The Rules for Disappearing

by Ashley Elston

  RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

  BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

  You can only disappear successfully if you know who you need to disappear from.

  I scrub the counter at Pearl’s, trying not to glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to eight. Ethan didn’t come in today. He told me in Health that he was going to check on Bandit, then head to the farm. He was more worried than pissed that I stood him up for lunch, and his concern for me is going to make what I have to do that much harder.

  I’ve been plagued all day with thoughts about how to break things off with him, and there’s no way to avoid it any longer. I have to do it tonight. But that doesn’t solve the more serious problem I have—someone wants me dead.

  Assuming Scar Face is the one after me, these are my main questions that I can’t work out:

  1. Why did my parents hide the reason we are in Witness Protection?

  2. Why didn’t the suits force me to get some sort of help to get my memory back?

  3. Who is Scar Face and what are the ledgers he kept screaming about?

  4. What’s in the ledgers that is so important that Mr. Price and Brandon had to die?

  5. Who was Dad talking to in the laundry room? He asked “What happens if I can’t find it?” What is it? Is it the ledgers? Is he helping Scar Face now?

  6. What about all the crazy things that have been happening to me lately? Feeling like I’m being followed, that night in the laundry room, my missing journal, my open go-bag, the man who called Pearl’s… Is someone out there screwing with me or am I completely losing my mind?

  “Meg, you’re gonna rub a hole in that counter you keep scrubbing it like that.” Pearl is watching me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “We’re done for the night. Let’s shut ’er down.”

  Since I’ve already cleaned the front dining area, I only have to close up the register and turn out the lights.

  Pearl’s fumbling with her keys. “Forgot to tell you. Ethan called earlier. He should be here any minute.”

  As soon as the words are out of her mouth, he pulls up to the curb.

  I prepare myself for what needs to be done, and hope to hell it doesn’t hurt as bad as I think it will.

  I meet him in the doorway and he grabs my go-bag. It’s not lost on me that he’s the only other person besides Teeny that I’ve allowed to carry this bag.

  Once we’re in the truck he says, “I checked on Bandit. He’s doing great. One more night at the vet and he’s home.”

  He grins at me. I look at that dimple and those blue eyes, and it kills me knowing I have to let him go. My nerves turn to gripping tension in my back and neck.

  It’s now or never.

  “Stop the truck. Pull over.”

  Ethan glances at me with a weird expression, but pulls the truck over. We’re halfway between Pearl’s and my house.

  “What’s wrong? You have that look.”

  I turn to face him. “I can’t do this.”

  He throws his head back against the seat in disgust. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He blows out a deep breath.

  “Waiting for what?” I’m surprised by his reaction. I was all geared up to pick a fight—to be rude to him—but he’s frustrated with me?

  “For this. For you to find some reason to push me away. Like you did when we first met. I’ve seen this brewing ever since I found out your real name.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Okay, obviously I’m the easiest person to read.

  He turns and pulls me in close. “Look, I get it. You’ve got some serious shit going on. I promised I wouldn’t say anything, and I haven’t. I like you. I like being with you. You can trust me.”

  Dying to say the things I can’t, I bite my tongue, and as hard as it is, I pull away from him.

  “You know what? I can’t do this anymore either,” he says.

  I suck in my breath as if I’ve been punched. Even though this is what needs to happen, I wasn’t expecting him to be the one to do it. He hears me but goes on anyway. “When your guard is down, you’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met. It makes me feel good just to be with you, even though there’s a ton of shit you refuse to tell me. But then I’m worried all the time that I’m gonna push you too hard, too fast, and you’re gonna run the opposite way.”

  I grab my bag off the floor of the truck and yank open the door. “Well, great. That makes this easy, then.” I dart from the truck, not stopping until I reach my house. I collapse just inside the door, breathing hard after running with my bag, and every inch of my body hurts. I’m exhausted. And scared. And all alone. I got exactly what I wanted, but it still hurts like hell.

  I do not want to see my parents. I tiptoe in and notice the light on in our room. My parents’ door is shut, but I hear them fighting from behind it. Teeny’s on her bed, reading.

  “Hey. You’re home.”

  “Yeah. Is everything okay?” I nod toward Mom and Dad’s room.

  “They’ve been fighting since Dad brought me home from Pearl’s. What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “My contacts are messed up.” I don’t want Teeny to know what happened between Ethan and me. In the bathroom, I hear my parents through the wall, but can’t make out what they’re saying.

  I turn the shower on to drown out the sound, then close the door and lock it. I can’t handle hearing anything else right now. I wish I could forget everything again. It’s all so screwed up.

  Ethan’s face fills my head. Images from the last week—at Pearl’s, when we slow danced, at the movies. Next to the river when he told me I’d gotten in his head. Kissing him on the ATV.

  I cut the water off and head back to our room, dress, and grab my go-bag.

  “Sissy, where are you going?” Teeny looks worried.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re leaving?” Her tone turns hysterical.

  “I’m going down to the laundry room for a minute. I need to wash something for school tomorrow. I’ll be right back.”

  I’m going to the laundry room but not to wash clothes. I have a call to make. I’m still scared shitless of that room, but I need to make a call in private. I grab a can of wasp spray from the kitchen, just in case someone is down there again, and head out the door.

  I take a deep breath and feel along the side of the wall for the light switch. My fingers brush against it and I flip the lights on. Bright industrial light floods the room, and it blinds me for a moment.

  I try not to think too hard about what I’m about to do. I need to talk to him. I dig in my bag for the number and head to the pay phone. I throw some quarters in the slot.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “Agent Thomas, we need to talk.”

  RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

  BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

  Don’t forget who is a friend and who is a foe. And don’t forget, sometimes a person can be both.

  THE wait for Agent Thomas to show up is excruciating. The only sound in the laundry room is the constant drip, drip, drip from the leaky faucet. I’m nervous about what I’m going to say to him, but not enough to back out. The door opens slightly and he walks in.

  “I was surprised when you called. Do your parents know you’re down here?”

  He picks up the chair next to me, moving it so we sit facing each other. Even at ten at night he’s dressed in a suit, without a wrinkle on him.

  I ignore his question and ask my own. “Who’s after us?”

  His forehead creases. “I don’t understand.” He has an odd expression. His arms cross as he leans forward in his chair.

  “Who’s. After. Us? It’s not a difficult question. We are in Witness Protection for a reason. Someone wants my dad dead. Who is it?” There’s no way I’m telling a suit I have my memory back before I have a chance to talk to Dad, but I also want to know how far I can push Agent Thomas to talk.

  “That information is unavailable to you.”<
br />
  “So what happens if I leave the program? Will someone try to get me?”

  “I thought we discussed this in the coffee shop.”

  “No. In the coffee shop I asked a hypothetical question, and you answered it. Right now, I am asking you point-blank: what happens if I leave the program? Big difference.”

  “What’s happened?”

  I sit up straighter. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing. You just decide in the middle of the night to call me to talk about leaving. I’m not buying it. Did something happen with your mom?”

  “No. She’s fine.”

  “Did you figure out what happened to get your family in Witness Protection?”

  Shaky ground. My heart is pounding.

  “No. I still have no idea what he did.” This is such bullshit. I try to keep the emotion out of my voice. It all boils down to who can bluff who better.

  Agent Thomas sits back in his chair. He’s assessing me.

  “Have you thought about it like I suggested?”

  Oh, shit. He wants me to figure it out. “Yes. I thought about it. I thought back months before we left. Nothing. I got nothing.”

  “Why do you want out? I will not even consider discussing this until you tell me what’s going on.”

  I lean my head against the wall. “I’m tired.” Tears roll down my face and I can’t make them stop. “I’m exhausted. I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to act like someone I’m not. I want to stop running. This is killing my family.” This is all true, no matter what else I know about the situation.

  Agent Thomas hands me a handkerchief from inside his jacket. Who even carries those anymore? I take it from him and mop up my eyes.

  “You have no idea what kind of trouble you’ll be walking into if you leave on your own. We don’t open this program to people unless it is absolutely necessary to ensure their safety and well-being. I cannot tell you who is out there looking for your family, but I can tell you it is no one you ever want to meet.”

  I let all the air out and slump down in my chair.

  “Remember what we talked about. If you have to be relocated again, it won’t be to another identity. I don’t know what’s running through your head, but that means no more school, no more job, no more parties or movies.”

  My blood runs cold when he says parties and movies. They’re watching me closer than I realize.

  “After the trial, we won’t force you to stay. But I wouldn’t recommend going off on your own at that point.” Agent Thomas leans forward on his knees.

  “What if Dad decides not to testify? What then?” Maybe if I refuse to testify, no one will want to hunt me down.

  Agent Thomas is tight-lipped for a moment. “That’s not really an option.”

  I pull my knees up and lay my head down on them. We sit in silence another few minutes.

  “Is this about a boy?” Agent Thomas asks, his tone much softer.

  My head pops up. “No. This is not about a boy.”

  Studying me, he sits back. It’s like I’m something under a microscope.

  “I see this often in girls your age who are in the program. They meet some boy and they’re ready to give it all up. You’re young. This will pass.”

  I roll my eyes. I hate nothing more than a condescending adult. “Whatever. If that’s all the help you can give me, then we’re done here.”

  “Don’t forget to put your contacts back in if you leave the house again.”

  I want to flip him off, but instead I grab my bag and storm out of the room.

  I crack the door to my parents’ room and tread softly to my dad’s side of the bed. He jolts up after I tap him on the shoulder.

  “Sissy, what’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I whisper.

  He stumbles out of bed. Once we’re in the hall, I motion for him to follow me. There is no way I can make any sort of plan without knowing the full truth of what happened that night.

  We step outside and sit on the steps.

  Dad rubs his eyes a few times, then lets out a big yawn. I clench my jaw, fighting the panic rising in me.

  “Dad, I remember.”

  His head snaps up.

  “We’re here because of what I saw. I remember about Mr. Price.” I take a deep breath and say, “And Brandon. Is that why we’re being protected?”

  His face goes pale and his shoulders slump. “I never wanted you to remember. I wished you thought it was me forever, just so you didn’t have to remember.”

  Seeing him deflate is like a knife to the gut. I move up the stairs and throw myself in his arms. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible to you. I’m sorry I was there. That I saw it.”

  He hugs me tight. “No, don’t be sorry. You had no idea what he was involved in. None of us did.” He moves me to the step under his. We sit facing each other. “Tell me what you remember.”

  The flashes set off in my brain once more. I tell him everything, about hiding behind the couch, Scar Face shooting Mr. Price and then Brandon. That I can’t remember anything past watching Brandon’s body hit the floor.

  His forehead pinches together. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Nothing at all you remember while you were in that office?”

  “No, Dad, that’s it. Please tell me what you know. I’m ready.”

  Dad lets out a deep breath. “I don’t know, Sissy.”

  “This is about me. If you know something, then tell me. You may have thought you were doing the right thing, keeping me in the dark, but you weren’t. I need to know everything I can.”

  He waits forever. “I only know what the agents have told me. The man with the scar is Eduardo Sanchez. He’s a big client of our accounting firm, and Price was his CPA. The FBI tells me that they’ve been watching Sanchez for years. On the surface, he has some import/export business, but they say he really works for a drug cartel out of Mexico, smuggling drugs into the States and laundering their money through his fake business. Price was helping him do it.”

  “But why would Sanchez kill Mr. Price if he was helping him?” This is insane. I can’t believe Brandon’s dad was into something as horrible as this.

  “Because Price was close to making a deal with the Feds—immunity for turning over all accounting records that could convict Sanchez of money laundering, and also showing them how the cartel moved the drugs and money. But Sanchez must have figured out what Price was doing—Price called one of the agents earlier that day saying he was scared Sanchez was on to him. Price agreed to meet with agents the next morning, turn over the evidence, and enter protective custody.”

  Dad takes a deep breath before continuing. “But that night a neighbor called nine-one-one saying they heard gunfire, so officers were sent to his house. Price was dead. So was his son. And you were a wreck, hiding behind the couch. The police who showed up on the scene said you were mumbling things about a man with a scar, the ledgers, the fighting, the gunshots… The Feds couldn’t find any accounting information tied to Sanchez, and they couldn’t connect Sanchez to Price and Brandon’s murder. But they had you and they knew you witnessed what happened in that room so we were the ones who entered protective custody instead.”

  My stomach drops.

  Dad’s face looks grim. “The man with the scar, did he see you? From what you were saying to the police at Price’s house, they believe he knew you were in the room somehow.”

  I take a second to search the foggy parts in my brain. “Uh…I don’t think so. No.”

  Dad runs his hand over my head. “Sissy, I’ve been dealing with these agents for months. At first they weren’t sure I wasn’t involved. I’ve pored over every account the firm had, looking for anything that may help them.”

  I shake my head, still confused. “There has to be something, other than me, to get this guy. What about the gun? Surely he left some fingerprints or something?” This can’t rest solely on me. It just can’t.

  Dad’s voice gets rough and he puts h
is hands over his face. “They never found the gun, and they went over every inch of that house. It was clean.”

  This is a nightmare.

  “I don’t get it, Dad. Why did I forget all of this? Why can I only remember part of it now? Why is everyone just sitting around waiting for me to remember? Why not hypnotize me or get me into counseling?” A million questions form on my tongue.

  “By the time they brought you home from Price’s house, you were like a zombie. Counselors came in and they talked to you for hours, trying to get you to open up but—nothing. There was just a blank expression on your face. They called it dissociative amnesia. It was too much for you to handle, so you blocked it out.”

  I must look completely freaked out, because Dad starts squeezing my hands. “Sissy, why were you there that night? If one thing has been killing me this entire time, it’s wanting to know that.” I tell him about what happened with my friends, leaving out some of the more humiliating details. And the drinking.

  “But I still don’t understand. Why didn’t they do something to help me remember?” I try to keep the hysteria from my voice. Dad watches me for a few minutes.

  “Because I wouldn’t let them,” he says finally.

  My dad’s a hard-ass, but I’m pretty impressed he could hold off the FBI. My eyes get huge, begging him to keep going.

  “I didn’t want you to remember. If you could testify, you would have had an even bigger target on your back. The case’s head FBI agent is on my side. Agent Williams said the courts are throwing out testimony from witnesses when their memories had been restored through hypnosis or any other therapy like that. They’re saying it’s too easy to place false memories in that kind of situation. He didn’t want to risk this case on that argument, so the Feds are waiting you out. The counselors said your memory should come back.”

  Small beads of sweat break out on my forehead, and my stomach is rolling. It’s getting hard to breathe. “So what does this mean now?”

  Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know. We don’t have to tell them you remember. The prosecutors keep pressuring me to at least put you back in counseling. I can hold them off a while longer, but I don’t want you to testify. Sanchez is connected to some pretty dangerous people. The Feds want Sanchez bad. If they can get him on the murders, they’ve got something to work with. They’ll offer to take the death penalty off the table, or something like that, if he supplies them with all the ins and outs of the cartel’s drug-smuggling operation. Right now, he’s not talking.”