by Tess Sharpe
He didn’t slap me or hit me. He pushed me. Right off the couch, right onto my knees, and my wrists would ache from the jolt into the next day. I clipped my head on the coffee table, and it took seconds or maybe minutes for me to realize that the sticky warmth chilling on my skin was blood.
When she shrieked, he hit her. The kind of punch that I didn’t know then—but would learn—rattles your teeth in your head and fills your mouth with a tang that you can’t spit or wash away.
And instead of doing what she always said she’d do if anyone hit us—packing up, leaving in a flash, starting up somewhere different, with a new mark—she just shrank.
I’d never seen my mother, in her precise manipulation and ballerina grace, ever tremble before. It scared me even more than the blood in my mouth, so when his fist came rearing back to deliver another blow . . .
I wasn’t strong or brave. I had just turned eleven, and I was scared and I ran.
I left her there as I hid in my room and shook for what felt like hours until finally there was a knock at my door and a coaxing voice. Baby, come out, okay? He’s sorry. He didn’t mean to. He wants to make it up to you.
It was textbook. But I didn’t know that then, because some level of danger in the men she brought around me was a given. It was my normal.
But her not leaving when the man becomes a threat was new.
The new normal.
Because Raymond was love.
Love conquers all things, baby.
And it did—it conquered her.
But I refused to let him conquer me.
Part Two
Trust Is a Spear
(The Next 72 Minutes)
— 22 —
The Original
To understand Ashley, you have to know Katie. And to know Katie, you must meet Haley. And for Haley to exist, Samantha had to first, for practice, and before Samantha there was Rebecca. But before Rebecca there was . . .
A girl.
She has a name. But I was raised to keep it close, like secret treasure.
She was a daughter, once. But she got old enough, and then she was a convenient distraction. A little older, and she became a tool. Just a little older, and she was bait.
And once she was old enough? Those years down the line, that ended in eighteen candles?
The con would evolve. Perfect daughters aren’t needed forever. They grow up.
Into perfect prey.
There’s a choice, when you know your fate’s to be hunted and gobbled up and used.
You can give in like it’s inevitable or you can turn the tables.
I was raised for a kind of slaughter. But I grew into a huntress instead. One who always hits her target. No matter what.
Rebecca and Samantha, they were practice.
Haley and Katie were the real deal.
And Ashley?
Well, she was dangerous.
— 23 —
10:45 a.m. (93 minutes captive)
1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys
Plan #1: Scrapped
Plan #2: Maybe working
“Ashley Keane,” he says. He takes me in, and I let it happen without showing the fear sparking under my skin. “Holy shit. I thought you were a goddamn myth.”
“You did not.”
He shrugs. “That’s what everyone says.”
I stare at the bit of Ace bandage peeking out underneath the edge of his shirtsleeve. “You’re covering up a prison tattoo, right?”
He manages to stop himself before he reaches to grasp his biceps, but it’s a close call.
“But you’re not squirrelly enough to have been in recently. You’ve been out for a few years at least.”
He just watches me. Proceed with caution. Who knows what set him off when Lee talked to him.
“If you were inside a few years ago . . . tough guy like you? You would’ve known the right people in there. So you would’ve heard about me,” I continue. “Even all the way out here.”
His mouth twitches. He can’t help himself. Of course he’s heard.
“There’s a price on your head,” he says finally.
“You can just say he put out a hit on me.” I shrug. “You don’t need to get all archaic and Sheriff of Nottingham about it.”
“Is the quipping a nervous tic or something, kid?”
“You’re the one using terms better left in the medieval times,” I say. “Maybe I was wrong . . . Maybe you’ve been inside longer than I thought.”
He rolls his eyes. “Last I heard, he wanted you delivered alive.”
I smile. Make the mark correct you. It’ll make them feel smart.
Men like him love feeling smarter than people. And they already know they’re smarter than teenage girls, of course. Practically everyone thinks they’re smarter than a teenage girl. It’s what makes being one so powerful, if you know how to use that giant mistake of an assumption.
“I guess you’re right: not a hit exactly. What it is, is a lot of money for a prolonged road trip to deliver the goods. Which is why you should stop pointing that at me.” I look at the gun. “Because if you kill me and it gets back to him, he’ll be pissed. Also if you kill me, you lose out on a double payday. You could rob the safe-deposit box and take me.” I don’t even mention Red Cap, because I want to see if he will. (I know he won’t. I’ve got him pegged. He’s already planning on screwing that guy over.)
Gray Cap’s fingers flex on the gun, eyes dart down, then up to me again. “And you’ll just come willingly?”
“If given the choice between dead right now and maybe dead later, I’m gonna choose the latter. Especially because your little robbery here has totally screwed up my summer plans.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Please, do you think that money I brought in was really for an animal shelter?” I ask, the derision heavy in my voice. “Do I seem like the kind of girl who would spend her summer raising money for Mr. Mittens?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“The guy in there? The one I was with? His dad is rich,” I say. “And his dad is sloppy when it comes to closing his safe, and now you’re fucking up my summer con. I just needed to pull a few more jobs, and I was finally getting the hell out of here and away from my aunt who I’ve been stuck with since the whole thing with Raymond. The ‘animal shelter money’ was part of that, and now it’s gonna get confiscated as evidence when all this is done and your partner has inevitably messed something up and gotten you shot or arrested.” I roll my eyes, the mix of annoyed teenage girl and con swirling around my brain. I’m not Ashley right now. Ashley had been . . . well, Ashley had been scared. And she had been a little broken.
Then she got violent.
I don’t know who this girl is. (Is this me? I banish the thought as soon as it comes.)
“So I messed up your con?” he asks, his voice dripping with condescension, and I know I was right.
He’s like Raymond. The patriarchal type. He likes brats. He likes smart mouths.
He likes to shut them. He likes to make them bleed and break. And I may end up bloody by the end of this, but I won’t break.
He’s just another mark. And I survived all the other marks. I’ll survive him. I tell myself this, right here, right now. I make a vow, because every second I’m alone with him, the more dangerous it gets.
“Yeah, you messed up my con,” I say. “You could at least say sorry,” I grumble, when he lets out a short laugh.
“The guy with the gun never has to say sorry,” he says, and my teeth clench as he swings it forward. Remember who’s in charge.
He may be in charge, but I’m going to end up being the one in control. It’s the only way out.
“So what’s in the safe-deposit box?” I ask. “It’s either good enough to pair up with that genius in
the red cap in there”—another twitch of his mouth—“or you’re desperate enough to go with the worst of the worst of our criminal element. And I don’t mean that in a good way.”
“I think it’s time you stopped talking.”
“I’ve been in the basement before,” I say, pushing it. I need to seed my path for the thorns to grow. “If I were you, I’d trade the best hostage you’ve got for a welding kit and start melting off those bars. Pry open whatever box you’re looking for. Then you’ll be good. Well. Better.”
“Let me guess: The best hostage is you,” he sneers.
“God, no,” I say, and it’s the total truth when I continue. “I’m worth something. That’s why you shouldn’t shoot me. Your best hostage is the kid.” Another truth, but not in the way he thinks. “She’s all tiny and scared and stuff. If you trade her for the welding equipment, the sheriff will think you’re cooperating, and he’ll give you what you want because they figure you can’t get out of here. It buys them time for SWAT to show up because they’ve got maybe six guys out there: Budget cuts have totally gutted the sheriff’s department.”
“Keeping track of local law enforcement?”
“Aren’t you?” Another incredulous, snotty look. He’s going to want to put me in my place. Just one more push.
But before I can goad him any more, his eyes flick over my shoulder and I tense up. Footsteps. Red Cap is back.
“The girl in the dress is saying she’ll throw up on me if I don’t tell her what’s going on,” he complains to Gray Cap. “She keeps heaving. I think she’s gonna do it.”
Iris Moulton is a goddamn gift to the world, let me tell you. She totally will do it.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I have a thing about vomit!” he protests.
“Get back to watching them!” Gray Cap snaps, but then he lets out a frustrated breath and tucks his gun away and grabs my arm. I trot after him so he doesn’t drag me again, because he’s got six inches on me, plus the kind of muscle and personality you get when you’re ’roiding. He snarls something at Red Cap as he yanks me past. I think it’s Fucking moron, but I’m focused on him and his threadbare control.
Gray Cap’s used to being a lone wolf.
They’re dangerous, lone wolves. They’ll chew off a whole leg to get free of a trap. I see that in Gray Cap, that Don’t give a fuck, I’ll do whatever it takes kind of gleam that’s never good unless applied to a do-or-die situation. Except in this case, it’s his doing and me and my friends dying, so we’re fucked unless the seeds I planted blossom into sharp thorns disguised as tempting flowers. You pluck one, the thorn stabs you right through. He drags the table blocking the door away while still holding on to me. But he doesn’t open the door. He turns back to me instead.
“No more helping,” he orders. “And maybe I won’t shoot you.”
“Fine.”
And then it happens. He looks me up and down, really taking me in. I don’t blink or falter even though my skin’s crawling and my heart clamors run like a bell. I just let him do it before he asks the question that tells me the seeds I’ve planted have taken root.
“Did you really do what they say you did?”
I wait a beat. A breath. You need to pick your moment. My smile, when it comes, is slow. Sweet at first, and then on the edge of creepy, because it sharpens into something that shouldn’t belong on such a pretty girl’s face. He’s transfixed, and his fingers tighten on my arm involuntarily. A few more seconds and he’ll have goose bumps prickling across his skin.
I am that good. Or maybe I’m that dangerous.
“No,” I say. “I did more.”
— 24 —
The Myth vs. the Girl
This is what the regular world knows about Ashley Keane: She’s a phantom. A blacked-out name on a lot of FBI files and a few legal briefs. She’s a question mark that never got answered during the trials. Was there a daughter? Was she just a rumor? Another of my mother’s lies? Did Ashley really exist? Did she do what they say she did?
There are websites dedicated to the mystery. Sightings. Discussions. Sketches of what she might have looked like then, who she might have aged into. So many theories, none of them even close to right.
My mother kept her mouth shut about me, the deal that Lee had made with the FBI cut us free and stealthy in all ways, and Raymond?
Raymond didn’t want the FBI to know what I’d done. He didn’t want anyone looking for me unless they were looking for me for him. Because Raymond had a new mission in his new life behind bars: Get free so he could find me and kill me.
This is what the criminal world knows about Ashley Keane: She’s a snitch. A pretty little piece of jailbait turned deadly. A femme fatale, blond and sparkling and pink-lipped, who gutted Raymond Keane’s operation with one beckon of her preteen finger. They sexualize her, all the men who talk and search for her. Otherwise, she scares them, because she did what they would never have the nerve to do.
Ashley Keane has a price on her head—and dear old stepdad will pay practically anything for that head. I’m not even sure he cares if it’s attached to my body at this point. I know he’d prefer it, but so far—and for a lot longer than Raymond imagined—I’ve eluded the men who search for Ashley. So I’ve become an obsession: Raymond Keane needs to get the better of the girl who got the better of him.
This is what I know about Ashley Keane: She was twelve. She was scared. She was backed into a corner. And she did whatever it took to survive.
But there were consequences. And they might just kill me yet.
— 25 —
10:58 a.m. (106 minutes captive)
1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys
Plan #1: Scrapped
Plan #2: In progress
“What did he do to you?” Iris asks when I step back inside the office and the door swings shut. I hold out my hand and we wait a moment, the scrape of the table starting and then stopping as we’re blocked in again.
“Are you okay?” Iris asks, and at the same time, Wes says, “What did you do?”
Two very different questions, from two very different people, directed at two very different girls. Wes knows the real one. Iris is about to.
My heart rattles in my rib cage at the thought. At the memory of how Wes reacted when he found out.
“You okay, Casey?” I ask, partly to distract myself from the inevitable.
She’s sitting in the corner, her knees drawn up. She nods.
“Just hang tight. It’s almost over.”
Wes sucks in a breath. “What did you do?” he asks again, all intense and frowny. He is going to hate this, but I couldn’t think of any other way.
“I made myself the most valuable thing in this bank.”
He stiffens. He practically rears back from me. “You didn’t.”
“I had to.”
“You told him?”
“He’s been inside. He knows what she’s worth. So I showed him proof.”
Iris watches us back and forth like we’re in a tennis match, but Wes only has eyes for me.
“What else was I supposed to do?” I ask him, because I don’t know. I have no weapons but the truth here. I am not careful blond perfection anymore. I do not look sweet or shy like the girls I played at being. And Ashley . . . She started out small. She started out sweet. She started out another stereotype of a perfect daughter. But she’s morphed into legend in the dreck. Into the stuff of certain men’s nightmares.
“I don’t know what you were supposed to do,” Wes says. “But even I know exposing your secret identity is a bad idea.”
“He is five seconds away from shooting someone,” I say in a hissed whisper so Casey won’t hear. “I had to throw something out there. I didn’t have anything else.”
“Can you two please stop the best-friend doublespeak
and tell me what’s going on?” Iris says.
“Fuck.” It’s Wes, not me, that says it, even though I’m feeling it. He rubs at his forehead like he’s the one who’s about to spill his deepest, darkest secrets out on the floor.
“Are you in witness protection? Is that what this is about?” Iris asks.
Wes lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and I glare at him. I know why he’s laughing.
He asked me the same exact thing.
“You are not helping,” I tell him.
“Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s your story.”
The thing is, it is my story. But it’s partly his story now, too. Because I loved him. Because I still love him, just differently. Because Lee and I made him family in a way we were never supposed to. Because I didn’t just tell him the truth, I embroiled him in it.
I look at Iris, and there she is and there I am, and I wanted this to be easier. Wes found out when chaos reigned around us and the sun shone red in the sky from wildfire smoke like some kind of sick warning. He found out, and we yelled and we cried and we broke into so many pieces, it took months to put us back together into Franken-friends.
I had wanted to tell Iris in a way that was the opposite of Wes finding out. I had dreamed of peace and quiet and no blood-red sun screaming run at me. I wanted to have found the right words and practiced them. I didn’t want any more tears. I am so sick of crying over them . . . those girls and what happened to each of them. My mother and what she dragged me into . . . and how I clawed my way out.
But it was never going to be easy, and now it’s here and it’s in the middle of a bank robbery, because of course it is. So here we go. Buckle up, Nora.
“My mother is a con artist,” I say. Short, fact-based sentences. Stick to them. Maybe my voice won’t shake then. “She runs a sweetheart con. Her own spin on it. She targets men who won’t go to the police because their businesses are already shady . . . and so are they.”