by Rosie Somers
At some point I shift closer to him, or him to me—I’m not entirely sure, but I end up with my knees tucked to my chest and my body curled into his, soaking up his warmth. He, in turn, is wrapped around me like we belong together, like I belong to him. Eventually, the final credits roll, and I reluctantly lower my feet to the floor and sit up away from him.
He withdraws his arm and folds his hands in his lap. “So, how come you haven’t been at school?”
I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask. Part of me itches to be able to spill the beans, to tell someone the truth about me, about my life. But I know that would be the worst decision in the history of bad decisions. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
He eyes me skeptically. “I’d started to wonder if you were avoiding me. Am I that bad a kisser?” The corner of his lip twitches. He’s teasing me.
I take the bait and laugh, but it’s little more than a tense sort of almost-chuckle.
“What’s wrong, flower? You can talk to me.”
I want to, more than anything. But I shake my head and drop my gaze to my hands where I’ve twisted them into a white-knuckled ball of tension.
We’re both silent for a long time, and when I can’t take the silence anymore, I climb off the couch and move to the window. He doesn’t follow, and I curl up on the seat there. The couch creaks, and rustling fabric tells me Will is crossing the room, stopping behind me. I cross my arms over my chest and stare out at the webbing of tiny snowflakes clinging to my window.
“Why won’t you let me in?” Will’s voice is little more than a whisper, but it echoes in my brain like thunder.
Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away, afraid he’ll somehow sense them or see them in my reflection in the window. I can’t let him know how close I am to cracking, how badly I want to let him in. Telling him the truth about me would mean breaking the cardinal rule of jewel thievery: always maintain the facade. My false identity, my half truths and evasive answers are my only defense, the only way to keep people at arm’s length.
Will’s hand settles on my shoulder, and his thumb strokes a gentle circle against my sweater. He wants me to turn and face him, to look him in the eye and still deny him the details of my life. I know it. Just as surely as I know that if I do face him, I’ll spill everything, right down to the most minute details.
“Mari.” It’s a plea, and he’s not calling me flower. He must really mean it.
I summon every ounce of determination I possess to keep from throwing myself into his waiting arms. “Please, just go.”
“Mari,” he tries again, and I shake my head against his entreaty.
“No, Will. I don’t want this.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I purse my lips together to keep from recanting. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be with Will.
Several quiet moments stretch between us, but eventually, he pulls his hand back, and I feel more than I hear him leave the room. A moment later, the front door to my apartment closes with a tight click.
Will is gone.
The emptiness left by his departure is suffocating. My chest tightens, threatening to collapse under the pressure. I fall onto my window seat and curl into a tight ball against the cushions. Tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill over, but I don’t let them.
I should be able to suck it up, to get over him. After all, I’ve only known Will for a month.
But in that month, he’s insinuated himself into my life and my heart in a way I never imagined possible. I used to think I was so strong, a loner, but I don’t want to be a loner anymore. I want to be with Will. But being with him means telling him my darkest secret, admitting to what I was, what I am.
I can’t.
Chapter Seventeen
February 24th,
If I ever have kids, I will never get them involved in this life. I don’t think I’ll ever have kids, but if I did one day, I would do everything I could to protect them. And if I fall in love and get married, I don’t want to lose my husband, have my kids lose their father the way I lost my father. Or have them lose their mother, lose me.
I know it’s kind of normal for parents to teach their kids a trade, to pass down the family business from generation to generation, but jewel thievery isn’t exactly a point of pride for me. It’s not something I’m going to go around telling everyone: “Oh yes, my grandfather was a master thief; I come from a long line of burglars and thieves.”
Even though I do.
I’ve learned clever ways to avoid the truth when people ask me what my mom does for a living.
She’s in international trade.
She deals in antiquities.
She manages assets.
Not: she steals stuff.
I mean, I guess she made sure I was well rounded. As far as criminals go. Between the gymnastics and the martial arts classes, I’m a pretty stellar stealer, if I do say so myself. The ballet and hip-hop lessons were my idea. Mom wanted me to play an instrument, but I sucked at the flute, and the piano, and the oboe. Then I gave up. Dance stuck, though.
I guess that’s one thing I would do the same as my mom, make sure my kids were enriched by some activity or lesson outside of school, but I’d let them choose. And they would be able to choose, because gymnastics and martial arts wouldn’t be a requirement to stay alive and out of jail for them.
But I’ll probably never have kids. Because I don’t know how to escape this life.
A knock at the front door jars me out of my pity party. I jump off the seat in my haste to get to the front hall. Will must have changed his mind about leaving. My heart leaps at the thought. I skid in bare feet across the wood floor and only just stop myself from running into the wall.
No more than a minute has passed since the knock, but the entire hall is empty. Whoever knocked must have held the elevator open while he did so in order to disappear so quickly. I shake my head in confusion, but before I close the door, my gaze hitches on a large envelope on my welcome mat. My name is scrawled across it in sloppy black letters.
I move almost in slow motion when I bend to pick up the envelope, and I hesitate with my hand over it. Nobody knows I live here except Will, and unless he carries a stash of envelopes and permanent markers around, this couldn’t be from him. Finally, I work up the nerve to grab it and lurch back inside my apartment. I scramble to close the door and lock it. Then, I tear at the pronged clasp, suddenly not willing to waste another moment getting to the contents.
The package slips through my fingers, and a handful of pictures slides out facedown, fanning across the floor in front of me. My stomach flips, and my nerves pull tight with anxious energy. A thousand possibilities flash through my brain in the time it takes me to bend down and collect the scattered photos. I take a deep breath and flip the stack face up.
Will.
And me. They’re pictures of us. Someone’s been surveilling us, surveilling me.
After the initial shock wears off, I flip through the stack, taking in images of us walking home from school, sitting together at lunch. Dancing together at Club Grade. Someone’s been watching me long enough to catch the beginnings of what might have been my first real relationship on camera. And to use it against me, I realize as I flip to the last picture. It’s of Will by himself, waiting for me at the street corner where we meet up before school. A message is written over his chest in bold red letters: Check your messages.
My breaths come in sharp, panicked inhales and leave me in heavy bursts as I try to remember where I left my phone. I race for the living room coffee table and collect it as quickly as I can. The screen lights up when I touch it, and a quick vibration heralds the arrival of a new text message from a number I don’t recognize. I almost don’t want to open it, but I do.
It’s confirmation of my fears: a picture of Will, gagged, blindfolded, and tied to a wooden chair in an empty room. Even around the gag, it’s obvious his lip is split, and an angry purple-red welt with a cut in the center mars his left cheek. God only knows w
hat else they’ve done to him. Petrov’s men aren’t known for their gentle natures, and even though I have no proof, I’m positive Petrov is behind Will’s abduction.
My phone vibrates again. This new message is an address—to a location barely a few blocks from here. Another message follows closely: Bring the book.
I am damned. Petrov and his gang will never stop looking for us, for me. Never stop looking for the journal. But Will…he still has a chance for a normal life. Without me. Even if being with me wasn’t dangerous, Will won’t want me once he realizes where I come from, what I do. Who I am.
But none of that matters right now. Petrov’s men have my maybe-boyfriend, the only person who’s truly innocent in all of this, and I’m the only one who knows how to find him.
I drop the envelope on the glass tabletop, but I keep one picture, the one of us dancing. I fold it neatly in half and tuck it into my bra. A close-to-my-heart reminder of why I wanted out of this life in the first place. Then, I make for my room and my closet with a plan already developing.
Fifteen minutes later, I tuck my journal under my arm, let myself out of my apartment, and hit the button to call the elevator. The wait takes longer than I can ever remember waiting before—a million years, at least—and by the time the elevator finally arrives, I’m practically pressed against the doors waiting for them to open. I lurch inside the empty car gracelessly, pressing the button on my way in. The doors close, and I settle myself against the rail on the back wall.
If I thought the wait for the elevator to climb to my floor was long, I was in no way prepared for the descent to the lobby, and in no time, I’m pacing inside it like a caged lion. I’m ready to be free; I’m ready for the hunt. Ready for blood. The doors open, and I race into the lobby, then past the doorman and out onto the street.
I stop only for a moment to consider my options. Then I take off in the direction of Petrov’s place.
When I get there, I stick close to the shadows on the street and try to visually gather as much information as possible. The brownstone is dark when I get there, but light filters through at the corners of the windows, like they’re covered with ill-fitting blackout curtains. Or hastily hung blankets. Either way, I can tell by the cracks in the window covering that there are lights on—and potentially people—in both of the front rooms on the garden level, and at least one room on each of the next four levels is potentially occupied. I have no way of knowing where they’re holding Will, and I could potentially have to fight my way through the entire building to find him. But I can’t just walk in the front door.
I circle around to the alley and let myself into the courtyard, creeping on silent feet and leaving the shadows only when necessary. In the corner, a fire escape looms in the darkness. The window at the second landing is black, no light filtering through from the room beyond.
It isn’t until I’m standing directly beneath the fire escape that I realize there’s one flaw in my plan. It’s raised, and I’m too short to reach the bottom rung to pull it down. I stand on my toes, reach for all I’m worth, attempt a soft jump. But it’s just out of reach. I’ll have to get a running start.
First things first: I need to find a place to stash my journal. Bringing it with me would mean risking getting caught with it—and losing what little leverage I have to rescue Will. I step back and take stock of the garden. It’s longer than it is wide, and a thin planter box, filled with ground plants, runs the length of each side wall. I settle on a dark area behind a thick, leafy fern. I smooth my hands down my button-down black dress and absently trace the contrasting lavender pleats. The skirt is short enough that it will draw attention but not short enough to expose the shurikens I’ve strapped to each thigh. And I’ve offset the potential for exposure with fishnets and knee-high motorcycle boots, complete with a dagger tucked into the hidden sheath inside each. My sweater was utilitarian only, and right now warmth is secondary to movement. Will’s picture is still tucked into my bra. That will be warmth enough.
In what must be record time, my journal is wrapped securely in my sweater and tucked out of sight, hidden from view by both shadows and fern leaves that are ridiculously abundant for February.
As soon as I’m satisfied that the journal is as safe as I can make it for the time being, I return my attention to the business of getting into the townhouse. If I start at the back wall, I might be able to build up enough momentum to jump high enough.
But if I still can’t grab the ladder, I’ll have to start all over. Every second of delay increases the chances that I’ll be discovered. I need as much momentum as possible. The gymnast in me knows that the only way to ensure enough speed, enough kinetic energy to launch myself high enough is to flip on my way into the jump.
If I miss, I’ll hit the wall. Hard. But it’s the only real option. I back up and press myself tight against the garden wall. My nerves are strung tight, but I can’t afford to be nervous. Will can’t afford for me to be nervous. I stretch my neck, drop my shoulders, shake the tension out of my arms, and push away all thoughts of how much my upturned skirt will be exposing. I can’t afford to be embarrassed. Besides, with any luck, no one will be watching—because if someone is watching, I’ll have more to worry about than just showing my pantied rear end. I jump up once, twice, three times to test my weight and balance in my boots. Then I rub my hands together and blow on them to get the blood flowing.
I break into a run, shooting across the narrow courtyard. Halfway there, I roll into a front handspring, but instead of preparing to land smoothly, absorbing the force of the jump with my body, I use it to my advantage, launching myself high enough to grab hold of the bottom rung of the fire escape.
The palms of my hands smack against the metal hard, and I wrap my fingers around the bar. Once my grip is set, I pull myself up until both feet are firmly planted on the ladder. My heart is still racing when I reach the second floor. I test the window and relax when it glides open easily. As soon as I’m inside, I close the window behind me. I don’t want to accidentally give away my presence here by leaving my way in wide open.
The room is empty, devoid of both people and furniture. A door on the other side sits open wide, and through the yawning opening, a landing stretches, bordered on one side by a dark wood trailing. Voices drift from farther down the landing, deep, gruff voices with thick accents. The sound sets off a firestorm of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, but I can’t turn back now. I start in the direction of the voices, intent on looking my fear in the eye and giving it the finger.
I’m painfully aware of every squeaky board, every overly heavy footstep as I exit the room and creep down the landing to the open door at the other end. I’m careful to stay just inside the shadows, which seem darker, more ominous the closer I get to the light streaming through the doorway.
It must take me a hundred years to get within a few feet of the room, but once I’m there, all I can see is a wall covered in faded damask wallpaper and grounded by an ornate marble fireplace in the center. The mantel is offset by a mirror hanging above, but the finish is so old and murky, I might as well be looking into muddy water. I have no choice but to cross over what I’ve now come to consider the danger zone, the shaft of light that could illuminate my presence to anyone who might be inside that room.
I hesitate, take a deep breath, then another. I slip one hand into the opening in my skirt and lightly trace the edge of a shuriken, taking comfort in the disc’s sharp points. Closing my eyes for a long moment, I center myself, finding my focus, and when I open my eyes, I’m ready. I use a modified ballet move to leap across the rectangle of light as quickly as possible, dancing into, then out of the danger. I stop just inside the safety of the shadows and press myself against the wall, waiting, listening.
A man barks a belly laugh from just beyond the opening and follows it up with, “Pour me another, Vasili.”
They’re drinking and trading stories. No warning is being called out, no alarm bellowed.
I am still undetec
ted.
Slowly, I peel myself off the wall and dare a glance inside. Two men are seated across from each other at a card table in the center of the large room, both visible in profile to me. They’re playing poker, or the like. As I watch, the smaller one in jeans and a polo with more hair on his face than on his head lifts a crystal decanter and pours something amber-colored into a rocks glass in front of the larger, blonder man. The little one must be Vasili.
Not that he could really be classified as little; I’m at least ten inches and 150 pounds too small to call him “little,” but the other man is a veritable giant in comparison. He has biceps bigger than my thighs and shaggy hair standing out from his head at unkempt angles, contrasting sharply with his impeccably tailored gray suit. He must be the enforcer, the hired muscle. The gun-shaped bulge where his coat covers his hip is proof.
I scan the other guy for weapons, but none are visible. The longer I go unnoticed, the braver I become, and I take an inching step forward to scan the room. Everything about it gives the feel of a bygone era, when such a room was used for evening entertaining, from the floral-embroidered settee under the silk-draped window to the bar cart and crystal glassware in the corner, right down to the ancient card table the men are using to pass the time and their money.
On the far wall, another door is cracked open, but only darkness exists beyond. Just as I’m wondering if that’s where they might be keeping Will, a heavy thud sounds from that direction. Both men perk up.
“Go see what he’s doing,” Vasili says to The Suit in heavily accented English.
“He’s just a dumb kid; he’s probably trying to escape. But he won’t. There’s nowhere to go in there.” The Suit’s accent isn’t as prominent as I first thought it was, or maybe it just seems more subdued in comparison to Vasili’s.
Vasili looks at the room behind him, considering, then shrugs and returns his attention to his hand.