Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  Panting, I stare at my ex-husband, his eyes wide with fear. It is Beckett, no question. “But the hood …” When I saw him jolted with electrical shocks, there was a hood over his head; maybe that wasn’t him. Or maybe this is my storytelling instinct, my liar’s mind, warping the truth, trying to escape this grim reality.

  “For the connectivity.” Cristina sounds like she might be smiling. “Would you gamble with his life? What would you tell me to save him?”

  The screen flickers and the image of Beckett in a chair is replaced with one of the hooded man. Is his chest too thin? Are his trousers, his hands, his arms the same as my ex-husband’s? How could I have been married to Beckett, known him so well, and still be unsure now? It’s a damning indictment of our relationship, of all my relationships.

  I wish I could believe this is footage of someone else, that Beckett is okay, he has to be okay, but then the light goes off again and a soundtrack comes on.

  There is no mistaking the voice I hear in the darkness. It’s completely recognizable. Beckett is pleading. It’s hard to make out individual words, but I hear my own name, over and over again.

  Cristina says, “What would you tell me, what would you give to save him? Would you transfer your money? Give me all your passwords? Power of attorney?”

  If I give her that information, she’ll clean out all my accounts and escape, just leave us here forever—I know this—but nothing I know matters while Beckett’s cries are ringing in my ears. Then they stop, abruptly cut short.

  Before I can draw a breath, Cristina continues, almost like she’s reading from a script. “To save him, would you tell me everything about your parents, your sister, her daughter?”

  Her daughter, Emma. My niece.

  And that’s the cost of compliance. Maybe I can spare Beckett pain, but there’s nothing to stop Cristina from coming after the rest of my family—Glenn, my parents, even Zoe and her new family, the one I’ve never even met, her happy ending.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  Something strikes the metal fence next to me, sending reverberations through my body and echoing through the hollow missile shaft.

  “Don’t be stupid.” Now Cristina’s words are fluid, full of passion. “Imagine a world without torture. The atrocities of Abu Ghraib never repeated. A library of images we could use, footage to get real answers. That’s what I’m working toward, a secret only those in power will know, a tool to make the world safer. And you, you selfish bitch, you can make it happen. The key to the whole thing is belief. Do you believe I will hurt Beckett?”

  The screen in front of me flips back to show my ex-husband, tied to the chair. He’s crying now, something I’ve only seen him do once, when I told him I was leaving. Answering tears well in my own eyes. “Yes,” I whisper. She will hurt Beckett, and my words are all I have to save him.

  “Then give me your answers. Tell me everything.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  ZOE

  NOW GLENN AND I are headed for Spiegler, and this time I won’t let him get away. He took the picture that wrecked my marriage and made it look like I was plotting with Glenn, like we were guilty of murdering Ava. If his sister is our villain, he’s definitely her accomplice.

  Our plan is simple. Find him. Grab him. Make him talk. The first part was easier than I thought, thanks to the internet. Spiegler’s listed as a panelist for a cybersecurity workshop at a tech conference downtown. Cybersecurity. I think again about my hacked email. Asshole.

  I-66 is a river of red lights, cars bumper-to-bumper. My body is full of adrenaline with nowhere to go, and my mind is still processing what just happened at my parents’ house. They embraced me, like they were being directed in a play about loving parents, but those brief moments of physical closeness made my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  I will hug you twenty times a day, I promise Emma. My hugs will feel as familiar to her as her own skin and she will never have to doubt for a moment the vastness of my love for her.

  And even though my parents’ embraces were stiff, there wasn’t anyone watching. There was no need for them at all. We could just call it quits and admit we’re strangers to each other, but we aren’t. We’re family. Whatever they feel for me is the palest shadow of what I feel for Emma, and that makes me pity them.

  Outside the car window, the sky is turning the deep indigo that precedes sunset. Ava and I used to play in the front yard of our old house on evenings like this. Lying on our bellies, we created worlds for our dolls in the grass. And I remember looking up from a handful of sticks to see my mother watching us from the doorway. Maybe her expression wasn’t clinical. Maybe she really did want to understand the feeling of connection, but she was always on the other side of the glass.

  Glenn and I are surrounded by cars, all going home to neighborhoods winding down, getting ready for evening. The air is cooler here than in Texas, but the sky Andrew and Emma are seeing from their car window on the drive home from the airport is the same. They’ll see the same crescent moon, Saturn still shining brightly to one side, the “star” upon which Emma will make a wish. I squeeze my eyes shut and fiercely make my own. Home.

  Finally we reach the exit for downtown Arlington, and it’s lit up like Times Square. Especially in the business district, where streetlights illuminate pedestrians, store windows and upscale restaurants.

  We pull up to a traffic light in front of the conference center. The scheduled parts of the event must be over, because the steps are littered with clusters of twentysomethings and thirtysomethings, all wearing some variation of khakis and buttoned-down shirts with lanyards and name badges. It’s an unbroken panorama of tech people with phones in their hands and laptop bags on their shoulders.

  At the apex, right in front of the open double doors, I see Spiegler. In a sea of navy blazers, he’s wearing lime sherbet. “There.” I tap Glenn on the shoulder and point.

  There’s nowhere to park, not on this street, so when the light changes, Glenn joins the traffic creeping forward. He cranes his neck to look out the window. “Lot of camera phones on those steps. That’s the wrong place to make a move. I’m going to go around the block.”

  As the car slows down, I catch a glimpse of a bar, surprisingly run-down for this part of town. I get the impression of a dark space, a tatty awning, and the neon silhouette of a horse; then we make a left turn down a little side street.

  Glenn whips the car out onto the next street to a cacophony of horns. As we drive back toward the other side of the conference center, it seems like the whole block is under construction.

  We can’t snatch a man with a hundred witnesses around. There has to be another way to get him. I remember the way Spiegler seemed so amused by my questions at his house. He must have known Glenn was the one calling when he said to me, “It’s always the husband.” The taunting calls in Texas, the creepy game of hide-and-seek outside my parents’ house when I heard Emma’s voice—this guy likes to play games. Maybe we can lure him into a trap.

  Anticipation flutters in my chest, the kind of buzz I used to get from sneaking out as a teenager. Glenn has Spiegler’s phone number, but I’ll use my phone, the anonymous burner to contact him. I don’t know what will happen if I text Spiegler, I don’t know if he’ll believe my blackmail threat, but I need him to take the bait. I can do this, I tell myself. Lying is easier when it isn’t face-to-face.

  Quickly, before I can second-guess the plan, I compose a text message. I know about Cristina and Ava. Do a job 4 me & I won’t tell …

  As we pull up to another red light, I turn the screen toward Glenn, and after a quick glance, he nods.

  If we can find out where the cabin is, if Ava’s really there, I stand a chance of getting my life back, and it all comes down to Spiegler. Even if he knows this text is a trap, I just hope his arrogance makes him take the bait.

  Glenn makes another turn, and I keep my head bent as we drive pass the conference center. As we approach the bar on the corner again, I
confirm what I thought I saw. There’s an alley beside it. The perfect place for an ambush.

  I compose a second text without waiting for Spiegler to respond. PaleHorseBar in 20 min.

  I watch Glenn scan the text, and with his nod of approval, I send this one too.

  As we drive past the tech conference, I risk looking out the window and catch a glimpse of the lime-green jacket and Spiegler’s head bent over his phone. Then it slides behind us again, as my phone chimes with an incoming text. A thumbs-up emoji.

  That terseness makes my skin prickle with doubt. Everything seems to be going right, but I don’t know what I’m doing. Not really. Spiegler does. He knows not to waste time asking who I am or how I got his number or any of the things that might prolong our interaction. He doesn’t trust the person who sent the text, but I bet he thinks he understands. At least, he ought to understand the kind of person who would take advantage of criminal behavior to enact a little criminal behavior of his own.

  That’s the kind of person I need to be, at least for now. He has to tell me where his father’s old house is. Ava has to be there.

  I can’t bear the alternative.

  But in a flash, we are at the corner again and Glenn has turned left. “What’s he say?”

  “He’ll meet us at that bar we just passed. Go around again and pull into the alley next to it.”

  As we circle the block, I see Spiegler striding along the sidewalk, his former insouciance gone. Now he looks like an extremely overdressed delinquent, the kind of wannabe tough who’d steal a laptop but run away from a Chihuahua. He glances to the side and I duck involuntarily. Did he recognize us?

  Then we pass him, and with a bump, Glenn drives up and into the alley, all the way to the dead end where a dumpster sits. The brick walls of the two buildings on either side press in, framing a space so narrow I don’t know if we’ll be able to exit the car. Glenn rolls down his window, folds in the side mirror, and pulls almost flush to the wall; then we squeeze out.

  We’re standing on bricks covered with such a thick layer of dirt that you can’t see the separation between them. On one side, the building has a low basement window with a grate over it, and then three more windows higher up, dark behind their wrought-iron security bars. It’s not hard to imagine this building as an old factory or warehouse, back when barges still traveled on the Washington City Canal. On our right is the barroom, also in an old brick building. There aren’t any visible security bars, but the windows facing the alley are darkened. The only light is a dim yellow bulb next to a service door. And the end of the alley is blocked by a gate, and the massive dumpster.

  Heat is rising in my body, a righteous thirst for revenge. I wish we had timed it to herd Spiegler into the alley in front of our car, to chase him to the end, pin him against the dumpster, and make him scream.

  But we don’t want to kill him. We need information. We need to find Ava. That’s the path to everything else I want. My nostrils fill with the smell of damp stone, the faint undercurrent of cigarette smoke, and the tang of exhaust. I hate waiting. I hate Spiegler.

  Glenn stands at the entrance to the alley, waiting, but after ten minutes, our target still hasn’t appeared. Spiegler must have seen me. My plan has failed. Maybe he’s called the police.

  I look down at my phone and type out another message. Where r u?

  Almost immediately it lights up with a response. @bar

  “He’s already in there.” I wheel around, ready to go charging after him, but Glenn grabs my arm.

  “Wait, are you nuts? I’ll bring him out.”

  The hell, I think, angry he’s holding me back. But he might be right. Thinking about the picture Spiegler captured reminds me of the vicious emails, the threatening calls, standing in front of Emma’s school feeling exposed and vulnerable. Everything I’ve lost. All that fear has curdled into something bloodthirsty in my gut. It’s not about you, I remind myself. Glenn has tactical experience. At least, I think he does. “Okay,” I say. “You do it. But I need your car keys.”

  He doesn’t hesitate, reaching into his pocket and tossing them to me. “We’ll get him,” he promises, before making a crisp about-face and heading into the bar.

  Some clenched fist in my heart releases. I didn’t realize how much I needed Glenn not to hate me. Now he’s actually treating me like we’re on the same team.

  Music and laughter spill from the front entrance of the bar as I climb into the car and sit on the edge of the driver’s seat. Without taking time to adjust anything or turn on the lights, I let it roll backward until it’s at the very front of the alley. I’ve turned it into a trap.

  I slide back out between the car and the side of the building. I’m coiled with rising excitement, swamping my fear. This is the moment we might make Spiegler pay and get the information we need. But I’ll never forget what he cost me.

  And the door flies open. Spiegler stumbles down the steps. No, not stumbles. Glenn has a grip on the neck and hem of Spiegler’s stupid green jacket and is giving him the bum’s rush into the alley. My pulse leaps. Through the open doorway come the clanging of pots and shouting, then someone slams the door.

  Glenn shoves Spiegler, who stumbles, before regaining his balance. He stands and looks around in the dim light. When he sees me, his eyes widen.

  I ask, “Where are they?”

  With the sly glimmer of a smile on his lips, Spiegler says, “Who?”

  Glenn’s hands form tight fists, and I reach out to grab his arm.

  “Ava and Cristina,” I tell Spiegler. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Spiegler’s eyes dart from one of us to another. I can practically see his mind calculating the odds. He thinks he’s the smartest person here, but he’s never imagined a scenario where he couldn’t escape. If there are only two of them and the car is there and this is a dead-end alley …

  He answers mildly, but there’s no color in his face. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen Crissy in a couple of weeks.”

  I can’t hold Glenn back now; maybe I don’t want to. He grabs Spiegler by the already rumpled lapels of his blazer. “Where. Is. She?”

  Spiegler’s not strong enough to break free of Glenn’s grip, but he draws himself as far back as his jacket will allow. “I. Don’t. Know. Beat me up if you want to. Won’t change my answer.”

  “Then how have you been communicating with her?” I demand.

  His eyes crinkle, like he’s amused at a precocious child. “That’s a good question. She’s been calling me from a burner. Or so she says. The number changes every time. And there’s usually no reception.”

  “She has Ava.” I’m not asking. Saying those words makes me realize the truth. Ava could be alone, scared, hungry, in pain. I feel the echo of those things in my own body, and I wrap my arms around myself as though I could give my sister, wherever she is, comfort too.

  “I thought she was going to take the husband,” Spiegler says, arching an eyebrow at Glenn, who sets him down. Spiegler thinks he can finesse this, just like he’s probably always talked or paid his way out of trouble. “Imagine my surprise when she told me about the change in plans.” He straightens the sleeves of his rumpled blazer. “Guess you were a little too hard to grab.”

  “Are they in your dad’s old cabin?” I ask again, trying to keep my voice as calm as his, trying not to show how angry he is making me.

  Spiegler shakes his head, his bright eyes on mine. With a chill, I remember the tapping on the door, Ava’s broken wristwatch, the sound of Emma’s voice outside my parents’ house. He knows all my vulnerabilities, and he’s used them against me. “Cristina’s too smart to tell me. This is her little game, not mine.”

  “But you helped her. You framed me. What did you get out of it?”

  “She paid me.”

  But that wasn’t the only reason. It couldn’t have been. If he had Ava’s watch, he’d gotten it from Cristina or he’d help her snatch my sister. And money wasn’t motivation enough for the rest of it either. The pho
to, maybe. The emails. But the whispered threats, recording Emma, making me run out panicked in the night—these are the kinds of mind games you play for fun. “You got off on harassing and stalking me. What kind of person does that?”

  “Did I scare you?” He actually looks hopeful, and anger swamps me. I stomp on his foot. Hard. His gasp of pain is worth it.

  Glenn pulls me back and holds out the slip of paper with the blueprint of Spiegler’s dad’s house. “Tell us how to get to the cabin,” he demands.

  “And then what? You’ll turn me in? Beat me up? Pay me? I think not.” Spiegler crosses his arms. He really doesn’t believe he’s in any danger.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket and hold it up. “Got your confession. Accomplice to kidnapping and accessory after the fact. And my parents—you know, Cristina’s former employers—know everything too. If you don’t help us, we’re taking you straight to the police. Tell us where Cristina and Ava are, and we’ll let you go.”

  “For how long?” Spiegler runs a hand over his hair, but it springs back into place as though untouched. He’s considering it, though. I can almost see Spiegler’s mind working, weighing his culpability and his chances of getting away scot-free. Now that we know what he did, the fun of tormenting me is over. He’s the kind of guy who gets off on the anonymity, savoring his victim’s fear and panic, and feeling superior, safe behind a wall of technology. And I bet he’s got all kinds of money squirreled away.

  As long as he stays ahead of the police, this cockroach will survive.

  Go on, I silently will him. Take our offer.

  With a sigh, he says, “Fine. I’ll give you directions to the cabin.”

  “And any security codes,” Glenn adds. I pull out a pen and hold it with the blueprint of the missile silo in front of Spiegler. When his hand closes on them, I don’t let go. “If you lie to us, if for any reason we don’t find my sister alive, you’re taking the blame for all of it.”