse. This is my handiwork, too.
I keep telling myself it’s too late, but that’s only true if I’m not willing to accept the consequences. I could own up to everything. Bring it all down in flames, and me in the cockpit.
I just need a couple of weeks. Time to tie up loose ends, make sure no one innocent gets hurt.
Stella’s huddled against the back of the couch, curled into the cushions. Makes my heart ache to see her so alone, so I stretch out alongside her, careful not to jostle her awake. She breathes the smallest of sighs as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.
“It’ll all be over soon,” I tell her.
Whatever the cost.
33
Stella
Everything’s changed. Feels like that last week of summer vacation: long, golden days that feel like they’ll go on forever—but you stay up as late as you can, because you know that they won’t. Something’s hovering in the air. An ending, and not a happy one.
“Ready to go?”
I smile, because that’s what you do at the end of summer. You dive off the pier; you swim out to the raft; you sail and you tan and you barbecue. You soak it for everything you can get. “Where are we headed?”
“It’s a surprise.”
It’s all been a surprise, lately. Jack’s been perfect. Patient. Kind. Got me back on my feet with teasing and card games and homemade soup. It’s like a wall’s crumbled away, and our endless game of truth-or-dare has become a conversation. He’s been affectionate, respectful—almost like a real relationship. Exactly like a real relationship: no inspections, no rules, no codes of conduct. And it feels like a long goodbye.
“How cold is it out there?”
Jack stares out the window for a moment too long. “I’ll grab you a jacket.”
Starkey’s been different, too, distant and subdued. When I added a pregnancy test to my shopping list, he brought it without comment. I wasn’t even surprised when it came up positive. Concerned, definitely. Homesick, as well—it’s been weeks since I’ve spoken to anyone I’d want to tell, anyone who’d be excited to know. But not surprised.
I both feared and anticipated Jack finding out. Would’ve been easier than telling him myself, but Starkey must’ve kept his mouth shut. No one’s said a thing. Maybe we’re all pretending we don’t know. Waiting for...whatever’s coming.
“Catch!” My jacket comes sailing across the room, plopping gracelessly in my lap. I shrug into it, and let Jack help me to my feet. My ankle’s still tender, and I’m stuck with a big, stupid boot, but I’m getting around.
The ride to wherever we’re going is weird and quiet. Reminds me of the trip to the Hamptons, but without the mortal fear. Jack keeps looking at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Every time I start to ask him what the fuck, I lose my nerve and wander into small talk. We go over the weather, the relative merits of tacos versus burritos, the way no one in New York dresses for the season, and we’re here.
“The planetarium?”
Jack conjures a vague smile. “I booked it just for us. We can stay as late as we want.”
I take his arm and let him lead me inside. It’s beautiful in the dome: the sound’s turned off, and it’s like stepping into the silence of space. Galaxies and constellations spiral overhead, slow and majestic. But all I feel is foreboding. This is too much like...like the kind of perfect memory you try to leave someone with, when you know you’ll never see them again.
“Sit with me.”
All the seats are empty, so I take the closest one. Jack sits down next to me, and we lean on one another in the dark, watching the universe go by.
“You’ve... You’re going to do something. Aren’t you?”
I feel, rather than see, Jack turn his head toward me. “Tomorrow.”
So soon? I want to scream at him, shake him, demand an explanation. But I can’t ruin this for him. “It’ll all be over then. Won’t it?”
“You can be there for your mother, like you wanted.”
It’s not an answer, but it fills me with a terrible certainty, anyway. He’s going to sacrifice himself, somehow, throw it all over, and I don’t want him to do it. I might have come here to bring him down, but now that it’s happening, I can’t think of anything I want less. “You might as well tell me, then. What did you do?
”
I can hear him breathing—sharp gasps of air; long, shuddering exhales. I can’t tell if he’s crying in the dark, but his distress is clear.
“I’ll tell you. Just not now. Let’s enjoy this for a moment.”
I’m not sure either of us is enjoying it, exactly, but I nod anyway, and squeeze his hand when I realize he probably didn’t see me. I watch a series of bluish, Earth-like planets orbit a distant sun as a trio of comets passes by.
“I saw something terrible going on,” he says at last. “And instead of blowing the whistle, instead of doing the right thing, I took advantage of the situation. Made myself rich.” He shifts in his seat, wiping at his face. “Thought I shut it all down, while I was at it, but....”
“But?”
“But I don’t think I did. I don’t think I did at all. Might even have made it worse.”
I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know. “Did anyone die?”
“Yes.”
There’s nothing to say to that. No way around it. I stare into the endless starfield, seeing nothing.
It’s dark when we finally leave. The real stars seem faint and impossibly distant after the ones in the planetarium. I turn to Jack to comment on that, but the words die on my lips. What difference does it make? Vacation is over, over, over.
I turn to him again as our building comes into view, but again, I can’t say what I want to say. Which is no, please—you can’t go! I’m pregnant! I still don’t know what he did exactly. Or who he might be hurting. Demanding he save himself might be unconscionably selfish.
That leaves one option: I have to make him talk. And it has to be tonight.
A faint ember of hope glows in my heart as we make our way to the penthouse. Summer doesn’t always end. Some people chase the sun all year long, one paradise to the next. We could do that. Run away together, leave it all behind....
“What are you thinking?”
I smile up at Jack—almost a real smile, this time. “How it’s always summer somewhere.”
“That’s a good thought.” He tilts his head. “Reminds me of our first morning together. The dream you had.”
I remember that, too. How the whole thing felt like a dream—not at all how I thought it would go.
The elevator doors open, and Starkey’s in the hall. Waiting for us. I whirl on Jack—what? This is it? Not even a last night together, a chance to talk, say goodbye?—but he looks just as surprised as I am.
“Starkey?”
“There’s....” He swallows with an audible click, and for the first time, I notice how pale he is. “You have to come inside. There’s something on the news.”
34
Jack
The ticker says it all: GUNMAN AT LARGE IN NAGLER SHOOTING.
Magnus. This is Magnus—but why? Nagler’s neutralized. Hasn’t been a threat in years.
“This is from an hour ago.” Starkey lowers his voice so only I can hear. “There’s still time. If you have a contingency.”
I nod tightly. I don’t have a plan, not for this, but I’m not going to take it lying down.
Stella’s fixated on the screen, staring without seeing. Got a death-grip on my arm. So she knows who he is—who he was. I’m not surprised.
I recognize Nagler’s building, and some of the rubberneckers gathered outside. A pasty-faced reporter steps in front of the camera, washed out by the floodlights. “Excuse the delay—sorry. We’ve got the police here, still very much engaged in crowd control. They’ve cordoned this whole area to the east, here, where the shooting took place, and.... We have, uh—sir? Sir? Could you step forward?”
A tall, twitchy man enters the shot. The camera zooms out to accommodate his height.
“So you witnessed—you saw the actual—”
The man butts in, overeager. “Man, I was here, right on that bench! There was a flash from up there—” He points, and the camera cuts to the roof of a nearby building. “—and then everyone was screaming, diving for cover—it was nuts. I was under that bench for a second; then I thought, wait, it’s wood; bullets totally go through—”
“And when did you realize what was happening?”
“I didn’t! Not till it was over! I just... Everyone hit the deck, and, uh...pack instinct, man! Didn’t know anyone got hit till that lady came out.”
“That would be Felix Nagler’s wife, Cynthia Nagler—and the police, ah, they’ve escorted her inside, maybe five minutes ago. It doesn’t appear she’s a suspect at this stage.” The reporter holds out his microphone. “So you think—you’re thinking a sniper? That’s what you saw?”
“Dude, I don’t know, man—it was a flash, and there was sort of a sound, but it wasn’t like movie gunfire, and—”
Starkey stops the video. “It goes on for a while—more of the same. Nothing new yet.”
Stella drops to her knees, eyes wide as saucers. I crouch down next to her. “Hey. Come on—got to stay calm. This might not be what it looks like.”
She’s still staring at the screen. Not sure I’m getting through.
“Starkey! Get her to the airport. First flight out—you get on it. Then keep going. As far as you can.”
Stella scrambles to her feet, away from Starkey. “No! No—I can’t!”
Goddammit! Knew I should’ve replaced him—fucking Starkey! I dig deep for that seed of patience. Scaring her worse won’t help. “Listen, Starkey won’t hurt you. He can sit in coach, if you want. Nowhere near you. You’ll be—”
“It’s not that.” Her words come out broken, barely a croak. “This was me. I did this.” She keeps backing away. “I wrote it all down, and my purse—all my notes—”
I take her by the shoulders, steadying her before she can trip herself up. “You didn’t.”
“You don’t—”
“No—listen.” I give her a little shake. Time’s running out. No room for panic. “It’s Magnus. He’s figured out I’m coming for him, and he’s tying up loose ends. Whatever you know, whatever you wrote, this was not you. Understood?”
Her gaze flickers between me, Starkey, and the screen. She shakes her head.
“I’ll explain it all soon. You’ll see for yourself. But for now, you have to run. Starkey?”
“I’ll get the car.”
Stella clings to me, nails digging into my forearms. “You’re not coming?”
“There’s something else I have to do. After that....” It hurts to lie. But she needs to hear it. “I’ll be right behind you. Stay calm, listen to Starkey, and everything’ll be fine.”
“Everything’ll be fine....”
I shake her again. “Hey! Get a grip. You can freak out later, okay?”
She blinks, recognition dawning, like she’s waking up from a dream. “Right. Right, I’m... Got it.”
Starkey reappears in the doorway, jacket over his arm. “Sorry—car’s ready. I’m driving.”
I squeeze Stella’s shoulders one last time. “Go.”
She can’t seem to let go. Starkey pulls her away as gently as possible, but one of her nails nicks my wrist. I catch myself hoping it’ll scar. Something to remember her by.
35
Stella
“Put this on.” Starkey thrusts his jacket into my arms. It’s so heavy I almost drop it.
“What—?”
“Body armor. Zip up all the way and flip the collar over your face. Duck your head when we’re in the open.”
Starkey pushes through the doors ahead of me, keeping himself between me and the street as he rushes me to the car. Feels like I’m getting arrested, the way he bundles me into the back seat, one hand on my head. He buckles me in like a child, and I don’t even protest.
“I didn’t get my passport, my ID, anything....”
He pats his breast pocket. “All here. Sit tight.” He slams the door. Moments later, I’m flattened to the seat as we accelerate far too fast.
It occurs to me that this could be my last glimpse of New York, of America, and it’s going by in a
flash. The lights blur together; the buildings zip by. Never got a chance to say goodbye, not even to Jack, not really. My last words to him were “got it”—not “be careful,” not “I love you”—not even an apology. Fucking “Got it.”
Starkey swerves hard. We bounce up on the median and come down with a jolt. The seat belt digs into my hip, right where it aches from the mugging.
“Slow down! We’ll get pulled over!”
“We won’t.” His voice is tight. “Keep your head down.”
My head? Is someone after us? I twist around in my seat, but there’s nothing to see but the glare of headlights, swiftly receding. I slide down as far as I can, anyway. Just in case.
I feel like I’m in The Fast and the Furious, a captive passenger flying through the night at breakneck speed. I’m clutching the seat all the way, certain Starkey’s going to lose control and send us careening off the road. I picture us crawling out of the ditch, headlights glaring in our faces, while behind us...behind us...some faceless assassin, creeping out of the weeds, like he knew we’d be there. Like in the movies, where they throw nails in the road, and then—
My head’s spinning. Heart’s pounding. Breathing too fast.
Freak out later.
Later. Right. This is just a precaution: a surreal wild ride I’ll look back on later, and feel like it happened to someone else. Nothing will happen—how can it? We’re almost there. Almost there. I can see the lights of the airport. Planes on the tarmac.
Everything’ll be fine.
36
Jack
Twenty-two hundred hours: I pull up at One Police Plaza. This is it. World’s end. Hope Stella got out in time.
I roll down my window and close my eyes, breathing in the city. Smells of spilled coffee and sewer steam, mostly. My last breaths as a free man, and I’m sniffing New York’s ass. Yeah. Sounds about right.
She’s probably halfway to the airport by now. Starkey’ll get her home, or wherever she wants to go. The Cayman Islands, or New Zealand. Someplace where it’s summer. She’ll be pissed, at first, when I don’t show up, but when she finds out what I’ve done....