You Don't Know My Name

by Kristen Orlando

  “No, we can’t go,” I wail. I feel the truck move. I slam my hand on the side of the truck with all the strength I have, trying to get Eduardo to stop. “We have to go back for Mom.”

  “We can’t, Reagan.” Luke grabs me by the shoulders. “There’s nothing to go back for.”

  “We have to help her.” My voice is strained from screaming.

  “What happened?” Dad asks from the other side of the truck, tears welling up in his eyes. His voice drops to a whisper. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “She’s chained to the wall in the storage room.” The truck makes a wild left turn. I grab on to the side to stop myself from falling over. “We have to go back there. We can’t just leave her.”

  “Reagan, she’s dead,” Luke screams. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me, tears swimming in his blue eyes. “I’m sorry. She’s dead.”

  “She’s not dead,” I shout and push him away.

  “You saw her get shot,” he says and grabs on to me again. “You saw the same thing I did. Torres shot her in the head.”

  “She’s dead?” Dad asks, his voice shaking. He looks up at Luke, his lower lip trembling. “Is she really dead?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Luke says and shakes his head. “There’s no way she survived that gunshot wound.”

  “But we can’t just leave her. We have to go back. We have to go back,” I scream and reach for the truck’s back door. Luke pulls me away by my waist and holds down my hands and my arms.

  “Reagan, we can’t,” Luke says, his voice hushed and breaking in his throat. “She’s gone.”

  And that’s when I break down. Every part of me, my skin, my blood, my heart, my lungs, feels like they’re being stabbed by a hundred knives. Pierced by a thousand bullets. Set on fire by a million matches.

  “We have to go back,” my voice squeaks as the pain doubles me over, racking my body with sobs. I search for new air but it doesn’t come quickly enough. “We have to go back.”

  “Shhh. Shhh. Shhhh,” Luke whispers in my ears, his arms holding me from behind. “Shhh. It’s going to be all right.”

  “No, it won’t,” I scream. My legs are trembling. I fall to my knees. “It will never be all right again.”

  My body crumbles into a ball. Luke kneels next to me and puts his arms around my shoulders. I raise my hand to the center of his chest and push him away. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. God, take me, take me, take me. I hug my body to my knees. And I scream. And I scream. And I scream.

  EPILOGUE

  The plane’s engine roars, filling the deafening silence in the cabin of the CIA’s jet. After forty-eight hours of hiding in Ecuador, CORE has finally given us clearance to return to DC.

  Torres is alive. And looking for me.

  The AC blasts from the vent above my head and a shiver convulses my body. Luke feels my body twitch next to him. He carefully places his warm fingertips on top of my icy hand. For the first time in days, I don’t pull away. But I don’t grab for him either.

  I pull my burgundy cardigan tighter around me; Mom’s favorite sweater from her go-bag. It still smells like her, a mixture of her face cream and the Givenchy perfume Dad bought her every Christmas. I lift a corner of the fabric to my face and take her in. How long can her smell linger? A month? Two months? By Christmas, she’ll be gone.

  I haven’t cried today. I feel strangely guilty about that but I think I’m cried out. My body aches from hours of heavy sobs. The excruciating pain I’ve felt the last two days in the safe house has been replaced by numbness. I don’t feel anything, not the heartbeat in my chest, not the warmth of my blood, not the air in my lungs. I’m way past half dead. I know exactly what will happen once the numbness fades so I hold on to it for as long as I can. The pain will be replaced by rage, at myself, at Santino Torres, and I don’t know if I’m ready to feel that yet.

  We’ve already gotten instructions from CORE on Mom’s cover story: a horrible car accident while overseas on an assignment. The car crash is just another lie I’ll have to repeat over and over again for the rest of my life. I don’t know what happened to her body. I get nauseous every time I think about her rotting away in some shallow grave on Torres’s property or decaying at the bottom of the sea or reduced to ashes in a fire pit. That’s the part that will keep me up at night.

  Mom’s not the first Black Angel they’ve lost. She won’t be the last. I know CORE and the other operatives are doing everything they can to find Torres, but as each day passes, I already feel their intensity, their determination to find him and bring him to justice starting to fade. I’m not naive. This won’t always be their top priority. Soon there will be new missions to complete, new hostages to rescue, new terrorists to take down. Elizabeth Hillis, her strength and kindness and bravery, will be talked about in hushed tones. When people speak of her, they’ll call her a hero. But eventually, people will forget and her death won’t be remembered as a horrible tragedy, a great loss for the agency and for the country, but just another casualty of the business.

  But I won’t forget. I won’t forget the look of horror in her eyes as Torres pulled the trigger. I won’t forget the blood and the tears and the lashings and the beatings I know she endured. I won’t forget the love she gave me every day, the good she could have done in the world if he just would have let her walk away.

  I close my eyes, flashes of her flood my mind. Mom in her robe the night before the last mission. Mom kissing my cheek as I finish the last bite of my breakfast. Mom pulling me on her lap as she braids my hair into two long pigtails. I think about Mom’s favorite picture of us that she kept on her nightstand. I’m about five years old, sitting on Mom’s lap, my hair freshly braided. My mouth is open and my almond eyes are so squinty, they’re almost closed shut. I’m laughing like a maniac. Mom has her arms wrapped around me, her cheek pressed up against mine. She’s smiling so big in that picture. I wonder what we were laughing about. And I wonder if I’ll ever feel that happy again.

  My mind pushes away each memory, knowing I never will. A tear slides down my cheek as that missing piece of me surpasses throbbing and crosses over into piercing pain. For me, the world will never look as colorful. The moon will never seem as bright. My laugh will never be as loud. My smile will never be as wide. Santino Torres took away the most important person in my life. And without her, he’s stripped away every piece of me that was good.

  But there’s one thing he can’t take away. He can’t take my anger. He can’t steal the rage that’s beginning to flicker at my core. For now, it’s just a spark, but soon it will be a flame, then a fire, then an uncontrollable inferno. Torres doesn’t know it yet, but when he pulled that trigger, he signed his own death certificate.

  I’m coming for you, Torres, my mind whispers. I’m coming.

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, thank you to Jean Feiwel, Holly West, Lauren Scobell, and the entire Swoon Reads/Macmillan team. You’ve changed my life. Words cannot truly describe how grateful I am. I couldn’t dream of a more brilliant, insightful, and enthusiastic team. You guys are total rock stars and I’ve loved every single minute of working on this book with you.

  To Merrilee Heife: The day you called to offer me representation, I couldn’t feel my face for two hours. And I still feel like I won the lottery. Thank you for your incredible guidance and support. To Allie Levick: Thank you for picking this book out of your slush pile and believing in it. I’m forever indebted to you.

  To my bad-ass readers Maureen, Ellen, Christina, Christie, Jeanie, Emma, Heidi, Shannon, Sara, Deanna, Jen, Kate, Todd, Kristyn, Nicki, Maria, Kelsey, Elise, Meghan, Billy, Krista, Gwen, Brandi, and Rhonda: Your thoughts and insights have been invaluable. This book would absolutely not be the same without you. To the Swoon Readers who championed my book, especially Kathy Berla: You guys are everything. To the amazing authors I’ve met along the way: I’m so thankful for your advice and friendship.
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  To Stephanie Paras: Thank you for your creative brain and lifelong friendship. To Christopher Barcelona: Thank you for being the person I could call on about the biggest news or smallest detail. To Mila Goodman, my go-to idea bouncer: I’m so lucky to have access to your brilliance. To Julia DeVillers, my Literary Fairy Godmother: Thank you for helping me navigate this world. To Jen Meredith: Thank you for your boundless encouragement, support, and friendship. To Hannah Hill: Thank you for believing in me. There’s no friend I’d rather celebrate every single life milestone with than you.

  To my teachers, especially Dr. Leahy, Dr. Laycock, and P. F. Kluge: Thank you for the incredible foundation. You turned a flicker of passion for writing into an inferno. To my Resource family: From brainstorming marketing ideas to beta reading my book, I always feel your support. To my friends: I wouldn’t be the same person without you in my life. Let’s stay friends until we’re wrinkled and gray. To my family: Whether you provided me with detailed research (looking at you Uncle Terry and Brendan) or were there to celebrate good news, I’m forever grateful.

  Katie, my constant supporter and friend. Thank you for reading a million versions of this book and for always cheering me on. Mom, thank you for being my biggest fan. You’re forever the bright spot in my life. Dad, thank you for reading basically every single word I’ve ever written. From middle school papers to this novel, it’s your opinion I always can’t wait to hear.

  And finally, to Michael. I say it often, but here it is in black-and-white: You are truly the best husband a girl could ever ask for. There’s no one in the world I would rather spend my life with than you. Thank you for being the most supportive person in my life, for encouraging me to write this book, and for sitting by my side while I did. I love you.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Writing is one of the great loves of Kristen Orlando’s life and she has been lucky enough to make it her living, first as a television producer, then as a marketer, and now as a novelist. Kristen graduated with a BA in English literature from Kenyon College. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, with the other great love of her life, Michael. You Don’t Know My Name is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Swoonworthy Extras

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 by Kristen Orlando

  Excerpt from How to Keep Rolling After a Fall copyright © 2016 by Karole Cozzo.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Orlando, Kristen, author.

  Title: You don’t know my name / Kristen Orlando.

  Other titles: You do not know my name

  Description: First edition. | New York: Swoon Reads, [2016] | Summary: Sixteen-year-old Reagan, raised to be an elite spy, is torn between honoring her family’s legacy and living a normal life with the boy she loves.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015050178 (print) | LCCN 2016024397 (ebook) | ISBN 9781250084118 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250084125 (Ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Espionage—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Love—Fiction. | Rescues—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.O73 You 2016 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.O73 (ebook) | DDC [Fi]c—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2015050178

  First print edition 2017

  eBook edition 2017

  eISBN 9781250084125