by Anna Carey
It’s a different guy, this one in a black dress shirt and slacks. Bald, sunglasses. He scans the street. It’s only after a minute or two that the man from the train comes up the block, approaching from the other side. The three of them meet there on the corner. The man in sunglasses gestures with his hands, and the woman shows them both her phone.
Suddenly it’s clear that this isn’t just a hunter and a Stager, or a person sent by AAE to kill you . . . this is something different. Something bigger. Another man, this one younger, has stopped to talk to them. He takes out his phone, too. There are four of them now.
You reach your hand into the pocket of your jeans, feeling the burner cell. If they know that Goss is in prison, they must know that you were the one who put him there. They might suspect you’ve tried to expose them. You think of the way Rafe ran right past the woman, how she saw him and kept going, choosing to close in on you. He would’ve been the easier target. She could’ve followed him into the park. She could’ve had the kill all to herself.
You stare down at the group on the sidewalk as they disperse. They’re each scanning the crowd, watching the passing faces of strangers, checking the front windows of stores and restaurants. They haven’t stopped looking for you.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEN STARES OUT the window of the town car. He can’t see much from the 105, just the concrete Metrolink track above, and the other freeways in the distance, circling in on one another. The sun is blotted out by smog.
“We’re going to the airport?” Ben asks. The driver is a gaunt middle-aged man. He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t said anything since they left the house.
“It’s not like it’s that hard to figure out,” Ben says. “The 110 South, the 105 West. You’re taking me to LAX.”
No response.
He was told to pack a bag for three days. That was the only thing that made Ben feel better when the man showed up at seven this morning. They wouldn’t ask him to pack a bag if they were going to kill him.
At least, he didn’t think so.
He knew it was only going to be a matter of time before AAE showed up. As soon as Sunny left he was just waiting to see how they were going to deal with him. The contact at AAE had called him twice to ask where she was. Had he heard from her? Where was she when he last saw her? Ben had told them the truth, as much as he could tell—that she had come by his house. She’d seemed worried, preoccupied. He hadn’t heard from her since.
The driver takes the Sepulveda exit. Ben almost comments on it, but decides not to. The only question now is where they’re flying him. For a brief second, he considers the possibility they’re bringing him somewhere for a hunt . . . that they might use him as another target. He wipes his palms on the front of his jeans. His hand is still sore from where Sunny slammed it in the door.
The car makes a U-turn, passing the airport, and instead pulls into the In-N-Out. A teenager in a white hat and red apron takes orders from a line of cars snaking all the way to the street. The driver chooses a space at the end of the parking lot, next to a silver BMW. Ben checks for the license plate but there is none. Just a small black piece of paper that reads Glendale BMW.
A man gets out of the Beamer and pulls open the back door, sliding in next to Ben on the leather seat. A blast of hot air comes in with him. It’s early October, but the day is scorching, almost one hundred and five degrees. When Ben looks at him there’s a vague sense of recognition. The man is older now—thinning white hair and an extra ten pounds that can be seen in his face and neck, but Ben has met him before. He was a friend of Ben’s father.
“Benjamin,” he says, “I haven’t seen you since you were ten. You were flying a remote-control helicopter in the backyard.”
He puts his hand out for Ben to shake. “Isaac.”
Ben remembers that helicopter. He can almost see Isaac sitting there with his parents in the kitchen that day. He reaches over and takes his hand, hating him already. What does he want? What will he have to do for them now?
“That girl you were watching for AAE,” he says. “We’re concerned about her. She’s disappeared and I think they told you—she’s the niece of one of the executives.”
Ben knows the story. It’s what they said when they first asked him to get to know her. He also knows that it’s a lie. “Yeah, Sunny. We became friends.”
“Sunny?” Isaac says. “Is that what she’s going by now?”
He’s wearing a suit despite the heat. He withdraws his iPhone from the front pocket of his jacket. He pulls up a picture and hands it to Ben.
It’s her, in profile. She’s turning away from the camera, staring at something to the left, unaware of the person taking the picture. Her long black hair is braided to the side, covering her scar. “That’s Sunny . . . yeah.”
“She was seen in New York this morning. We need to find her as soon as possible. Or, I should say—we want you to find her.”
“Me?”
“She knows you, and we think you might have a better chance of talking to her. She was seen on the Upper West Side. We can send you text updates letting you know if she’s seen anywhere—we have a few people on the ground that are looking for her. We’ll give you a few days. Let us know as soon as you establish contact.”
Isaac reaches into his suit pocket and takes out the ticket. It has Ben’s name on it. First class. LAX to JFK. Arriving at 6:12 P.M. Isaac also hands him a stack of hundred-dollar bills and a card with a phone number on it. “Keep your phone on.”
Then he slides out of the car. He leans down, staring at Ben. “I always liked you,” he says. “So let me give you a piece of advice. Do whatever AAE asks you to do, no questions. Understand?”
Ben nods, but Isaac has already slammed the door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
YOU STAY IN the shadow of the buildings, your hat pulled low so it covers your eyes. You’ve just stolen an outfit from Forever 21—a simple black sweater and jeans—and traded your backpack for a beige one that cinches at the top, the rope strap slung over one shoulder.
There’s no easy way to get back to Rafe. It’s too dangerous to look for him at the basketball courts, especially now that you know multiple hunters are after you. It was stupid not to have a meeting point.
The four hunters circled the block for two hours before two headed north and the others checked the alleys around the building. No one thought to simply look up. You stayed on the roof until it was dark, until you felt safe enough to come down. You’ve been searching the streets for Rafe ever since but it’s impossible in this city.
You double your pace. The building is just another street up. You’re afraid that if you go to an Internet café, AAE would be able to track your IP address. The library is anonymous, safer. The library is hard to miss, just as a woman on the street described to you. Fifth Avenue. Two stone lions in front. It’s practically the whole block. The park behind the large stone building is crowded, the lawn layered with picnic blankets and chairs, families and couples. You bound up the marble steps. A guard at the entrance raises his hand as you pass. “Your backpack . . .”
You swing it around to your front, concealing the small pocket that hides your knife. The mace is gone. The cash is tucked in the front of your pants, but it’s still hard to watch him rifle through your stuff, his hands on your one spare T-shirt, your blanket, the dress and scarf you wore on the train.
When he’s done he pats the side of your bag. “We’re a half hour from closing.”
“I only need fifteen minutes.” You push past him and into the front hall, keeping your face down to avoid the security cameras as you head for the left staircase. The place is massive. It looks more like a museum than a library. High marble ceilings, stone arches, and carved wood paneling. The stairs keep going, one flight opening to a gallery, another to a long corridor with a few smaller rooms off it. It takes a while to find the computers on the third floor.
Rose Main Reading Room. Every wall is polished wood, giant carved panels more
than forty feet high. Chandeliers drop from a painted ceiling. Beneath them is row after row of wooden tables and chairs. Even though the library is closing, there are dozens of people still at the computers. You sit down at the first open one you can find.
It’s been over twenty-four hours since you saw Rafe. He said he’d found Connor’s original post on Craigslist, so it’s possible he’ll think to check it again. You go to the site, put up a personal ad titled You Sat Across From Me on the Train under Missed Connections. You mention you like taking your dog to Washington Square Park, a place you passed yesterday on your way downtown. The neighborhood seems busy enough that you could stay in the area for a few days, hiding out, waiting for Rafe to show.
“Fifteen minutes until closing. Please take any last items to the front desk for checkout,” a clerk announces from the far end of the room. The two girls beside you slide their MacBooks into their purses, mentioning something about a dance at Trinity. They are making fun of a girl named Versailles as they leave.
You’ve posted the ad for Rafe. There’s only one other thing to do now. . . .
You watch the blinking cursor, willing yourself to type. Your hands hover over the keyboard, uncertain. You want to know if your brother is out there, alive and okay. But what if AAE has found him? Would they use him to draw you out? Could searching for him put him in danger, if he isn’t already?
The clerk near the door calls out again, tells everyone they’re shutting down the computers. You don’t think. You just type. Chris Marcus and Lena Marcus. There are millions of results, none of them familiar. You try Chris Marcus, Lena Marcus, Missing, Cabazon. You find it. One click and you’ve landed on a very basic page, with just a few lines of text and a photograph.
LENA MARCUS HAS BEEN MISSING SINCE 5/8/2014.
You can’t stop staring at the picture. You look younger—fourteen, fifteen. Your hair is done in tight curls, pinned to the top of your head. You’re wearing a sparkly blue dress. You’re smiling, the person beside you cropped from the frame. It’s strange to see yourself so happy.
You stare at the email address at the bottom, the handle ChrisMarcus. It would be so easy to write to him and let him know where you are. All this time he’s been waiting for you to contact him, to come back.
But reaching out would mean putting him at risk. If they haven’t found the site already, they will soon. Part of you wishes that Rafe had never told you your real name. In some ways, not knowing was easier.
You’re closing out of the screens when someone comes up behind you. You turn as you feel a hand on your shoulder. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair is a mess, the dark curls spilling onto his forehead. It takes you a moment to recognize him.
Ben.
“Don’t touch me,” you say as he sits down beside you. “I’ll scream.”
“You won’t.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “I need to talk to you, Sunny. Somewhere private.”
You can’t tell if he has a gun. His shirt is too loose to see the back of his belt. You still have time to get out. Even if he comes after you, he’d have to kill you here in the main hall, where anyone could see.
You stand, pushing back your chair. The clerk at the other end of the room is busy turning off the computers. Ten feet away a couple packs up their books. You start toward the door as fast as you can, not quite running. You swing down the stairs, but there’s a long line of people waiting to leave. You’re trapped. He tugs your pack from behind.
There’s no good way to defend yourself, and you back into an alcove at the top of the stairs. Ben follows you. You try to hit him but he catches your wrist and holds you to him. Suddenly he’s inches from your face and his gray eyes meet yours.
“Sunny, stop—I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Bullshit.”
With your free arm, you hit him across the face as hard as you can. He staggers back, stunned. You take those few seconds to twist free and head back toward the stairs.
“Wait—look.” He lifts the edge of his sweatshirt to show he’s not armed. “You can’t go,” he says. “There’s a hunter less than a block away. She’s looking for you.”
You keep going, taking another step down the stairs. “And you’re here to help her.”
“I’m here to help you.” Ben pushes his hair out of his face, his gaze unsteady. “Sunny . . . I love you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HE’S HALF LIT from the light on the stairs. Those eyes, those thick, full lips. The freckled skin you ran your fingertips across, tracing the lines of his face.
“We can’t talk here,” he repeats, glancing at a security guard walking past. “Please . . .”
“You have one minute, then I’m gone.”
“Just say where.”
The announcement repeats. Five minutes until closing. You head to the bottom of the staircase, aware that he’s right behind you, aware of the risk you’re taking. A sign to the left reads RESTROOMS DOWNSTAIRS. You slip past a cluster of middle schoolers and disappear into the bottom floor of the library. There are no guards. No other patrons.
You don’t say anything until you pull the knife from your pack, keeping it at your side, ready.
Ben holds up both his hands. “Relax . . . I’m not going to do anything.”
“Don’t tell me to relax. You lied to me—every moment I was in your house I was in danger.”
“If I wanted to give you up to them, don’t you think I’d have done it already?” Ben says.
“What do you want, then? You just came to New York to say hi?”
You wish there were an easier way to know what he’s really here for. It’s impossible to believe anything he says. How long would he have kept AAE a secret from you? Was he really going to leave with you that day? How long could he possibly keep pretending he was just trying to help?
Ben rubs his cheek where you hit him, his gaze settling on the ground. “I’m here because they sent me. I’m supposed to help find you. They think I’m still working for them. I haven’t told them that I’m with you right now.”
“That’s big of you, Ben,” you say. “Very generous.”
“You need an explanation.” Ben pushes his hair out of his face with both hands. “I know I owe you that. But I had no idea what this was all about until it was too late.”
“Then where is it? The explanation.”
It takes a minute before his eyes meet yours. “My dad ran the finances for AAE. Artemis & Acteon Enterprises, that’s what they’re called. I seriously had no idea about it growing up. But after he died, we found out he’d been skimming money off the top. My mom couldn’t deal. At the time we both believed they were this legit company, and that they were going to sue us and take our house. Everything started coming apart.”
He pauses, takes a long, slow breath. “That’s when they made me the offer. They said I’d work for them for a year and it would be done. And yeah, maybe that was stupid of me to think that I could fix things, or I could stop my mom from destroying herself . . . but I tried.”
It’s so tempting to believe him. He’s watching you, his gray eyes hesitant, pleading.
“What did they ask you to do?” you say.
“Just spend time with you,” he says. “That’s all. ‘Hang out with this girl.’ And then they called me a couple times and wanted to know how you were. One of the guys who hired me—he said his name was William—he pretended you were the niece of one of the higher-ups and you were in trouble. They just wanted to know you were okay.”
“You thought a legit company would ask you to pay off a debt by hanging out with a girl? You didn’t think there was anything a little odd about that?”
Ben shrugs, and his mouth is a thin, uncertain line. “I wanted to believe it was as simple as that. I wanted it to be over. What was my other option? Go to the cops, tell them my dad had been stealing from a company and I thought they should know? I’m sorry, Sunny, I am, but—”
“My name is Lena.”
“Lena . . .
” Your name sounds strange coming from him. “How’d you find out?”
“I found someone who actually knows me, Ben. Someone who was on the island with me. That’s what they did—they took us there to hunt us, to kill me. Those are the people you’re working for.”
He looks down at the ground. When he finally raises his chin his eyes are wet. “I swear to you on my life—I had no idea what it was about. I never would’ve agreed to it. You have to believe me.”
“But how? How can I?” As you say it, you feel the sting of betrayal, still fresh. He was lying to you the whole time, when you stayed in his house, when you kissed him, when you slept beside him. Every time he looked at you he was lying.
“I’m sorry.” He rests his hand on your arm. You shake it off. You don’t want to feel the warmth of his touch. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
Another announcement breaks the silence. The library is now closed. You back up, away from him. It’s your last chance to leave. In just minutes you’ll be locked inside.
He points out into the hall. “We can’t go—not yet.”
“We?”
“One of the hunters saw you in the area already. They sent me an alert. If I noticed you come in here, she might have, too.”
“How’d you find me?”
“A bulletin went out that you were in New York—a picture of you uptown. Some of them have been sharing information. One saw you heading east on Fortieth Street an hour ago. They’re all looking for you.”
“So now I’m supposed to spend the night in the library with you, hoping you won’t kill me?”
“You know I won’t.” He looks over his shoulder at the staircase. “But they will.”
You hate to admit it, but he’s right.
“Then we stay here. . . . Where, though?” You examine the doors along the corridor. You put the knife away and gesture for Ben to go in front of you. The first two doors lead to conference rooms, but they’re both locked. The third is a room with a few aisles of cardboard file boxes. The lights are off. Everything is coated with a thin layer of dust. Ben steps inside, positioning himself so he’s hidden behind a row of boxes in the back. You hear the announcement again. The library is now closed.
