“Scott, my boy,” Pavan says so softly, it’s barely a whisper. “Just let it go. Relax.”
It was all for nothing. Sneaking downstairs. My mission to plug the phone in. Carrying that poor woman. I stare at the blotch of blood that splashed on my skirt when I let her foot slip from my grasp. My cardigan is almost long enough to cover the stain. It might if I pull it all the way down. But as soon as I move, the sweater shifts and the blood leers at me again, mocking me for ever thinking we could escape.
“They didn’t call anyone, did they?” Ryan tries to read the display over Toto’s shoulder.
“No calls for the last couple of hours. We’re good.” Toto tucks the phone into his pocket, then claps his hands together. “All right. Do we have any volunteers?”
“Volunteers for what?” Pavan asks.
“Who wants to go for a little ride?”
“Aw, Toto,” Ryan says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You said it yourself. We need to make sure these guys don’t try anything. We’ll take someone along for insurance. If anything happens to Twitch while we’re gone, their guy will get it.”
The pair regard us all clustered together. I try to make myself as small as possible, but Toto’s eyes land on me anyway.
“You,” he says, coming toward me.
“Winny!” Scott tries to pull me back, but Toto tugs me out of his grasp.
“Just sit back down, kid,” Ryan says.
“Please, take me instead,” Sylvie pleads. “You’re pissed at me, right? I’ll go.”
“We’ll take the girl.” Toto’s fingers dig into my skin. I think about struggling, but then I see the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and let him lead me away.
Electronic music I recognize from a popular game app comes from Twitch’s corner. I can’t wrap my brain around how a guy who killed someone a mere hour ago can be sitting here now, playing a game with candy and hearts and sparkly fireworks.
“I told you, put that thing away.” Toto snatches Twitch’s phone.
“Sorry, Toto. Sorry. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry.”
While Toto is busy with Twitch, I retreat to Scott’s side. “I don’t think I can do this.” My teeth are chattering. “I can’t go with them.”
“Just do whatever they tell you to, okay?” Oscar says. “But if you have a chance to run, you take it, Winny. You run. Don’t stop until you’re sure they’re off your tail, okay?”
“I can’t.”
“Listen.” Oscar maneuvers me to face him, both hands on my shoulders. “I’m going to try something while you’re gone.”
“What?” Sylvie looks like she might burst with tension. “No one’s trying anything. Please. I can’t take anyone else getting hurt.”
He shushes her. “Winny, when you get back, there’s a chance we will have taken Twitch out. Be ready for that, okay? Be ready to run or duck or hide.”
“What are you saying?” Pavan asks.
“I’m saying I have a gun hidden in the office. If we can get to it, we may be able to take Twitch out. He’s barely even here. I think we can do it.”
“That will work,” Ryan says to Toto, before they return their attention to our group. I try to shrink behind Scott and Pavan.
“Get her,” Toto orders Ryan. “Now, all of you, listen to me. We’re going to call every ten minutes. If Twitch tells us you tried anything, the girl’s dead. You understand? If he doesn’t answer by the time the voice message comes on, the girl’s dead. If anyone else answers, the girl’s dead.”
“How do we know you won’t just kill her as soon as you walk out that door?” Scott snaps.
A gold glint flashes from within Toto’s cocky smile. “Because we need her. You’re all official members of my gang, remember? Your membership might be short, but it sure won’t be boring. Don’t forget, when I call, if anything’s not as it should be . . .”
“But you took my phone,” Twitch points out. “Can I have it back?”
“I don’t trust you with this thing. You can have this one.” Toto shoves Scott’s phone across the table.
Twitch frowns at the cracked screen. “This thing’s on its last legs. I bet I can’t even get anything good to work on it.”
“Exactly. Kid, write down your number for me.”
“Okay. I need a pen and paper. There’s some by the register.”
“Go ahead,” Toto says, “but be quick.”
Behind the counter, Scott bends low to scribble something. He tears the sheet and comes back around and hands the paper to Toto. A second later, Scott’s phone rings when Toto tries the number. “Good. You keep doing just what we say like that, and maybe you’ll be okay.” He turns to Ryan. “Are we ready?”
Scott wraps his arms around me as though he’s hugging me, shoring me up. “If you see anyone who can help,” he whispers in my ear, “give them that.”
“Okay,” Toto says. “Enough of that little lovefest. Let’s go get us some guns.”
As I follow Toto and Ryan out the door, my hand sneaks into my pocket and I find a little reassurance as my fingers brush a slip of paper Scott put there.
A horse with ten masters will die tied to its post.
Except where I’m going, there are no other masters. From now on, I’m on my own.
24
SCOTT
FIVE HOURS AND TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING
Don’t worry,” Winny said. “It’s not heavy.”
“If you say so.” Scott eyed the canvas doubtfully.
“If we carry it together, it won’t be too bad.”
“If you say so.”
“Stop saying that!” She laughed.
“Fine. Okay, seriously. Let’s do this.”
They each took an end of the painting. A rainbow of colors swirled across the stiff fabric. That’s what he always liked about Winny’s art; she used color, a lot of it, and texture. His fingertips rested against raised clumps of paint.
“It gives the piece depth,” she’d explained once.
“Be careful,” she said now. “The doorway.”
He almost dropped his end as she jerked hers sideways. “Shit! It might not be heavy, but it’s awkward as hell.” Readjusting his grip, he just missed slamming his end into the polished molding of the gallery door and ended up cracking his elbow against it instead. He hissed with pain.
She peeked around the frame. “Sorry! You okay?”
“I’ll live. Going backward is a risky move, but I’m pretty manly.”
Giggling, she said, “I was going to offer to swap, but not now.”
After bumping into a dude passing by the storefront, and Winny tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, they managed to carry the painting the remaining three feet to Scott’s car.
“It may be a little big,” he said, eying his family’s mid-sized sedan.
“Does the backseat fold down? I bet we can get it in that way.”
“Yeah, hold on.”
“It still looks tight,” she said when the trunk had been prepped. “I guess there’s only one way to tell if it will fit.”
“I’ll go inside and pull,” he said. “You push from out here.”
Despite their twisting and turning, the painting kept getting lodged where the wheel well narrowed the space.
“Maybe Jackie can give us some twine or something. We can tie it to the roof.”
“Nah, we’ve got this. Push really hard. Dig in with your feet.”
“I am.” She grunted. Turning around, she leaned in with her back, shoving as hard as she could with her heels. Then something shifted, and Winny flew backward.
Scott shouted from inside the car as she slammed against the edge of the canvas with a thump.
“Ow.” Her cry of pain turned into a stream of laughter. And one snort. She clamped her hands over her mouth.
“You said it,” Scott muttered.
“Oh my God. That really hurt.” She was still laughing as she regained her balance. “Is it in? I
’m afraid to look.”
“It’s in. Now, we just have to figure out how to get it out again.”
“Are you okay?” she asked as she settled into the passenger seat.
“Just banged my head a little.”
“Oh no!” She shot out a hand, resting it on his. He tried to hide his intake of breath at her touch, at her warmth.
Get it together, Bradley, his track coach chimed in.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze and forced himself to break the contact. “I’m fine, Win. No worries. But I’ll say this, you pack a lot of power.”
She cracked up again. Her giggles finally tapered off into awkward silence as they rode along. Scott searched for something to talk about, but the only words swimming in his head were I’m sorry. Though he had no idea why he felt the need to apologize. Maybe because he’d blown her off that day after the football game? Or because he’d asked her out when she was clearly not interested? Or because he’d decided to date Becky?
Winny’s house was quiet when they pulled up in front, the two-story structure welcoming them proudly from its spot in the sun as though it had nothing to hide. In there, closet doors were probably all closed—totally free from skeletons—no hangers sticking out at odd angles, no clothes in a pile on the floor or on the bed or still in the dryer waiting to be plucked out. Meals probably were served on time. Of course they were, because the fridge was always full, and it always worked.
“All right.” Winny scooted out and popped the trunk. Scott twisted around in the front seat.
“How about you let me push this time?” he suggested when she’d positioned herself out there in the June sun.
“If you say so.” Then her cheeks flushed and her lips spread into a teasing little smile, causing the temperature of his blood to jump a notch or two.
It was way easier getting the painting out of the car than it had been getting in, but the enormous tearing sound it made, that was new.
“Oh, Scott!” Winny eyed something in the trunk.
“What? Did we mess the painting up?” She had it leaned against the back driver’s side door, and only one corner of the frame showed from his spot up front.
“No, but we put a good dig in your car’s lining.” She bent lower and explored the dark interior with one hand. “I think it tore a little. And the plastic part over the wheel is dented, too.”
Wonderful. Just what he needed. His dad rarely emerged from his alcohol-infused den, so he wasn’t likely to discover this, but if he did, Scott knew he’d have some major trouble coming his way. No need to freak out, though. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. He scrambled out of the car and around back to see.
It was that bad.
He sucked in a breath, but when he’d had a good long look, he shrugged. “Nobody will notice.”
They would, and that rip was destined to get bigger, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. It wouldn’t do him any good to share his suspicions, and today had been special for her. It should stay that way.
She stared at the damage, chewing her cheek. “Look, if I can help, maybe pay to repair it . . .”
He swatted the offer away. “Like I said, no worries.”
Winny stood lingering in the driveway, an arm’s length away from him with the sun slanting through the leaves of a cherry tree in her front yard, the light picking up little flecks of glitter in the gloss covering her lips. He’d been about to kiss her back there in the gallery. But that was a terrible idea. He couldn’t do that to Becky. Then why was he thinking about it again? Right now?
Winny surprised him by holding up her arms for a goodbye hug. She shuffled closer, and he braced for her sweet scent and gentle warmth. They hadn’t hugged that day after the football game. If they had, he would never have been able to let her go.
“Thanks for your help, Scott.” Her words vibrated against his shoulder, her breath warming the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath.
“Any time, Win,” he whispered.
“You really saved me today. I owe you one.”
“Nah.” His words rustled a loose strand of her hair as a breeze shifted the leaves in the cherry tree behind them. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Still, I want to repay you if I can, someday.” She pulled back but didn’t break the hug. Instead, she paused and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Before she could move away, he leaned in closer, just a tiny bit. And maybe she did, too. Just a tiny bit more. He couldn’t say for sure, but her lips touched his, and she drew in a surprised breath, but didn’t move. Neither did he.
They were frozen, his heart racing. Her hand lingered on his arm. One of his still rested on her back. His eyes refused to stay open, and his mind shouted contradictory orders peppered with fun facts, like the one about his girlfriend, poor Becky, who in six whole months had never made him feel what Winny was making him feel right now. The conflicting data continued to flood him, but Winny jerked out of his grasp before he could figure it out.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Scott.”
Backing up—one step, two steps, three—she made the decision for him, even though he still didn’t know if it was the one he wanted.
He focused on the muscles that controlled his lungs and sucked in a breath. “No, it’s me, my fault.” Of course it was. He’d been thinking of doing this very thing not a half hour before. All she’d needed was a friend, and he’d gone and dragged her into his own drama. She might have blown him off in the winter, but that didn’t mean she deserved to have him mess with her head now. Even back then, when she’d turned down his offers to see if they could be more than friends, she did it in true Winny form, sweet as cherry–vanilla ice cream, like she really felt bad about hurting him. For a while, he even tried to convince himself that she meant it when she told him she hoped that they could go out sometime, just the two of them.
His feelings might be all tangled, but he couldn’t let any of that mess trap her. Or hurt Becky.
“Seriously. Don’t even worry. I’m glad I could help. Want me to . . . ?” He inclined his head toward her canvas.
“No! No, I can get it from here.” Though it was awkward, she began dragging her masterpiece toward the front door, and her sheer determination to manage the rest by herself told him everything he needed to know: she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. With every faltering step, every readjustment of the canvas, every huffed breath, whatever lingering hope that someday they might try again was gone. Maybe that’s what her kiss had meant: goodbye. Hell, she was probably leaving for college soon, just like everyone else. Sure, there’d be parties this summer, and he bet that he’d see her here and there at the café, but this might have been their last time alone together.
He tried to tell himself that it was for the best. Things with Becky weren’t great, but more one-on-one time with Winny would ruin whatever they had left.
And no way could he be around Winny and not remember the way her lips had felt against his. Or not wish to feel them again.
So before she could reach the front door, he hopped into the car and drove away into the afternoon, not even bothering to blink against the sun streaks burning into his retinas.
But as he drove, he found himself thinking about Winny again. Not the kiss this time, but of the way she’d wrangled her painting. She was all determination, never giving up. Never backing down.
When he’d gotten back into his car at Winny’s, he’d thrown his cell on the passenger seat beside him, and now he glanced at the cracked screen. Had he given up too soon? Sure, his plan threw his parents for the biggest loop of all time, but that had been his goal. They didn’t know how dinged up his phone was, and maybe it wasn’t as damaged as he thought. Maybe there was still a chance to fix this.
At the next light, he made an illegal U-turn and headed toward New Haven Avenue and the store where he’d purchased his smartphone. He’d walk in there, and they’d help him. Then, he’d go home, renew his threats to his parents, and things would change. His dad would change. And t
hen Scott could move on with his life. Go to college. Have a career. Something. Anything but stay here and throw his life away as a busboy at Café Flores.
This would work. This had to work.
25
SCOTT
ONE HOUR AND TWENTY MINUTES AFTER CLOSING
The door shuts behind the three of them—Winny, Ryan, and Toto. A car starts somewhere farther along the street, and when it passes the café, I race to the window, parting the blinds and pressing my face between them for one more look at her.
I’d promised I’d keep her safe, and now she’s out there. Alone. With them.
“Scott.” A warning darkens Oscar’s voice, but our remaining captor hasn’t taken any notice of me. He’s engrossed by the phone—my phone—which he’s working like a hand-held video game.
Guess he got something good to work on there after all.
I make my way back to wait with the others. But I can’t stand the silence. Minutes tick by so slowly. Where is Winny now? Is she okay?
Suddenly, it’s like I’m at home, where everything sucks all the time, and no matter how hard I work, no matter what I try, I. Can’t. Fix. It.
It hurts in my stomach. Not where my dad punched me, but somewhere deeper. It hurts in my chest, where my heart is beating too fast to be okay. It hurts in my bones, my knuckles. And I look at that guy, sitting there in the corner, enjoying a timeout with my phone. Playing a game, even though there’s a dead body in the basement. As though this is any old day. And I want to pummel him. I want to make the ache inside me go away by smashing my fist into his face. It may not erase that pain at all, though. And it might start a new one, one that’s more than just my bruised knuckles and strained muscles.
Maybe that’s why my dad lays into me—creating new pain erases one that’s worse. One from his years of humiliation, of being unable to care for his family. Being unable to find work in a field where he’s an expert. Maybe that new pain helps, except maybe not enough, because he keeps coming back for me. Coming back for more. Or it could be that, like Twitch with his meth, my dad has developed an addiction to it.
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