Wraith (Debt Collector 10)

by Quinn, Susan Kaye

Wyatt sighs. “Miral, tell her she can’t avoid the board forever.”

  “Since when can I tell her anything?” Miral juts her chin at him. “Out!”

  Wyatt grimaces, but I take him by the elbow and steer him toward the door. “Best not to mess with them in their natural habitat,” I say in a stage whisper.

  Miral snorts her reply behind me.

  Wyatt doesn’t bite on my joke, just frowns and keeps his tongue until we’re out of the ultra clean room. Then he pulls me to the side, near the supply closet and far enough away that the lab workers can’t hear us over the thrum of the vents.

  All the humor is gone from his face. “You can’t keep putting this off, Alexa. The board just wants reassurance that—”

  “That I’m going to liquidate my shares?” I cut him off. “That I’m going to boost all their payouts by finally taking the company public rather than keeping Sterling in the family? I know what they want, Wyatt. They can wait a little longer.” I’m committed to carrying my father’s mission forward, and not just out of respect for the war he spent his life waging: because it’s the only thing that gives me a chance at atonement. But I can’t do that with one foot dangling off the cliff. I need more time. Once I have it together, then I’m all in, fighting for the cause. And when I find the debt collector who killed my father, I’ll be dispensing my own ironic kind of justice. I ignore the urge to check my palm screen for a message from Jax, but a twitch in my hand makes the coffee slosh inside my cup.

  Wyatt frowns at the near coffee spill. “Even if you put off the board, Lifetime can’t wait. Your father’s bill is going to be voted out of committee the day after tomorrow. They want you to testify—”

  “Senator Lacket wants me to testify? I doubt that very much.”

  “No, the board of Lifetime wants you to testify. Jesus, Alexa, your father has worked on this for two years—”

  I cut him off with a glare. “Don’t tell me what my father did, Wyatt.” He knows the two of us were my father’s right and left hands. And it doesn’t take a psychologist to see Wyatt was the son my father never had. Or that Wyatt was nearly as devastated as I was by his death. If I hadn’t been drowning in my own loss, I could have been there for him. Should have been. But that one secret Wyatt doesn’t know makes everything infinitely more complicated.

  He huffs and digs his hands through his hair. The slow shake of his head is for me: like he thinks I’ve fallen back into the abyss when he wasn’t looking.

  “You look like hell,” he says.

  “Like I said, late night.” My glare grows hot, warning him off. Then I steer him away, just in case. “Any word on the investigation?” This is the secret only Wyatt and I share—we’re not waiting for the LA police to pirouette through their many levels of incompetence. We’re going to find my father’s killer ourselves. The only difference being that Wyatt wants to see the murderer behind bars, and I want to see him under my palm.

  Wyatt rolls his eyes at my obvious diversion. Then he relents. “It seems the police are even more corrupt than I had assumed. And yet strangely not corrupt enough.”

  “You can’t buy your way into the police report?”

  “No takers. It’s like everyone’s afraid of something, some invisible power at play here that I don’t understand.” His jaw works. Not understanding things isn’t how Wyatt operates. He tears into something until he’s figured out all the angles. “I’ve gone ahead and contracted with a private investigator.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Wyatt doesn’t know Jax, and I pay Jax to stay far away from Wyatt. “And?”

  “And he can’t even slash into the police department records to get a look at the evidence. It’s as if the whole thing is completely locked down. Untouchable.” His frustration ticks up another level. “He’s tracing down some leads, but it’s nothing. Just a bunch of theories. We’re assuming it’s a debt collector, but beyond that, we don’t have much.”

  I sigh. That’s no more than we started with. “We know it’s a collector. What I need are names and addresses. Even collector names. Anything, Wyatt.” My leg itches. I ignore it, but the agitation of this entire conversation is ramping up my need to pay out. I sorely want to check my palm for messages, but I resist.

  He runs his hand through his hair again. It’s a complete mess now. “I’m doing the best I can, Alexa.”

  “If that’s the best you’ve got, I take it back. No shares for you. You’re fired.”

  My palm tones. It makes me jump, spilling a dash of coffee on the sterile lab floor. I freeze, not wanting to look at the message with Wyatt right there, but then he grabs a tissue from a nearby bench and bends down to sop the coffee off the floor. He’s muttering something, probably cursing me out. I swipe my palm screen on and take a quick look.

  Meet half hour. Usual place. Will have charities in need of donations.

  My whole body sags with relief. Jax has a payout for me. This is the best news since finding Odel unarmed in his bed. I wait for Wyatt to stand up again, but he’s lingering on the floor, staring at my leg. The bandages itch even more under his attention. I cringe as I see blood trickling down, a bright red line of indictment.

  He stands up. I think he might kill me with that look. “You went jumping last night.”

  I hold my breath. “I just tripped on the way to the car.”

  “Alexa.” He knows I’m lying. I don’t know why I even bother. “You said you were done with that. You promised.”

  I promised myself I would stop telling Wyatt about the jumps. Thrill leaps from tall buildings didn’t mix well with fighting your own personal abyss after your father’s funeral… at least in Wyatt’s mind. Besides, I thought I was giving up the collecting, and the jumps themselves were mostly useful as a quick exit from a target’s sky-high apartment.

  “I’m fine,” I say, pushing back on his worry-mode.

  His teeth grit so hard I hear them squeak. “You’re bleeding on the floor.”

  Half an hour. “You’re right. I’m going to run home to patch up a little better.” I turn away, but he catches my arm.

  I let him stop me, just long enough to give him my excuse. “Tell the board I’m sick. I’ll meet with them tomorrow.”

  Wyatt’s scowl digs into me. “Are you sick, Lexy?” He thinks there’s something wrong with me. Which there is, but not the thing he thinks. Or maybe that, too. I can’t tell anymore.

  I turn my head away. “I’m fine. And don’t call me that.” My father’s nickname on Wyatt’s lips twists something inside me. Like my father is accusing me from beyond the grave of being the very thing he died fighting against.

  Wyatt’s touch on my cheek whips my head back. I step away, suddenly unnerved. “Don’t touch me.”

  He looks wounded, and that rips a hole in my chest. It’s not like he’s making a pass at me—more like he thinks I’m damaged, and he’s trying to fix me, and I won’t let him. Which is a hell of a way to treat a man who’s kept me afloat for the last three weeks.

  I draw in a breath and peer up into his eyes. They’re the color of the sky from a hundred floors up. “Wyatt, please. I promise I’ll do everything you want. Everything we both want. I just need a little more time to prepare.”

  He gives me a soft look. Like he cares for me in ways that can’t ever happen between us. In another life, I would put my arms around him. Or lean into him. Or flat-out kiss him and short out the crackling tension building in the air between us. But in this life, I’m a debt collector… the kind of person Wyatt has devoted his life to stopping. The kind who kills people like him, either for the money or the hit… or by accident.

  I keep my distance and let my eyes do the pleading.

  He relents, and somehow that pains me, too. Like he’s finally given up on me. “Okay, Alexa. I’ll make up an excuse for you. But I can’t put them off for more than a day. Then they’re going to start setting things in motion to oust you.” It’s a challenge, the one he’s been saving for when he thinks I’m beyond reason and ne
ed a slap in the face to wake me up. I can tell. I know how his mind works.

  “I won’t let that happen,” I promise. And I won’t. It’s my father’s company, and I’ll be damned if I let some board of twitchy-fingered corporate types take it and run it into the ground. Or turn it into something he never wanted. I drop my gaze to my bleeding leg. “I have to go.”

  I turn and leave Wyatt standing there, probably wondering if I’m about to take a running leap into the abyss.

  I wish I could tell him I wasn’t.

  The defunct electronics store on the east side belongs to my father—it’s one of the many businesses left to ruin in the rapid expansion of Sterling. It doesn’t exactly stand out. The street is littered with the empty carcasses of businesses past. It took me more than half an hour to arrive, but when I swipe inside the back door, Jax is still waiting for me.

  She’s leaning against a battered workbench, running some game on her screen. Her short gray hair is a wild poof around her head, and her brown trenchcoat and boots are covered with dust that looks too ingrained to have originated in the shop. Given I’m late, I opt not to harass her about her online gambling addiction. Besides, I’m the last person to talk about being an addict, and her need for cash is what keeps her in my employ.

  “Thanks for waiting, Jax.” My bright red heels are a stark contrast to the accumulated grime and smog-filtered light that’s sucked all the color out of the room.

  “Wraith,” Jax says in acknowledgment, but her gaze is glued to the screen. Her fingers flit rapidly over it. I wait while she finishes.

  Jax’s real name is Joanka, and she’s a distant cousin of the east side mob bosses. She doesn’t strictly work for any of the three brothers, but she’s friendly enough with Emeryk that she has both protection and contacts when she needs them. Jax started working for my father when my mother was cashed out shortly after my birth. My father was convinced it was a revenge kill for his early anti-debt-collector activism, but it turned out to be simple bad records keeping. Jax stayed on retainer since my father’s activist work only increased afterward. She grew up around mob collectors and dirty justice, and even though she helped him keep tabs on the illegal life energy trades, she never seemed to judge any of it. When I found out what I was, she was literally the only person I could turn to. But I don’t remind her of that any more than I remind her of the fixing she’s already done for me.

  We stick to business as much as possible.

  And today, that’s finding me a payout I’m desperately in need of.

  A trilling sound from the screen signals Jax’s defeat and probably a need for more debit cards from me. She snorts in disgust and tosses the screen onto the workbench, where it slides into a dust-covered can of micro-pliers. She crosses her arms as she leans back, then gives my attire a startled look, like she’s just noticed it.

  “What’s with the costume?” she asks, her voice gravelly like she’s had too much wódka over her lifetime. I’m not quite sure of Jax’s other vices.

  “I was in a hurry.” My leg itches again, and I glance down, but I’m not bleeding. “You said you had someone set up for me?”

  Her face wrinkles up to show her age. “What happened to Madam A? Seemed like that was a sweet gig for you.” She’s got that holding-back tone, like she’s more curious than she lets on. Given Jax set me up with Madam A in the first place, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s getting favors in return. And I know Jax is a fan of the high-class female sex workers that Madam A specializes in.

  “Things have changed there,” I say, opting for honesty. Jax knows everything about me anyway. “Madam A has a new debt collector she wants me to work with.”

  A light of recognition smoothes out the lines on Jax’s face. “Ah. I can see how that might be a problem.”

  “It was good while it lasted.” The tremors are ramping up again in anticipation. “So, what do you have for me?”

  “Keep your skirt on, girl.” But she nods as if that’s plenty explanation for her. I love that about Jax—she never asks more than she really needs to know. “But yeah. You’re gonna like this.”

  Jax doesn’t oversell. In fact, quite the opposite. So my fidgeting ceases, and I perk to attention. “I’m going to like what?”

  She straightens up from the workbench and adjusts her trenchcoat. I grit my teeth. Jax doesn’t oversell, but she sure likes to tell a story. Especially one where she’s the hero. “I know this nurse,” she starts. “Very pretty by the way and outrageously good in bed. I met her at a—”

  “Jax,” I warn her. “Can we skip ahead to the part where you’ve found the perfect payout for me?”

  The wrinkles show up in her face again, but she sighs and gives me what I want. “The nurse’s name is Melinda. She scouts for people in her ward who are right on the edge: in danger of getting put on the collection list, but not yet triggering the mandatory review, because their prognosis is still good. People who don’t qualify for a medical needs hit because they’re not high potentials. She’s got a sweet heart and wants to save them. I tell her you can’t buck the system, but does she listen? Not the first hundred—”

  “For the love of God, Jax.” I don’t think it’s my plaintive look that gets her. It’s the way my hands are shaking even though I’ve made them into fists.

  “All right, let’s go,” Jax says with a sigh. “The hospital’s nearby. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  I nod my gratitude. I’ll pay her later—we always settle up separately from meeting—but the relief is intense as she hustles me out of the dusty electronics store and hails us a cab with her phone.

  Jax’s nurse friend is pretty. I make a mental note of Jax’s preference for tall, willowy redheads with kind smiles, just in case I need to know this later, but right now I’m focused on changing into the hospital scrubs she’s shoved in my hands. Jax is waiting for me in the lobby. I’ll need a ride home when I’m done, and I won’t be in much shape to get one myself.

  Melinda watches the locker room door while I change. “Just stuff your clothes in that bag,” she says, not looking at me.

  When I’m done, she grabs it and gestures me to follow her out into the oncology ward. I try not to fuss with my fake ID or look too nervous. Melinda leads me to room 704, which is a two-patient room, but there’s a privacy screen. I already know who we’re looking for: Alice Jones, mother of three with an obscure form of breast cancer. She’s responding to treatment, but the secondary infection is taking down her compromised immune system hard. The kicker is, if she can beat the virus, she’s already killed the cancer. But her family is stretched thin, and the hospital costs put them on the edge of going into debt to save her. And that’s a path no one wants to go down. Jax’s nurse friend was arranging for them to buy a hit from the mob when Jax offered up my services.

  Melinda ushers me in. I’m used to paying out to kids with terminal diseases, so Alice’s sallow cheeks, hairless head, and IV drips don’t shock me. Or the wheezing sound that sneaks around her oxygen mask. It’s the way her eyes light up when Melinda introduces me that gives me a pulse of surprise. Her cancer isn’t infectious but the hope on her face is.

  With the kids, it was all about making them comfortable during the short time they had left. Which was why I’m achingly jealous of that other debt collector’s ability to cure them. But with Alice… I might actually be able to save her.

  My palm itches. I can’t wait. “Are you ready?” I ask in a soft voice that won’t carry.

  “Yes.” Her voice is so wheezy, it’s a wonder she’s getting any oxygen at all.

  I don’t waste any more time, just place my hand on her forehead. She lets out a low sigh as the life energy trickles in. That alone brings a small smile to my face. But then the mercy hit sparks inside me. This is what I’ve been craving—the kind of pure emptying feeling I imagine monks experience on a fast. Or at the pinnacle of their meditation. I don’t know why the mercy hit feels this way, I just know it washes away the dark spots on
my soul, if only for a moment. I open up the flow a little more, and the contact between my hand and Alice’s heats. I can’t go too fast—for her sake and mine—but I push it, just a little. Then a little more.

  Because it feels so damn good.

  I close my eyes and tip my head back. The small sun in my chest blossoms and grows, consuming me with a righteous fire. I lose all sense of the room. I’m floating on a high so vast, I’m a small sailboat skimming the waves of a deep, deep ocean. Something tugs at my mind. Tugging, tugging… something’s wrong. I suck in a breath, open my eyes, and awareness comes swimming back. My eyes blink to make sense of what I see.

  The red-haired nurse bending over me. Lips moving. Speaking without words.

  I’m on the floor.

  I gasp in more air, and sound comes rushing back. Then Melinda is saying, “Honey, can you hear me? Can you see me? If you can speak, say something.”

  “Alice…” My lips are numb.

  “Alice is fine.” There’s a clear look of relief on her face.

  She helps me up to sitting, but the nausea curls into me, and I’m back on the floor. Wave after wave hits, and just when it seems like it’s never going to stop, it slows a little. Enough that I can unfold from my fetal position and sit up.

  Jesus, how much did I pay out?

  I completely lost track. Usually the steady drip registers some flow of time in my brain: weeks or months. Occasionally a year. Whatever I pulled from Odel, I’m sure I paid out more to Alice. A lot more.

  Shit.

  With Melinda’s help and a grasp on Alice’s bed, I get to standing. Alice is sitting up, respirator gone, eyes-wide at my hunched over frame.

  “Are you okay?” She seems genuinely panicked.

  I try to wave her concern away, but I’m weak. So weak. My bones feel like they’re going to break just from standing up. I straighten anyway and hold in the moan. The clean burn of the mercy hit buoys me. Plus Melinda’s surprisingly strong arm is around my shoulder, keeping me upright. I want to say something to Alice, but I need to get out before I’m sick. Get home so I can collapse and ride out the aftermath.