Tasha backs up against the bookcase, her face lined with fear, her hands up in a defensive gesture. Her cheeks are stained with mascara – it looks like she was crying before we even arrived.
“I'm sorry, Celeste. I can't talk to you,” she says, her voice wavering. “I told you that. Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“Why not?” I demand. “Why can't you talk to me?”
“My dad told me – he told me to pretend you're dead,” she says. “He said I can't be seen with you.”
Her tiny, little body is trembling harder than I've ever seen someone tremble before. She's positively terrified. The way she stands against the bookcase reminds me of a child being punished. There's a crushing pain in my chest, as if my heart is being ripped out of me and torn to shreds. I don't fully understand why it hurts me so much but seeing her shaking with fear like that kills me.
I fight the urge to reach out to her, to comfort her. It seems perfectly natural for me to do it. Like it's something I've done a million times before. I want to tell her everything is going to be okay, but I can't do that – simply because who the hell knows if I'd be telling the truth?
“I just want some answers. Give me some answers, Tasha, and we'll leave,” I say. “Please.”
“Answers? What kind of answers?” she asks.
“About who I am,” I say. “About what happened to me.”
This time, my voice cracks. My hands shake as I wring them together. I’m suddenly feeling claustrophobic. My whole world is crumbling down on me, here in this apartment. I feel a closeness to both Tasha and the place, and I don't know why. I don't understand this feeling, but it’s deep and true. I just want to know what's going on. That's all I want, and I have a feeling Tasha will be able to answer my questions.
“What do you mean who you are?” she asks.
“I don't remember anything, Tasha. Nothing about my life,” I say, unable to stop my own tears from falling. “I woke up in a ditch in Colorado with no idea of who I am, or how I ended up there. I just want to know who I am, then I'll leave.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, as if trying to block the two of us out. She shakes her head and repeats, “No, no, no,” over and over again until I fear she has lost her mind.
I look over at Grant, who looks as lost as I do, and he shrugs. I gingerly walk toward the other girl, and once I'm close enough, I put my hand on her arm. She jumps as if I shocked her, but she opens her eyes and stares back at me. There's a tenderness in her face she can't quite hide – that not even the fear can overcome.
“You're my best friend,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you're my roommate.”
“I live here then?” I ask.
She nods slowly, and suddenly, it all makes sense. The familiarity, the sense of comfort from being here. I'm finally home. Except – something isn't right. I no longer feel safe here. I don't feel safe like I did at Grant's cabin – or even the hotel, for that matter.
Tasha nods. “You do,” she says. “But Dad said you would be going away again. Said I'd need to move.”
“Do you know how I ended up in the ditch in Colorado?” I ask.
“I don't. Not really,” she says, biting her lip. “I mean, I have an idea, but –”
“But what? Tell me, please?”
“But Mario will kill me if I –”
“Who is Mario, Tasha?” I ask. “Why do I keep hearing that name? I don't recognize it at all.”
“He's your boyfriend, Celeste,” she says. “You’ve been together for almost two years.”
A sharp pain hits me hard in the chest. The knowledge that Mario – this big, scary man who has Tasha bound up in absolute fear, is my boyfriend, is almost too much for me to bear. I don't want to believe that somebody I'm apparently involved with would do anything to hurt such a sweet, gentle soul like Tasha.
“My boyfriend would kill you for talking to me?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because that's what he does. He doesn't care that I'm his niece. If he knows I've spoken to you –” her legs give out and she crumples to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. “Did they see you come in? Did anybody see you come in? Oh God, they'll know you were here. They'll know. Oh God –”
“No one saw us come in,” Grant says, his rumbling voice causing Tasha to jump again, as if she's only just now realizing he's there.
Except, of course, for the doorman, but Grant shakes his head as if to tell me not to mention him.
“There are cameras, everywhere,” Tasha says. “Mario sees everything in this building.”
“How does he do that?”
“He owns it,” she says. “He owns everything on this block.”
I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I dated a man capable of doing such horrendous things. My whole world is shifting around me. Maybe I don't want to know the person I used to be. Not if I was involved with people like this – Mario. People who do evil things. Perhaps some things are better forgotten.
Grant says, “Call your father,” he says, his voice firm and in control. “He seems like the type of man who can protect you.”
He grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the door, before I'm ready to leave, but I yank my arm free from his grasp.
“What are you doing?”
“If he has cameras, there are eyes everywhere,” he says. “They may have seen you already.”
He pulls me toward the door and I can't do anything to really stop him. I look back at Tasha who looks halfway resigned to being killed for letting us inside her place – our place. She looks terrified still, but there's also a sense of darkness that clings to her. It's as if she's already accepted her death as inevitable.
Grant opens the door and peers out into the hallway. He turns to me and nods. It's time to go.
“Tasha, you should get out,” I say. “If it's as dangerous as you think –”
She shakes her head. “I have nowhere to go.”
I cut a quick glance at Grant, who's urging me to hurry up with his eyes. I can't just leave her here though. Not without knowing she's safe.
“Come with us,” I say, and hear Grant let out a low, frustrated groan.
She shakes her head again. “No, just go,” she says. “Just get out of here before they come. I've lost someone I loved once before, I can't do it again, Celeste.”
“I'm not leaving you,” I say urgently.
“Celeste, we have to go,” Grant growls at me.
I can feel the seconds flying by. My anxiety begins to rise with each passing tick of the clock. But Tasha is my friend – and my only connection to my former life. Even if I can’t remember our friendship, the fact that we are close enough to be roommates means I don't want to see anything bad happen to her.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Tasha says.
Grant pulls me out of the apartment, literally dragging me down the hallway toward the elevators. Tasha is standing in her doorway, tears rolling down her cheeks, just watching us go.
“Please, Tasha,” I call back to her. “Come with us.”
“Shit.”
The tone in Grant's voice causes me to look up at him. His face is taut with tension and his jaw is clenched. I follow his eyes and see that the elevator is coming up. It could be anybody in the building, simply going to their apartment. Something though, tells me that we aren't that lucky. And judging by Grant's reaction, I don't think he believes it either.
At the far end of the hall, a door crashes open, slamming into the wall behind it. Two large men in dark suits step into the hallway, and immediately reach beneath their suit jackets. I don't know much, but I know enough to know they're not just scratching an itch.
“Shit,” Grant says again, this time with a hint of panic in his voice.
Tasha runs out into the hallway with her hands up. “Stop,” she calls. “Leave her alone. Don't –”
I hear only the loud, distinct crack of gunfire – and the sound of her body crumbling to the floor.
&nb
sp; “Outta my way,” grumbles one of the men.
“S – she's dead,” I whisper.
My hand still in his, Grant pulls me down the hallway, forcing me to run. Tears stream down my face and we're chased by the echo of gunfire. He pulls me down the hallway and we take a sharp right, sprinting down another one.
I can't believe they're actually shooting at us in an apartment building. But then, if Mario owns the place, and he's the bad guy Tasha made him out to be, maybe, nobody would be surprised. I don't know. All I know is that we need to get out of there.
A bullet tears into the wall beside us, and I cry out in fear.
“There,” Grant says.
I barely have time to look up as he pulls me through another doorway. My legs are already burning, and they scream out in agony when we start bounding down the stairwell. My breathing is labored and ragged. My heart feels like it's about to explode.
“Come on,” he says. “You can do it. Keep going.”
We take the stairs two at a time, flying down them, when I hear the door above us crash open. The sound of the door slamming into the concrete wall echoes like rolling thunder. The next thing I hear are footsteps pounding down the stairs behind us. I hear men shouting at us, which only encourages me to pick up my pace. If they catch us, we're in a whole mess of trouble.
“Come on, Celeste,” Grant says.
The man is in fantastic shape. I'm over here breathing like a woman about to expire, and he's barely winded. At least I know if I keel over, he can probably carry me down the rest of the way without breaking a sweat.
It sounds to me like the men behind us are gaining. I don't dare look back. It's hard enough taking the stairs two at a time when I'm paying as close attention to them as I am. If I dared look back, I have no doubt, I would have missed a step, launched myself head over heels down the stairs, and probably suffered a broken leg – which would be quickly followed by a number of bullets.
No, much better to stay focused on the task at hand.
Finally, after what seems like a hours’ worth of running, our feet hit the concrete of the bottom floor. We push our way through the door that leads us back out onto the street. The sunlight is nearly blinding. The throng of jostling bodies a welcome sight. Surely the goons on the stairs wouldn’t try anything out in such a public place.
Grant and I start melting our way into the crowd. I sneak a glance back and see the two men who'd chased us standing in the doorway we'd just exploded through. They're looking around at the crowd, and when their eyes fall on me, I see them tense. Their eyes narrow, and their jaws clench. Apparently, there are some limits to their violence.
I only wish those limits had extended to Tasha.
“Come on,” Grant says, as he pulls me along. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
I let him lead me, my head in a haze, my heart swelling with a grief I've never known before. She died to save us. My best friend died to protect us, and all I can do is run away.
How in the hell was I supposed to come to terms with that?
Chapter Twelve
Grant
“How soon until we're ready to take off?” I snap as we climb aboard my jet.
“Are we in a hurry, sir?”
I shepherd Celeste ahead of me into the plane and watch her take a seat. She looks pale. Drawn. Absolutely terrified. Not that I can blame her. She pulls her knees up to her chest and curls into herself in the seat, in that moment looking like nothing so much as a small, delicate child, terrified of the crashing thunder outside.
I turn to my pilot and give him a firm nod. “Yeah, we're in a hurry,” I say. “The sooner we can get wheels up, the better.”
A look of concern flashes through the pilot's face and he frowns. Captain Stern is a by-the-book kind of man, who doesn't take shortcuts in anything. He flew fighters during the first Gulf War, before settling into life in the private sector. That military background made him rigid. Sometimes inflexible.
He's a good man and I appreciate having him on staff, but right now is not the time for questions, or inflexibility. We need to get the hell out of here.
“Is there a problem we should be worried about, sir?” Stern asks.
Oh, you mean other than the girl who ended up dead after we forced her to talk to us? No, other than that, things are great.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Captain Stern,” I say. “We just really need to get back to Colorado.”
He runs a hand through his thick gray hair. “We weren't supposed to leave until the day after tomorrow,” he says. “I haven't filed a flight plan –”
“Can you get it done, Captain?” I snap, growing a little impatient. “It's of the utmost importance we get off the ground immediately.”
He looks at me for a long moment, obviously weighing out his options. Not that there are any. I mean, he can refuse to amend the flight plan and stay here. Or he can do what I'm asking. My preference is obviously, very clear.
Finally, he nods. “Yeah, I can make it happen,” he says. “I just need a bit to file a new flight plan and get clearance to take off.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Excellent,” I say. “Thank you.”
Stern gives me a nod and heads into the cockpit, shutting the door behind him. I drop down into the seat across from Celeste and turn to her. She's staring off into nothing, her eyes wide. A look of pure shock upon her face. I rack my brain, trying to figure out what to say to her. How to break through that haze of terror she's lost in and pull her out.
Celeste is rattled. She's scared. And I understand. I've seen more death in my life than most people, and it never stops being shocking. If you're around it long enough, you get used to it. You start to become numb to it. Not that it makes you immune to death, but if you see it often enough, you learn how to shut it out, and not let it paralyze you.
Celeste obviously hasn't been around it enough. I'm sure she's had people in her life die before, but I doubt she's ever been through the emotional roller coaster that inevitably follows the murder of somebody you know. Not that we knew Tasha all that well, but her death – her murder – is still shocking, all the same.
Especially because it came about right after she'd spoken to us. Which is the other complicating factor I'm sure is hitting Celeste with full force – the idea that Tasha is dead because she spoke to us. Maybe if we hadn't forced her to talk to us, she'd be alive. But then, given who she works – worked – for, that was never a guarantee to begin with. That kind of life will catch up to you eventually. It always does.
And I can't stop wondering if she's the same brunette that was dating Sam at the time of his death. Coincidence? Maybe. But they were both so tiny, and they were both named Tasha.
“You know it's not your fault, right?” I ask gently.
Celeste slowly turns her face to me. Her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. Her soft, pale cheeks are flushed and red. I can see in her face that she wants to fall apart – she's on the verge. But she's trying to hold herself together. Trying so hard.
“Isn't it?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I shake my head. “It's not.”
“We made her talk to us, and now she's dead,” Celeste says. “It's not hard to connect the dots. I mean, it's pretty much a straight line.”
I let out a breath and run a hand through my hair. “I know,” I say. “But she obviously ran with a bad crowd, Celeste. She put herself into that position –”
“No, we forced her into that position, Grant,” she snaps. “If we hadn't made her talk to us, she might still be alive.”
She’s right. But I can’t just let her beat herself up like this.
“Maybe,” I say. “But maybe not. When you're dealing with the Mafia, nothing is ever certain.”
Celeste's eyes grow wide and fear is etched up on her face. She looks at me like I'd just summoned a demon.
“The Mafia?” she asks, in a quiet voice, as if speaking that name aloud will somehow bring them r
unning.
I shrug. “I mean, yeah,” I say. “Given what Tasha told us and all, it seems like the most logical explanation.”
She shakes her head. “I don't know about that.”
“What else could it be, Celeste?”
“I can't believe for a second that I was ever involved with the Mafia,” she says. “I may not know all that much about myself right now but thinking that I was involved with a group like that – it just doesn't feel right. It just – it doesn't ring true.”
I give her a tight smile. No, it doesn't necessarily ring true, but it also doesn't mean it's wrong either. I mean, I don't see Celeste as being one of those wise guys out there, blowing people's heads off, or shaking people down for money. Obviously. But, it's entirely possible that in the life she can't remember, she was maybe involved with somebody who did.
Maybe she had an old boyfriend who did the dirty work for the mob – Mario, the name popped back up in my head. That's not too far-fetched. Celeste is a beautiful woman who can turn heads in any room she walks into. Given that the mob's presence in Chicago has never really been eliminated, is it all that far outside the realm of possibility to think that she caught the eye of some wise guy?
I don't think so. And given everything that's happened – her attempted murder, as well as Tasha's very real murder – I'm starting to think that might be the case.
“Look, I don't think you're some active mobster,” I say. “In fact, I'm pretty positive you're not. I just think that maybe, like Tasha, you ran in some of the wrong crowds. Like maybe, you were hooked up with a bad guy or something.”
“I can't see how I'd get involved with somebody like that,” she says softly. “I don't think I'm a bad person –”
“You're not a bad person, Celeste. I know that as sure as I know my own name,” I say, reaching out and giving her arm a tender squeeze. “Maybe you didn't even know. I don't know. But, that's not what matters right now.”
“What matters now then, Grant?”
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