False Start

by Meli Raine

“And my father–Jane's father–Harry was part of the group of men who created Stateless?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the president of the United States is one of the founders of a deep-state program designed to create a shadow intelligence agency of trained sociopaths, raised from birth to be human weapons?”

  “Basically.”

  “I need a drink,” Silas mutters.

  “I need a horse tranquilizer,” Jane says.

  As they talk, all I can think about is what I need most:

  Lily.

  Chapter 12

  One month later

  Lily

  I feel like I’m back at square one. It’s been a month since they let me out of the hospital. Duff practically lives here at my parents’ house. Not really, but it feels like it. Mom and Dad are okay with it.

  If anyone understands, it’s them.

  We’re sitting on the sofa in the living room, Duff on one corner, me on the other. We're tentatively finding our way forward, but we're doing it in secret. When he's here at my house, in public, it's all business.

  My mom picks up the remote. “News?” she asks, Dad next to her on the loveseat across the room.

  I groan.

  “Are you sure you want to watch that, Bee?” Duff says, giving her a skeptical eyebrow lift.

  “I’m a masochist,” she jokes. “Just the thirty-minute local news is good enough.”

  The opening credits come on, and like trained mice, we all turn at once, our attention focused on the screen.

  “I’m sure whatever they have to say, you already know,” I whisper in his ear.

  He winks at me. “I’m not that important.”

  “Shh!” Mom says.

  An image of a small jet appears onscreen in the backdrop behind the newscaster. You know the minute that happens, there’s been a crash. A fatal one.

  “Three local families with ties to Washington died today in a plane crash over the Sierras. Miriam and Joseph Gainsborough, Astrid and Michael Asgarth, and Paul Maisri were all traveling along with a pilot in a single-engine Cessna. The three families had long been connected in the…”

  As his voice trails off, I turn and look slowly at Duff. He’s staring, transfixed, at the television screen. His pocket begins to vibrate.

  “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging in the pocket to find his phone.

  “I’m sure that’s Silas,” I say, sighing. This means he’ll have to leave.

  He looks at the glass screen. I’ve trained myself not to. I know how important privacy is for his work.

  To my surprise, he holds the phone up. Mom and Dad are just watching, unaware of the micro-drama unfolding on their own couch. I squint and adjust my glasses. I can’t read without them anymore. It’s a text, but it’s not from Silas. It’s from Drew.

  There were four of them. Now there’s one.

  That’s all it says.

  “No,” I whisper. “Not four. There were five. John, Blaine, Stellan -- their parents. President Bosworth. And… your dad.”

  Duff tenses.

  I feel bad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, Lily,” he says, his hand moving instinctively to touch me, then retreating.“You’re right.”

  “I don’t want to be right,” I say to him. “But I am.”

  He moves closer to me on the couch, still not touching. In a low voice, he says, “They’ve killed my father, they killed John, Stellan, and Blaine’s parents. They’ve killed Drew’s parents. Hell, they killed Mark Paulson’s parents. Alice. Monica’s dead, Romeo’s gone, Ralph and Justin... Who’s left?”

  “President Bosworth,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Who else?” he says. “Nolan Corning’s gone. Jesus! Even El Brujo. So many people are dead. But the ones who are alive are the ones that worry me.”

  A chill runs through me. “That meeting you had with President Bosworth. Do you think…? Are you sure…? I…” The words tangle in my mouth.

  He looks at me sharply. “Is something wrong? You’re losing your words.”

  “No, I’m not having a problem neurologically. I’m just struggling to figure out how to say what I need to say. Romeo told me about them,” I finally spit out.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He did.”

  “When?”

  “When he… you know, back at the… place.”

  “When he had you captive?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say about them?”

  “The same things you told me. He said that John Gainsborough, Stellan Asgarth, and Blaine Maisri were too old to be part of Stateless.”

  He cuts me off, again. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because I didn’t remember it until now.”

  Empathy fills the space between us. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I just—”

  “It’s a lot,” I say. A long, deep sigh, and then I add, “It’s a lot for everyone.”

  “What else do you know?”

  I take another deep breath and tell him. I tell him everything I remember, and then suddenly I’m crying, gut-wrenching sobs that take over. All of my nerve endings start to throb, pain shooting through me. The doctors say that emotional disregulation can set off the vagus nerve.

  “I want to remember more,” I choke out. “I can’t—I can’t stop. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” The repetition is a bad sign, I know, but I literally can’t stop.

  By now, Mom and Dad have turned, realizing something’s wrong. Duff puts his arms around me, holding up a hand to them. I got this, his body says.

  I got this.

  It's the closest to a public display of affection he's ever exhibited with me.

  “I'm so tired,” I whisper, safe in the cocoon of his arms.

  “What else did Romeo say?” Mom asks, suddenly on the other side of me, her hand warm and soothing.

  “Bee, maybe we should let Duff handle this,” Dad says from behind me, voice tight.

  “I hope Romeo is rotting in hell right now, Tom. What that man did to Lily, and to us. My God! Gwennie and that ride to school, and all the times he fooled me into thinking he cared. I could just–” She pauses and the newscaster’s voice fills the space again.

  “President Bosworth's press secretary told the press that at this time, he has no comment. The Gainsborough, Asgarth, and Maisri families were connected to the attack on Lindsay Bosworth six years ago, in a...”

  Dad turns off the television with a grunt. Exhaustion takes over, like a blanket someone throws over your head to confuse you before they kidnap you and take you somewhere foreign.

  “Romeo told me about them. He told me a lot of things,” I whisper.

  And then I fall asleep.

  Duff

  “You do not need to hold my arm. I am fine.” It's the day after Lily fell asleep on the couch with me holding her, the news of the plane crash killing John Gainsborough, Blaine Maisri, and Stellan Asgarth's parents seeming to hit her hard. The sun is out and she needs to walk.

  She needs to recover.

  “You're not fine. You tripped yesterday, and the doctor said any falls could be dangerous.” I hold her wrist, resisting the urge to scoop her into my arms and run away with her.

  “You can't wrap me in gauze, Sean, or put me in a bubble-wrap suit!”

  Her use of my real name still makes me jolt.

  “If I thought I'd get away with it, I would. You'd just drop to the ground to pop yourself, though.”

  She laughs. She doesn't want to, but she does.

  Because I'm right.

  The air feels good to breathe. She’s home now, home for good.

  That word has a different meaning now. Home. Until I fell for Lily, I never thought of myself as having a home. The apartment I keep across town was just a rented space, some landing station, a dump that Drew’s company rents for me. It doesn’t reflect who I am.

  Until I met Lily, I didn’t want to be an I. I didn
’t want to be a me. I wanted to fulfill my mission, and that meant being nondescript. But you can’t be in love and be blank at the same time. Doesn’t work that way.

  It shouldn’t work that way.

  “I don’t need round-the-clock security anymore,” she complains, shrugging off my fingers as I try to help her stay steady. She’s fine on her feet. I know that. She knows it, too.

  I’m the one who’s unstable. I need to touch her. If I don’t, I feel a little lost.

  “Your sense of sarcasm is certainly intact. That didn’t get injured.”

  “Ha ha.”

  But she goes quiet. We walk, the silence companionable. I’ve learned over the years to be quiet, and how to use silence as a weapon.

  Lily is teaching me how to use it as an expression of caring.

  Two black SUVs come roaring by us, her attention immediately diverted to them, holding her breath. They drive past, into the distance, a safe way off. She lets out a long sigh.

  “Want to talk about it?” I say, knowing that this is the right time.

  “No. Yes.” She sighs. “I don’t want to, but I have to.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  She reaches for my hand. “I know you do.”

  We walk. A little more silence. A little more healing. And then she says, “He shot a man’s head off. Romeo did. A man who was groping me. But he didn't do it to protect me. He did it because the guy got in his way. The man was like that spider you squished in my hospital room last year. Just a nuisance. But he shot him right above me, so it rained blood.”

  I’ve heard the words before, but never in quite that kind of detail. She told them to Silas, who filed a report. The idea of blood as rain is poetic, too lyrical for the topic. It ignites a fallout cloud of toxicity inside me, one I can't re-direct.

  I have to be here for her. I have to listen. I have to not react. Ironic, isn’t it? The more emotion I show, the more I take away her ability to process her own emotions.

  Blank-slate Duff it is.

  “He said he was using me as a lure to get you to come. So it was all a setup. The stupid guy looking for easy sex made it all more complicated, but what was Romeo going to do, Sean, once you got there?”

  “I don't know. We'll never know.”

  “Kill you, for sure. He wanted to kill us both. Eliminate anyone who knew.”

  I say nothing, but a sigh escapes me.

  She shakes her head. “All of that, and what he said about Wyatt. He told me he was alive. Sean, he told me he was there.”

  This time I’m the one who halts. “He said that?”

  She nods. “You told me once that Wyatt had a birthmark on his neck.”

  Ice water runs through me. “Yes.”

  “There was this… this man. I saw him. In the club. He looked like you, and… there was just the faintest shadow above his collar.”

  My fingernails dig into my palms as I tighten my fist. “You’ve never told me this before.”

  “I - I know. I’m sorry. Memories are coming back in little bursts. This one came to me in the shower this morning.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder to show her I’m not mad. “Go on.”

  “He didn’t do anything. I didn’t even talk to him. I just know he was with Romeo, and...” She lets out a whimper. “Do you think that could have been Wyatt?”

  “When did he tell you about Wyatt, Lily?”

  “Before you came.”

  Of course, I want to say. Of course it was before, because I killed him. Couldn't have been after.

  “He told me all about Stateless.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That in a world of Big Data, the only way to fight back is to be dataless. Stateless.”

  “And?”

  “And that they're creating an army.”

  “I know. He told me, too.”

  “When?”

  “Right before he killed himself.”

  “I thought guys like him were supposed to take their secrets to the grave.”

  “I guess he didn't think of it that way. Maybe he thought of it as my secret.”

  Her turn to sigh. We're almost back at her parents' house. She stops, facing me with so many questions I can't answer.

  Because I don't know the truth.

  “You're not going to stop, are you?”

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking for Wyatt.”

  “No, Lily. I'm not.”

  “I wouldn't, either. When Romeo had Gwennie, I did everything I could to make sure she was safe.”

  “I know you did.”

  “You're doing the same thing for Wyatt.”

  “No. Not the same thing at all.”

  “Yes,” she insists. “It's the same. You're not giving up.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You never give up.”

  “That's right.”

  Her fingertips lightly brush my cheek, one finger stroking my scars. “That's what I love about you.”

  I kiss her quickly, emotion too big to fit into words.

  Emotion too big to give her the answers she needs.

  Turns out, I need some answers, too.

  Except I can find most of my answers in her.

  Chapter 13

  Lily

  I’m tired of being cooped up here at my parents’ house. I know it’s the right place for me now, but I still resent it. Not Mom, who’s actually being great during this time of recovery. Certainly not Dad, who’s turned out to be a great binge-watching buddy. We’re catching up on so many shows that debuted when I was in college, or that we never had the time to watch together.

  Time stretches like that. Just like it inches forward, painfully, slowly, during stress and trauma. When you’re grateful, it’s funny how time expands. Dad never had time to sit with me and watch show after show of historical fiction or adventure or supernatural phenomena, but now he does.

  And now I do, too.

  “Lily, do you want more coffee?” Mom calls from the kitchen. I’m sitting in the living room, curled up on the sofa. My bones ache, but my nerves are regenerating. The doctors say that yet again I’ve exceeded all expectations when it comes to neurological functioning, like the last time I got out of the hospital. But this time they told me I’m not a cat with nine lives.

  Every part of who I am and how I live has to change.

  For the quieter.

  The better.

  The calmer.

  “Thanks, Mom! Are you making a fresh pot?” I call out.

  “Of course. Jane’s coming. I want to make sure she feels welcomed.”

  I look at the clock. It’s ten minutes to seven. Jane’s on her way, probably with an escort. I don’t have one anymore. Drew, Silas, and Sean all decided that the threat level to me is low enough to call off full-time coverage.

  At least, that’s what they said.

  I see the unmarked cars outside, further down the street. I’m not stupid. Sean tells me that I don’t need round-the-clock surveillance, but I know that’s a lie.

  It’s a lie that comes from love, though.

  That doesn’t mean I’m letting him get away with it.

  The scent of fresh-baked cookies tickles my nose. That’s enough to get my bones moving. I peel the blanket off my lap and stand. It takes a few seconds to let my blood pressure regulate.

  Dizziness can be controlled if I’m careful enough. Being aware of my body and time and space takes more effort than you would think, but the rewards are immeasurable. I spent so much of my life moving without thinking, and now I can’t think clearly if I move too fast.

  I find Mom sliding hot cookies off the sheet, shifting them onto a cooling rack. She looks up at me and smiles.

  “You look wonderful.” So much of her happy countenance is back. This is the Mom I knew before.

  Before.

  How many befores do I have now? Two? More? There was the time before I was shot. Which was before the time I spent hiding the truth of who sh
ot me. Which was before the time in the sex club.

  It all still seems like a weird dream, as if I’m going to wake up and sit down at the breakfast table with Gwennie, Bowie, Dad, and Mom and know nothing about the last two years.

  Imagine if I’d never met Sean. Never met Jane. Never, ever been embroiled in this whole mess. What if Romeo had succeeded in shooting Jane and not me? What if he had killed me? What if he had killed Jane?

  I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the what ifs. I don’t tell Sean this. It feels like it’s mine, a burden that I need to keep to myself. He has enough to worry about, because he worries about me.

  The doorbell makes me jump. I should have expected it, but my system still can’t integrate information the way that it used to.

  I go to the door and open it to find a smiling Jane standing there, holding, of all things, a flower arrangement.

  “Here,” she says, thrusting it toward me. A giant unicorn with purple ribbons stands tall at the crown.

  “What’s this?”

  “For you.”

  “This looks like something you would give to Kelly, your niece.”

  “Which is exactly why I brought it for you,” she says, coming in and giving me a half hug. Her brow turns down. “Plus, I’ll bet nobody ever brings flowers to the florist. Do you need me to carry it into the kitchen for you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She nods. “Sorry.”

  “Jane!” Mom appears magically, taking the flower arrangement out of my hands and giving Jane a big grin. “Oh, this is beautiful! For Lily? Thank you so much!” She disappears, calling back, “No one ever thinks to give a florist flowers!”

  Snickers follow, a communal feeling I enjoy.

  We follow the scent of the chocolate chip cookies. Jane looks around. “Your house is so normal.”

  “It isn’t a giant, expansive ranch in Texas.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just…” She sighs. “It’s homey.”

  She's right. It is.

  The sound of footsteps thumps down the stairs, and suddenly Gwennie appears. “Do I smell chocolate chip cookies?” she says, silver flashing as the light glints on her braces. As usual, her hair is pulled back in a thick ponytail. Her big, magenta-framed glasses make her eyes seem like an owl’s gaze.