by Shana Silver
A few minutes later, the clerk returns and sets down my silver chain. It coils on top of the glass. “You were right.” Wrinkles shift on his face to make room for a smile. “This was inside.” Next to the chain, he places a small glass vial, the kind amusement parks fill with grains of engraved rice. A miniature roll of paper curls inside the glass.
Both of us reach for it at once. Colin pulls his hand away to give me access. I squeeze the tiny glass.
The clerk clears his throat. “Do you want the melted-down silver? It needs to cool, but—”
Colin looks at me. My mother’s charm, my prized possession, is now just a puddle of liquid chemicals. Even the sentimental value is gone. When I find her, I’ll create new sentimental memories. “No.”
Even though the melted silver is worth something, Colin slides a hundred-dollar bill toward the clerk.
“Hold on, I’ll get you change,” he says.
But we flee before he even finishes his sentence. Around the back, we huddle in the shadow of a building. With shaky hands, I unscrew the tiny black cap that seals the vial and shake the glass until the paper slips out onto my palm. Black text in size three-point font covers the front.
South Fourth Street Station. G subway line. Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
Tension drains from my shoulders. Not Seattle. Not Finch Creek. I swallow hard. Not anything I knew her well enough to guess.
“A subway station?” My mind spins through the recesses of my memories, searching for a spark of recognition. All I come away with is a furrowed brow.
Colin’s already tapping away on his phone. “Weird, there is no South Fourth Street Station on the G line. Or in Williamsburg. There’s a Broadway station, though.”
I snort. “Then that isn’t weird at all. It’s another clue.”
“Wait, no, I don’t think it is.” Colin’s fingers hastily scroll through an article. “Check this out.” He clears his throat. “‘Rumors of an underground museum in an abandoned subway station … a gallery of sorts that displays illegal art installed on the walls. No one knows for sure if it’s true, where it’s located, who started it, or how the artists are invited.’”
My body thrums. “I think we know who can answer all of those questions: my mom.”
“Guess that’s our answer, then. Hearts for Vandals tour jet, here we come.” It’s heading to Teterboro airport in New Jersey, which is the closest destination to Williamsburg of all the flights.
“Oh crap.” Colin purses his lips. “Rumor has it police have put some security systems in place in an attempt to catch the people trying to sneak into the abandoned station, whether to view the art or leave behind more.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Good thing we have tons of experience evading the police.”
* * *
Four identical VIP passes dangle from our necks as we walk up to the Hearts for Vandals concert. I constructed each during several too-long shower sessions where I spent more time painstakingly cutting out images with an X-Acto knife and hand lettering with ink than conditioning my hair. Frizziness was just a sacrifice I had to make. To further ensure our ruse goes off without a hitch, we purchased four legit concert tix via a ticket-selling app and an untraceable disposable prepaid Visa card.
Once we’re past security, Colin leads the charge, waving us through the crowd as though he has the entire arena layout memorized. Which of course he does.
I have to admit he looks amazing in the gray-blazer-and-designer-jeans combo. It takes all my effort not to stop him in the crowded hallway and press him against the wall to do all the naughty things running through my mind. But although we’ve been pretending he’s my boyfriend through this entire trip, now that he may actually be, we have to pretend we’re not together. After all, a smarmy radio station representative can’t be dating a screaming seventeen-year-old superfan.
We reach the VIP area, and the bouncer takes one look at our passes and nods, and I lift my chin in victory. That’s the problem with being a forgery artist. You rarely get to take credit for your excellent work.
Colin continues strutting through the hallway until we reach the greenroom. He doesn’t even hesitate before he pushes the door open and does a complicated handshake with the guy in the doorway as though they’ve known each other for years instead of ten seconds.
The four heartthrobs of Hearts for Vandals lounge on plush leather couches, each with varying degrees of long, floppy hair. Jackson’s the main cutie, but the other guys have swarms of nervous teenage girls vying for their attention, filling this room up with more hormones than ninth-grade sex-ed class. A long refreshment table stretches against a back wall, filled with bowls of food sorted by color: green M&Ms, red Skittles, and what appear to be potato chips made from purple potatoes. Guys in suits and blazers mill about on the outskirts, each with a phone or walkie-talkie pressed to their ear.
Tig lets out a cough, and Colin follows her line of sight toward a guy with slicked-back hair and a glitzy silver blazer talking to a woman with a clipboard. Walt Windsor, manager extraordinaire for Hearts for Vandals. According to an article in Rolling Stone six months ago, he’s super into astrology, exists on a diet of legumes and wheatgrass, and will only sleep on 100 percent silk sheets. Not the most helpful bit of info, but we’ll use what we can. Natalie affixed Colin’s ear with a clip-on earring in the astrological sign for Aries.
Colin beelines right toward him, motioning for us to follow.
I smooth down my skirt and turn to Natalie, trying to give her my best oh my God I can’t believe I’m here face. She fans her hand in front of her mouth in equal excitement. It’s still weird to see her real appearance. Tig doesn’t change her normal stone-faced expression at all.
Colin leads with his hand stretched out. “Hey, mate,” he says in an epic fake British accent. I withhold my urge to side-eye him, but he insisted the accent would help sell this. And because he can’t do anything without being awesome at it, he mastered the dialect with only a few hours of practice. “Nigel Smythe here. From WRQA 106.3.”
Walt studies him up and down suspiciously before he lands on the Aries earring, and his eyes sparkle. He reaches out and shakes Colin’s hand somewhat tentatively.
“Wanted to introduce you to the contest winners and confirm everything’s good to go for the jet tonight?” Colin hits him with his gorgeous smile, and I notice that the face of the girl with the clipboard lights up at the sight of it. Stay away, lady.
“I’m sorry, but what contest?” Walt eyes him up and down one more time. “And how old are you?”
Colin laughs as though he’s heard that one a million times. “Thanks, mate. Best compliment I’ve heard all night.” He pats him on the shoulder like they’re now old pals. “Didn’t you get my email the other day? Or the one from Tommy last week explaining the whole shebang?”
Both backdated emails have already been planted into Walt’s account, of course. Tommy’s the account manager at the record label, the one person Walt might actually trust.
Walt squints at Colin before pulling out his phone and scrolling through. His brows shoot up when he undoubtedly finds the email from “Nigel” from two days ago, introducing himself and explaining that he’ll be accompanying the contest winners to the show tonight as well as on the plane ride from South Bend to Teterboro, plus tomorrow’s show in New York City. Walt lets out a little squeak as he goes farther down and finds the email from Tommy, which explains that the record label hooked up with the radio station to put on the contest, and though it’s short notice, he expects Walt to work out all the details.
Walt rakes a hand through his hair, and his shoulders tense. “Sorry, yes, yes.” He loosens his collar. “Had a momentary lapse there, but of course everything’s all set for the flight tonight. Remind me again the winners’ names?”
Colin rattles off our new fake names that match the new fake IDs.
“Fantastic,” Walt says. “If you’ll just excuse me for a second, I have some business to take care of
. Please enjoy the refreshments until the show starts.” He motions his hand at the table of food and then runs to an office to scramble.
And just like that we’ve got a foolproof exit strategy and backstage seats for Colin’s “favorite” band.
CHAPTER 28
After spending an unbearable two hours screaming my head off as Hearts for Vandals shimmied onstage, and then another hour or so backstage elbowing the other giddy teens for prime real estate in Jackson’s breathing space, I deserve the peace and quiet of the plane. I make an excuse about being tired, and Jackson doesn’t even blink as he turns his attention to the rest of his fan base joining us for this three-hour flight.
The requisite news articles of our disappearance and APBs hit the web as I settle into my seat. This time all four of our pictures appear, and I have to laugh at the class photo they used of Natalie in her pink wig and fluorescent-yellow contact lenses.
Authorities are seeking information on Fiona Spangler and Colin O’Keefe, who are believed to be traveling with Natalie Babineaux and Tig Ramirez, last seen in South Bend, Indiana, on the Coast-to-Coast Connect Teen Tour using fake identities.
“I’m so worried about them!” Abby Ito, head counselor on the tour, said when questioned. “They went straight up to the room, but no one ever saw them again! We can’t seem to get ahold of their parents, either.”
Video surveillance footage captured the four escaping out a back door in a laundry cart.
The group is suspected of stealing prized artifacts from several locations, including the Hesburgh Library. Authorities believe they are heading to the greater Seattle area via train and may try to hitch a ride out of Chicago.
“Well, bright side, they bought our ruse?”
Colin bites his lip. “Now we just have to hope they don’t find that tree at Finch Creek before we find the subway station.”
I flick my chin over to where Jackson lounges on a plush leather chair, tilts his head back, and snags a grape in his teeth while no less than six giggling girls dangle branches over his face like he’s a Greek god. Really glad my excuse about being tired got me out of that one. “I’m surprised you’re not going gaga over Jackson like all the other groupies on this flight,” I joke to Colin.
“My fandom may have once been super strong, but there’s something else I’m much more into these days.” He squeezes my hand, and for a moment, I can relax.
I tilt my head against the window, watching stars sparkle in the night sky. A whole world out there I’ve never explored, and yet the plane flies on, keeping me prisoner. The stale air reaches out like claws around my neck, choking me with claustrophobia. But the real problem isn’t the feeling of being trapped. It’s that the tour’s already over. The heists are done. But I can’t ever go home.
Whether I find my mother or not, this is my new forever. I won’t ever hear Dad’s voice again or rule the roost back at Amberley Academy. I can’t let my hair grow long or go back to blond. Once we evade the FBI, I’ll always be on the run.
I’ll be just like my mother.
* * *
As soon as the flight lands, we part ways with the band under the ruse that “Nigel” will be escorting us to our swanky hotel for tonight. I’m forced to let out a few requisite squeals as I tell Jackson I can’t wait to see him again tomorrow for the next concert.
My shoulders tense as I weave my way through the airport, keeping my head down, making sure not to look at any of the security cameras around until we launch ourselves into a waiting taxi. Our cab cruises through the deserted streets of New Jersey, empty at 5 a.m. We change cabs a few more times, first stopping at an Amazon locker in Hackensack to pick up a bunch of supplies we overnighted that we knew we couldn’t risk bringing through airport security. Finally, the last cab glides toward Williamsburg.
We file out and open our identical bubble umbrellas. The clear plastic distorts our features enough to fool any security cams. Town houses in various shades of brick line the deserted street, dark except for a few scattered lit windows. Rain drums at a slant against the buildings and sneaks beneath our umbrellas, the sound pinging off the metal garbage can a few feet away.
For the next few blocks, our marching feet slosh in puddles. According to research we found on the internet, all the pedestrian entrances to the old, abandoned G station in Williamsburg are boarded up, long rendered invalid. The simplest way to get to the abandoned station is to slip into the dark tunnel that stems from an active station and combat mold and rats until we reach the old station’s entrance. But Big Brother is watching the entrance, so we need to find another way into the tunnel.
Like a service entrance that Tig found on a schematic map.
Tig stops short in front of a boarded-up recessed doorway. She checks her phone, then the door, then pats the pristine wood with her palm. The surrounding wooden planks boast years of grime, weathering, and faded graffiti, but a few planks look brand-new.
“This is it?” I ask, and Tig nods. “But … it’s boarded up? You said this was an active service entrance.”
Tig glares at the wooden boards as if they personally offended her and holds up her phone. A screenshot of a surveillance image dated yesterday shows the same doorway, only without the new-looking boards.
“So these weren’t here yesterday?” Panic races up my spine. “That’s coincidental … and suspicious.”
We shut our umbrellas and crowd into the tight alcove, cramped shoulder to shoulder. I place several flashlights in a row at the bottom, shooting enough light upward for us to see.
Colin pries out each shiny nail that secures the wooden board to the entrance. A rusty door with a simple lock chain hides behind the unwelcome wooden plank. I step forward to inspect the lock, pursing my lips at the simplicity of it. I fit one of my glinting silver tools and twist. The lock opens easily. Too easy.
I push the door open. Inside, red laser beams crisscross from wall to wall in a dark corridor, each one a moving trip wire. They’re the kind of maze only an Olympic gymnast could conquer with ease. One wrong step, and we won’t even have enough time to cover our ears from the alarm before police swoop in and haul us away for life.
“This wasn’t mentioned in any of the research we did on the plane,” Natalie whispers.
“Oh, good.” My eyes lock on a sweeping red beam that probes the dank entryway. “So that trigger alarm right in front of our faces is just our collective fantasy?”
I bite back a growl and turn to Tig. “Can you cut the power?”
In the glow of the flashlight, she looks scary-story-ghost pale. She shrugs and starts changing settings on her laptop. After a moment, her eyes widen, and my stomach coils with dread.
Tig shoves her laptop into Natalie’s arms and beams a circle of light on the point where the first laser starts. She waves it around as if to say, Look, you see that?
I cross my arms with impatience. “Yep, it’s a laser maze all right.”
Natalie squints. “The glistening stuff around the projector box?” she guesses. “It looks … glued on.”
Tig shoots her a finger gun. Bingo.
“Which means you can’t hack it to cut the power, because it’s not part of the real security system?” I guess. All of us turn our heads to the sweeping beams. One of us has to get across and shut off the projector box.
Blood drains from my face. Colin can’t charm his way through this one. Tig’s stealthy with machines, not real life. Natalie’s a master of disguise, but not a master of anything else.
I swallow. “I’ve actually conquered one of these before.”
What I don’t mention is that my mom installed it in the house for practice when I was nine. And out of the thousand times I practiced, I only ever beat it … once.
The others step back, clearly resigned to hand me the reins of this police trap.
You can do this, I coax myself.
I crack my neck from side to side, and then jump up and down in place. My nerves congregate in my cells, vibrating at
high frequency.
It takes me a good seven minutes to recognize the sequence of sweeping probes—it’s the same pattern I practiced with as a child. It’s not twenty beams each moving randomly. It’s three beams with alternating patterns.
Banishing my nervousness, I enter a zen zone. Eyes zoomed. Sounds ignored. Mind focused. I square my shoulders before lifting my leg over the first sweeping laser.
It’s like a dance. My mind calculates each twirl several moves ahead while my feet follow along to the count of eight. I contort my body into a back handspring as a red beam passes mere centimeters from my nose. No time to catch my breath, instead I flip over, ducking underneath another beam, then dropping to the floor for a millisecond, army crawling while a glowing red line chases me. Before it catches me, I hop to my feet and sweep my torso forward like a head-swinging dance move in a music video.
One beam glides upward, so I duck down. The next zooms across, and I fit my body into the tight triangle of space. Then I sink low until I only have two more beams left. I’ve got this.
When I reach the end, I stand on tiptoes and scrutinize the box creating the lasers. It is glued on. That fact, combined with the recognizable pattern, gives me confidence that this box wasn’t planted here by police trying to keep people out … but rather by my mother, making sure the right person got in.
With a flip of a switch on the side of the box, I deactivate the lasers and let out a breath when the glittering red lines disappear.
I wave my friends forward.
“How did you—?” Natalie squints at the box.
“I think my mom planted it,” I say, and they all nod. “I hope so, anyway.”
We yank open the service entrance, and together we descend the rickety steps that take us lower and lower into the dank subway tunnels. The squeak of rats and water sloshing through pipes cover the sound of my raging pulse. It smells worse than the garbage tunnels at the amusement park.