You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

The sound of his voice as the three men closed in around me—the blazing relief to know I wasn’t alone.

  His hands on my face. Goose bumps rising under my touch.

  There’s a long silence. We’ve both revealed too much.

  He hangs his head. “I’m going to show you that you can trust me, for real this time.”

  “Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “You know why.” He gives me a look that could start a forest fire.

  We are barely two feet apart. If I touched him now, he wouldn’t pull away. I could kiss him. Pull him onto that sad, lumpy couch and work out all our twisted, furious need with my skin pressed to his. My blood rushes hot to my cheeks, and I know my face must be glowing red as my hair.

  “So what did you get?” I force myself to ask.

  He grabs a manila envelope off one of his barren bookshelves and pulls out a stack of papers. “This is what Boyd gave me.” He steps close. Too close, but I don’t move. “I haven’t looked at them yet.”

  The words don’t make sense. I force myself to stare at the papers in his hands so that I don’t have to see the tender, hungry way he’s looking at me.

  “This stuff is from your sister,” I say. “You nearly got me killed to get it, and you didn’t look?”

  His voice is so low, it’s more of a vibration than a sound. “I waited for you.”

  Don’t ask. Whatever you do, don’t ask. “Why?”

  “I was terrified when I realized you weren’t sitting at that table.” He reaches up, and seconds turn to hours in the time it takes him to graze his thumb along the edge of my bandage. I squeeze my eyes shut. “This is my fault. I kept trying to open the envelope yesterday, but I felt sick every time I looked at it. If you hadn’t broken down my door this morning, I would’ve come and found you. Swear.”

  I jerk away from him. “Don’t. Don’t promise me anything anymore.”

  He steps back a little. Enough that I can breathe. The pain I glimpsed earlier is back, but this time he doesn’t try to hide it.

  “What do you have?” I crane my head to read the documents he’s holding.

  He flips through the pages. Government forms, from the look of it. The title on the first page reads, SCHEDULE A (FEC FORM 3X) ITEMIZED RECEIPTS. A box at the top says NAME OF COMMITTEE. Underneath, someone typed PROGRESS TOGETHER USA. The rest of the page has a long list of similar entries. Some of them have the names of actual people, but most are corporations and businesses. Each one has a dollar amount next to it anywhere from $5,000 to $150,000.

  “What’s Progress Together USA?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “How do you know this stuff is really from your sister?” It seems awfully convenient, a stack of documents showing up right around the time that Boyd needs something from Valentine.

  “Thought about it,” he admits, “but it fits. FEC is the Federal Election Commission. That’s the sort of thing Annie was working on before she was killed.”

  That’s the thing about people who want to exploit you, though. They figure out what you want to believe, and they give it to you.

  We don’t need to get into that now.

  He keeps flipping through the pages. Most of them are pretty similar to the first, until we find one halfway through the pile that looks different from the others. It’s some kind of internal memo on Progress Together letterhead. There’s a note about a contribution made by EVAH LLC. The corporation donated $100,000, with the stipulation that the money go toward political ads and policy research for Congressman James Dorsey.

  Acid pools in my stomach at the sight of his name. The papers rustle as Valentine’s hands shake.

  There are a few more memos, all with the same kind of information. Dorsey isn’t the only politician listed. Valentine gets to the bottom of the stack, but there’s nothing else there. No note. No letter. He stares and stares at the last page, but no message from Annabelle appears.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He sniffs once. “Yeah.” In brisk, economical movements he shuffles the papers back together and hands them to me. “I want you to take these.”

  “What?” After what he did to get this stuff, he’s just going to hand it over?

  “The mistake I made wasn’t bringing you to the Basement—it was keeping the plan a secret. If I’d told you what Boyd wanted, we could have run the play together.”

  I stare at the sagging, grimy cushions on his couch. There’s a yellowish stain by the seam. He knows I want to believe him, but I can’t give in this time.

  Valentine continues. “Been alone for a while now. Guess I forgot how the whole team thing works. Take this stuff. Find out what you can. It might be what we need to bring Dorsey down.” He presses the papers into my hand. His fingers close over mine. “Flora, I’m going to keep on trusting you until you trust me back again.”

  Gramps is passing through the front hall when I get home. He freezes when he sees me.

  I wish that didn’t hurt so much. With Mom, I got used to it eventually. But Gramps has never been afraid of me before.

  I can see it in his eyes now. The way they zero in on the papers Valentine gave me. I still have the stack clutched to my chest. His gaze travels up to my face and lands on my bandage.

  I could ask him about the documents. I have no doubt he could figure out what this stuff means, or at least point me in the right direction. I could tell him something, open up a little bit, show him that I do trust him. That he’s one of the people I trust most in this world.

  But two nights ago, he demanded I end my investigation. He hasn’t said anything about it since, hasn’t spoken to me at all, and I have no idea where we stand.

  He walks back into the kitchen.

  I bring the papers up to my room.

  I don’t ask for help.

  The Google search on my computer screen goes blurry. My eyes ache as I scroll down the list of hits for EVAH LLC. I let them fall closed. One second of rest, and then I’ll keep moving. The clacking of computer keys and Olive’s and Cass’s slow, focused breaths almost lull me to sleep. I force my eyes open and keep scrolling.

  The three of us are sprawled across my bed, armed with laptops and notebooks, trying to make sense of the documents Valentine gave me yesterday.

  “So here’s what I have,” Olive says. “Progress Together is a pretty well-known super PAC. They support moderate Democrats in both the Senate and House.”

  “And Dorsey is one of them?” I ask.

  Olive’s hunched over her laptop. Her face is inches from the screen. “As far as I can tell. I know for sure they’ve paid for a bunch of his ads, which would be pretty expensive, but it’s hard to track how much they’ve spent.”

  I wait for an explanation, but she keeps typing.

  I nudge her ankle with my foot. “What do you mean? Don’t campaigns have to disclose this stuff?”

  “Oh, honestly,” Cass says. “Don’t you read the news?”

  This is why I hate research. Now that Olive’s involved, too, it’s doubly annoying.

  I throw my pen at Cass. She ducks. “Look, I get it. Both of you are smarter than me. Less condescension, more information, please.”

  “Super PACs are kind of a loophole in the system.” Olive shifts sideways to face me, jostling the plate of half-eaten cookies between us. “They can raise as much money as they want, but they’re not allowed to just hand it over to the campaign. They can pay for stuff like ads or research, but they’re not supposed to work with the campaigns on any of it.”

  Cass adds, “They all find ways around that, though. Like, a campaign aide suddenly quits and opens a super PAC, so they already know everything the candidate wants. This is kind of a big deal right now.” She tosses my pen back at me.

  Dear God. Researching campaign finance law has got to be one of the most boring ways to spend a Sunday.

  “Why do we care about any of this?”

  “We need to trace these donations so we can f
igure out where Dorsey’s money is coming from, but super PACs make that difficult.” Olive pulls out one of the papers Valentine gave me. “This is a disclosure form, where they’re supposed to report all their donors. So, theoretically you can’t pretend to be some super-progressive candidate who’s all about taxing the rich and then take donations from Wall Street, because these forms are public. Anyone could look that up. But”—she points to one of the EVAH LLC contributions on the list—“if the donor sets up an LLC with a vague name, then it’s way harder to trace where the money actually came from.”

  “This is how politicians get away with doing illegal financial shit,” Cass says. “If Dorsey were laundering money from a teen fight club into his campaign funds, this is how he would do it.”

  “But isn’t the LLC registered somewhere?” I ask. “Doesn’t someone have to have their name behind it?”

  “We still have to figure that out,” Olive agrees.

  If Dorsey was tied up in dirty political money, it makes sense that he’d want to kill Valentine’s sister to keep it quiet, but I still don’t know what that has to do with Ava. What went wrong between her and Dorsey? I thought maybe it was about Molly, but she got hurt months ago. Why would Dorsey wait to kill Ava now?

  I climb over the tangle of papers and limbs to get off the bed. “My brain hurts. I need coffee. Anyone else?”

  “Yes, definitely.” Cass doesn’t look up from her computer.

  “And more cookies!” Olive hands me the crumby plate.

  Downstairs, I’m stacking some of my grandfather’s salty chocolate chip cookies on a fresh plate when I hear the sound of our mail slot opening in the front hall.

  My hands go clammy. One of them is still clutching a cookie. The chocolate turns greasy in my grip.

  It’s Sunday. This time, I know for sure it’s not the mail.

  Once again, a manila envelope is waiting for me in the front hall. I peer out the window onto the street but, just like last time, there’s no one there. The weeklong migraine I’ve been nursing rears its spiked head.

  This is not worth freaking out over. They’re only pictures. Creepy, but it’s not like I don’t already know I’m in the crosshairs.

  I reach inside and pull them out.

  My heart stops.

  My grandfather baking in the kitchen, framed by the glass French doors. The photographer must have been in our backyard.

  Cass at a traffic light. Her mouth is open like she’s singing along to the radio.

  Olive leaving ballet practice in Mrs. Temple’s car pool. She’s staring out the window of the van, looking off into space.

  Valentine and me leaving campus. Taken last week, when we went to the crime scene. He’s laughing, and I’m looking up at the sky like I’m begging the universe for patience.

  On autopilot, I walk back to the kitchen. The mug of coffee I poured is sitting on the counter. I take a sip, burn my tongue, and stare at the top photo in the stack. The one of Cass. Another scalding sip, eyes on the photo.

  I flip through the pictures again. Gramps. Olive. Valentine. Cass.

  It shouldn’t come as a surprise. People are getting hurt. I got hurt. Whoever’s watching me isn’t going to stop until I drop the case. It was only a matter of time before they came for the people I love. I should have expected it.

  But I didn’t.

  I shuffle through the stack once more, but I’m not really seeing anything.

  Cass and Olive’s mingled laughter drifts down the stairs. Moments ago, I sat between the two of them on my bed. My two sisters. I felt almost safe.

  What would happen if I stopped? What if I went upstairs right now and told Cass and Olive to stop what they were doing? Would we be safe then? And what about Austin, or Damian, or any of the other kids who have their own sad, desperate reasons for getting involved with the Basement?

  I should tell them. Cass and Olive should know that they’re in danger. They should be allowed to choose for themselves.

  Cass is going to be furious with me, but I have to tell them.

  I grab my backpack off the coat hook. The first batch of pictures is still smashed in the bottom somewhere. I slide the new ones in there, too, then bring the bag and our snacks up the stairs.

  I pause with my hand on my bedroom door. This is going to scare them, and I hate that.

  Cass is on the phone when I enter the room. “Uh-uh. Oh, s-sure.” She traces circles on the floor with her toe. Two bright pink spots rise on her cheeks.

  I shoot a questioning look at Olive, who grins and stage-whispers, “It’s a boy.”

  Of course. Only Elliot can make Cass look like such a fluffy bunny.

  Cass ignores us. “Definitely. I, um, actually wrote a song myself. I want to hear what you think.” She gnaws her lip as she listens to his reply. “Me, too. Five thirty? I can do that. I’ll see you then.” She hangs up.

  “Date?” Olive asks.

  Cass hugs herself. She’s still very pink. “No, Elliot wants to meet up to talk about some new songs.”

  “So the rest of the band will be there, too?” Olive’s face is pure innocence.

  “No,” Cass admits. Olive and I trade looks, and Cass stomps her foot. “Stop it, both of you. Not another word. You”—she points at Olive—“are an infant and know nothing. And you”—she points at me—“have the most problematic love life of anyone I know. You don’t get to have opinions on this.” A giddy smile tugs at Cass’s mouth.

  The second I pull those pictures out of my bag, that smile will vanish.

  I force myself to play along, pressing a mock-wounded hand to my chest. “Uncalled for! Olive’s the one who said the d-word.”

  “You mean date?” Olive singsongs.

  Cass covers her face with her hands and screams.

  She looks so happy. Seeing her like this makes that ever-present pressure in my chest ease.

  Last year, Cass dated Leo Todd for almost seven months before breaking up with him out of the blue in April. She claimed he “got boring” and never wanted to talk about it, but I’m reasonably certain that was just Cass code for My boyfriend actually wanted to spend time with me, but I was always too busy taking care of Flora, and I got sick of arguing with him about it.

  She and Olive continue to bicker about her not-a-date, and that transitions into what Cass will wear. Like sisters. This is my family, in this room right now.

  I will tell them. Soon. Maybe tonight, once Cass gets home from her date, or tomorrow morning. I take up so much space in her life. Every time she tries to have something good, even for one night, she ends up having to drop everything and rescue me anyway.

  I leave the backpack by the door. I can let them be happy a little while longer before I ruin it like I always do.

  Cass gives me a funny look as I hand her a mug. “You okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  Cass’s concern deepens. “Your face is all weird.”

  I point to the bandage. “Scar Face. Makes me look way more screwed up.”

  “Who knew that was possible?” Olive mutters, and Cass laughs. The sound makes the barbed wire around my chest loosen a bit.

  Olive says, “While you were downstairs, I found something on the LLC front.” She turns her computer screen toward us. It’s a Google search: how to set up an anonymous LLC.

  Cass reads down the page. “Why is Delaware mentioned so many times?”

  Olive’s face is lit with the same excitement I feel when I get a new lead. “Because Delaware is the easiest place in the world to set up an LLC. There are entire companies that only exist to register corporations under their name. You own the business, but your name doesn’t appear on any public records. They call them ghost companies.”

  “Okay, but we don’t live in Delaware,” I point out.

  “It doesn’t matter. Look.” She clicks on one page, InstaLLC. “We can set up a ghost corporation on the internet. It costs about two hundred dollars, and we never need to set foot in the state or talk to anyone
on the phone. Wanna do it?” She gives me a mad-scientist smile.

  I roll my eyes. “Let’s save the sisterly bonding for later. How does this help us?”

  Olive’s smile fades. “Well, the whole point is to keep the real LLC owner private. It’s going to be hard to trace any of them to an actual person.” She deflates, and I recognize that, too. The glittering rush of discovery replaced with the flat gray of a dead end.

  “So we’re stuck.” I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. Those grainy photos are burned into the back of my eyelids. If we don’t solve this case soon, someone’s going to get hurt. One of them will get hurt.

  “Hey.” Cass pokes my knee. “It’s a good start.”

  It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Olive’s and Cass’s warm, familiar bodies on either side of me were comforting a few minutes ago, but now I’m claustrophobic. I jump off the bed and pace the room. Olive and Cass watch me with matching worry.

  “No,” I mutter. “Even if we figure it out, there will never be enough proof to arrest him.”

  “We’ve only been at it for a little while,” Cass reminds me, “and we already have a lot of information. We’ll keep digging.”

  I shake my head, more at myself than at her. We’re running out of time.

  Cass asks, “Do you want me to skip meeting Elliot? I could stay here and keep working on tracing the LLC.”

  “You might as well go. We’re not going to find anything.” The razor wire is constricting around my lungs again, and I can’t breathe.

  I don’t know if it’s all this complicated legal bullshit, or those photos, but this very moment it’s actually hitting me: we might fail.

  Dorsey might get away with this.

  “Hey.” Cass gets off the bed and grabs me by the shoulders. Her brown eyes are filled with conviction. “We’re not giving up. We will make him pay.”

  I wish I had that kind of faith in us. In me. But the whole world has been built to serve men like Dorsey. Like Matt Caine. I know exactly what happens when you try to tear a rigged system down.

  If I really want to end this, once and for all, I have to make use of every resource I have.