by Sandra Block
“Nothing,” he answers. “Just depressed.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.” I pop a Cheeto in my mouth. “You want to talk about how much Brandon sucks?”
“No,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t even want to do that.”
“That bad?”
“Yup,” he says. He doesn’t talk for a bit and we sit in a comfortable silence, while I munch on my Cheetos. “So,” Eli says, breaking the silence. “Tell me what’s new with you?”
“Not much. Just the Ramona thing I was telling you about.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I ask, wiping orange powder off my hands. “That she’s not anywhere on the internet?”
“It is,” he agrees.
“And not only did he never say a word about his brother, but you should have seen the reaction when I brought up Ramona. It’s like she’s verboten or something.”
A loud yawn sounds out over the phone. “Did you ask him about it?”
“I tried.” I say, crumpling the empty bag. “He got too upset.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you eventually,” Eli says, sounding a bit bored.
“Well,” I say with nothing more to offer, “I’ll let you go.”
“Okay,” he answers. He sounds as dejected and depressed as when the conversation started.
“Hang in there, okay?”
“Okay,” he repeats.
I bring my Dr Pepper back to my desk, and Snyder is there, making stilted small talk with Sylvia. His face brightens to see me. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Snyder.” I pitch my phone in the drawer. “What are you up to? Just lurking around?”
“Yup, that’s me. I’m a PI. I lurk.” He sits on the edge of my desk. “Got that contact from the FBI you wanted. The terrorism guy?”
“Oh yes. Perfect,” I say. “Connor will be thrilled.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, his tone dubious. “Detective Omar Mahmoud.” As he hands me a scrap of paper with the name, the phone in the drawer buzzes loudly. I ignore it, and then it happens again. Snyder stares at me with amusement. “You need to get that?”
“Not really… I mean…”
He motions his head toward it, and I pull the drawer open and peek in.
Surfed some Jihadi websites, sent inquiring emails. No alarms going off yet.
I shut the drawer again.
“What does Connor need Omar for anyway?” His eyes pop up from the closed drawer. “He’s taking on an anti-terrorism case?”
“He may be accepting one,” I lie. “I think he’s just doing some initial research.”
“Right.” He stands up to leave, but leans in toward me first, lowering his voice. “I don’t know what you’re up to, gorgeous. But be careful. You’re a good kid.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “But you won’t look good in orange.”
With that, he walks away, and I quickly text James. Omar Mahmoud. Snyder’s connection.
Great, will call soon.
I’m putting the phone away when it vibrates another text in my hand. Ready for another lesson?
My breath catches, and I stare at the screen. This time, I decide not to answer, figuring engaging this sick fuck is probably turning him on. And Simone is safe with Daisy anyway.
Then a picture pops up of my sister, smiling, her hand over a large baby bump.
What do you want? I type. I can’t help myself.
We want you to stop. If you don’t, we’ll kill her and her little baby. But first we’ll fuck her good, just like we fucked you.
• • •
The phone seems to ring forever.
My eyes wander over to Simone’s usual spot, then I remember she isn’t there.
“Hello?” Her voice is short of breath, as if she ran to the phone.
“Shoshana,” I say with relief. “You’re okay.”
She giggles. “Of course I’m okay.” Her voice is teasing. “Are you drunk or something?”
“No,” I say. I consider grumpily reminding her that I don’t drink anymore when I remember why I’m calling her. “It’s—”
“It’s about Stanford? Did you get in?”
“No, it’s not.” I stand and check out the window. There’s a silver sedan out front that I haven’t noticed before. I peek out behind the curtain. “I mean, yes, I’m applying. But I didn’t hear from them yet.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll get in.”
The silver car takes off, and I let out a sigh. “Yeah, um…that’s not what I’m calling about. I… There’s a little problem.”
“Okay?” Her tone is warm and immediately helpful as usual.
“It’s about…what happened that night.”
There’s a heavy pause.
“The guys involved…well, who raped me. I should just say it. They seem to be coming after me again.”
She breathes in sharply. “Oh no. Why? What do you mean?”
I walk away from the window. Then, I explain about the video, though I don’t tell her about James, or our revenge plan, positing it instead as more of a preemptive strike on their part. “But here’s the thing,” I continue. “As part of the threat, they’re talking about you.”
“Me?” she asks in shock. “But how did I get involved?”
“To scare me,” I say, “into not saying anything.”
“Jesus,” she whispers.
“I’m going to send you the text that they sent me. Because I think you should know. But I’m warning you, it’s upsetting.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding suddenly weary. “Did…did you call the police?”
I don’t answer, because I can’t bear to lie to her about that. Not when she may be at risk.
“No,” she answers for me. “Because you don’t like the police.” There’s a tinge of bitterness in the statement, and I can’t blame her.
“But you can,” I urge her. “You should.”
“All right,” Shoshana says with a sigh. “Send it to me.”
Chapter Seventy-One
James
Faneuil Hall isn’t too busy, which is perfect.
I walk over to the pier, watching the waves slap against the cement. The night is cold, and the water must be freezing. I imagine Ramona hitting the cold water and make my brain stop. Like Jamal said, I have to change the neural circuitry, put a stop code in the if-then loop somehow.
A couple walks by holding gloved hands; they whisper something to each other and then laugh. I cross my arms and just stare out, hoping I don’t look too obvious. I wore all black and picked somewhere a lot of people might go. The noise of the water should wash over any other easily identifiable sounds.
In the distance, someone is walking a dog, coming my way. The cold is stinging my fingers, and I want to get this over, so I type the number in the phone and wait out the rings until the answering machine comes on.
“This is Omar Mahmoud from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am not available right now, but…”
“Hi. I’m calling about someone from work. I…I think he’s giving money to terrorists. I saw something really weird when I walked by his computer.” An ambulance wails out in the distance, which the phone is probably picking up. But so what—there are a lot of ambulances out there. “I don’t want to get involved. But Blake Roberts is his name. 617-554-9292. I’m afraid he’s planning something bad.” I hang up.
The dog walker is about twenty feet closer.
Some freezing droplets fly up from the pier onto my face, and I turn away and start walking. As I walk by an Irish bar, some people file out, laughing and yelling. Pulling my hoodie up against the wind, I move on.
The money transfers have gone through, and I have a few more lined up for tomorrow. Then that’s it. It’s too fast. It’s not at all realistic. They might
not believe our scenario, but maybe they will. And as Dahlia said, if we can’t send him to jail, we can at least ruin his reputation. And I don’t want to take the time and chance someone connecting the dots back to us.
Unexpectedly, my phone rings, and for a weird, scary moment, I think it’s Omar Mahmoud calling to say he caught me out. But then I remember that’s the burner phone, not mine. I look down at the screen and see it’s my mom. I put it back in my pocket. I’ll talk to her, but not now. I’m not ready yet.
Sidestepping a puddle, I take the phone out again and text Dahlia.
Called OM
I wait for a response, but it only says delivered, not read, and I put the phone away again.
I have to tell Dahlia the truth. I know that. Texting her isn’t enough. She’s right to be upset with me after that dinner. In fact, I’m surprised she’s even communicating with me. Especially after everything she’s told me.
Maybe after the project is done.
It almost is anyway. She still wants to go to the New Year’s party for the cigar box. I don’t think that’s such a good idea, especially with them threatening her sister. And her cat. But Dahlia does, and sometimes there’s no talking to Dahlia.
And when it’s all over, I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her everything. And hopefully she’ll still love me. Or if she doesn’t yet, maybe she will eventually. Because it took some time, but I figured something out, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I love her no matter what.
Chapter Seventy-Two
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Mollysdad: So, what’s the word?
Desiforever: Blake took care of it
PorscheD: What did he do?
Desiforever: Threatened her. He doesn’t think she’ll be a problem anymore
Bruinsblow: Well, that’s good for him. I’m not so sure about that. Bitch is like a dog after a bone.
Creoletransplant: Well she is a dog. And she did get boned. So…
Desiforever: He said it’s over. I trust him. Blake knows what he’s doing.
Mollysdad: I suppose
Desiforever: I also told the guys in the club. Just in case she tries anything.
Mollysdad: Doubt she’d do that.
Desiforever: See above. Dog. Boned. Etc.
PorscheD: How did you warn them?
Desiforever: Sent them her picture. Total skank. She’s got like a million fucking tattoos and purple hair. It would be hard to miss her.
Bruinsblow: Who’s the point man on that then?
Desiforever: Christian Ford. If she ever comes there, they’ll be prepared. But as I said, Blake is all over it. He said she’s done.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Five Years Ago
Jeri texted me that she’d be at S.O.S., but she wasn’t.
Eli had work so he couldn’t come, but he said he’d be there the next time. And overall, it went well. The leader was a bit odd, but earnest. Lots of crying in the room. I told a bit of my story, and that was enough. There was a feeling of community, of sharing something sacred, but taboo. Something no one else wants to talk about.
And when I left, I felt better. Which is the point, I suppose.
As I stand on the platform of the station, I can literally and figuratively see a light at the end of the tunnel, and I feel semi-hopeful the whole ride home. Emerging from the stairs to the street, I get a text from Eli.
Got you a present
Tell me tell me tell me
It’s a surprise
Be home in 10 min
Meet at your place, he texts.
When I open the door, he has a devilish grin.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he says.
I drop my purse and sit on my new couch. “What is it?”
“It’s around,” he answers, mysteriously.
I jump up from the couch. “Should we play hot and cold?”
“That might not be so easy,” he says. “Kind of a moving target.”
Then I see it. A tiny gray kitty, slinking in a shadow. “Oh my God.” I tiptoe over to the cat, who takes hesitant steps backward.
Eli is beaming. “It’s a she.”
“She’s adorable,” I say. “Look at that beautiful face.” I creep closer and slowly reach out my hand to pet her neck. As if she can’t help it, she leans in toward my hand.
Eli is on his hands and knees next to me. “You like her?”
“I love her!” She ventures closer to my palm.
“What are you going to name her?” he asks, schoolboy excitement in his voice.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
Eli offers the kitten his hand as well, but she moves closer to me. He got me the whole kit and caboodle—the litter box, some food, toys, and a kitty bed. We play with her forever. Finally, the kitty starts to totter on her feet, and her eyes close.
“I think someone’s tired,” I whisper.
Eli nods, smiling at her. He squeezes my shoulder, then stands up. “I should be going anyway. Interview tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“A job I won’t get.” He gives me an air kiss and leaves.
I slump down in the couch, watching the little bundle breathing, her ribs rising and falling. Grabbing my phone, I text Jeri again.
You jerk! I add a wink emoji. You didn’t show! Next time, you better be there, girl. Now a smile emoji. I put the phone by my side and stroke the kitten, thinking about possible names. But I can’t think of a good one right now, and watching her sleep makes me drowsy. So I lie down next to her and, soon enough, find myself dozing off.
Sometime later, the sound of a text ding wakes me up. The kitten opens one eye, then lazily closes it again, and I wipe some drool off my mouth. Yawning, I sit up to check the phone.
This is Jeri’s mother. I’m sorry to tell you, but Jeri passed away suddenly last night.
An involuntary gasp escapes my lips.
She truly appreciated your friendship. Thank you.
I’m sorry, I text back. And wait a while, but there is no further response.
I pull up Eli’s number to tell him, but stop. I don’t have it in me right now. A wall of sorrow falls on me. Almost buries me. S.O.S. couldn’t save her. The hospital couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her.
And I sit there on the couch, crying again, that hopeful feeling evaporating. I am so, so sick of crying. Right then, I feel as low as I’ve been in a long time. A black hopeless feeling. And the familiar thought snakes into my head. How easy it would be to just let go.
To let it all go, like Jeri.
But I wipe my eyes and try to push through it. The blackness. The useless, useless feeling. Because there’s a tiny kitten breathing at my feet.
And she needs me.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Dahlia
The week blurred by, hurtling toward the day I circled in red on my calendar. And it’s finally here. D-day. The after–New Year’s party. And after the texts, it couldn’t come a day too soon.
But at the same time, I face the night with a mixture of excitement and dread. My nerves are jangling and I feel weirdly high, though I’m not. Like my brain is in overdrive, so hyper-alert, it’s almost disengaged. Like my brain is rebelling against me, telling me not to do this. Just like Eli told me.
But I have no choice. I have to.
“You’re absolutely sure now?” James asks, his jaw set as if he’s about to face the guillotine. “Positive?”
“A hundred percent,” I lie. “I’ll be fine. You’ll be right there, watching me.”
“True,” he says, but he sounds unsettled still.
Earlier tonight, James and I tested the necklace again. We have a semi-plan. I’m using the name Sarah. And we’ve come up with a code i
n case I’m in trouble. I’ll say “Red Sox,” then he’ll call 911.
I adjust my sweater in the mirror. It’s cream-colored, with a little frill around the V-neck, which calls attention to the shiny, black evil eye. And I’ve got on my fitted black skirt. But no heels this time, just long, black leather boots with my beautiful Beretta tucked inside.
Digging through my purse, I uncap my lipstick, dab on another bloodred coat, then take one last look at myself. The evil eye glistens in the light. Frilly top. Black skirt.
I have an odd urge to touch the mirror. And I realize, with some tenderness, that I am trying to reach out to her. Pretty Girl. And tell her everything is okay now. That it gets better, a lot better. But I don’t touch the mirror. I stand up straight.
Because I’m not really Pretty Girl anymore. I’m not even Angry Girl. I’m just Dahlia. And I’m finding your fucking cigar box.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn to him. “About Ramona.” He chews on his lip.
“Yes?”
He takes a breath, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “I’ll explain everything,” he says. “After tonight. Okay?”
I smile at him. “Okay.”
He smiles back with an air of relief and starts packing up the computer. “All righty then. Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes.” I lean down and trace the leather of my boot for the familiar bulge. “Let’s do this.”
• • •
I don’t remember a thing about the place.
I would have walked right by it had Google Maps not told us to stop there. The building is a nondescript gray brick with a black door and gold, flaking numbers and a patina on the copper knocker. It could be any random office building.
A cold wind slices through my scarf. I wrap it tighter and hit the buzzer on the doorpost.
“Yo” comes out over the speaker. A flash of girlish laugher inside.
“Magna Carta,” I say.
“All right, come on up.” The door buzzes again, and when I push the knob, it releases. The hallway is also nondescript, a concrete gray, claustrophobic tunnel. I climb the steps, butterflies swarming in my stomach. Halfway up, the sound of voices builds around me, and warmth bubbles down from the party, offsetting the chill of the stairs. When I reach the top step, I am short of breath. I walk in the room, forcing a smile on my face.