by A J Rivers
"I know she does," he sighed, letting his body rest against hers. He loved the way their breaths felt moving in and out together. "Have I told you recently how incredible you are?"
Mariya grinned and touched her soft mouth to his. There was a secret in that kiss. Something she only shared with him. So many, her whole life, had thought they shared her. They felt ownership over her because of what she did. She was willing to give them that comfort, to let them feel protected and reassured by the idea of her presence. After all, that's what she was there for. It's what she always wanted to do.
Even from her days up on the stage, the lights and the applause only filled her so much. She always said they felt like they were for somebody else. Like somehow, the scale and beauty meant for somebody else ended up in her. She used them as much to her advantage as she could, helping her family more than they could have ever imagined. But entertaining people wasn't right for her. She didn’t want to be owned or shared by fans or bureaucrats. She just wanted her own life. Her own family.
Ian marveled at her bravery. For some, it would be hard to look at a woman of such delicate beauty, who moved with the elegance and grace of the stage even many years after she walked away and think of her as brave. But Mariya was the most courageous person he had ever known.
When others looked at her, they didn't see what she had gone through. They didn't see the fear she carried in her heart that night when she walked out onto the stage into her last spotlight. When she very first told him about it, she told him her shoes felt tight. He never really understood what that meant. But one day, after many years, she brought her old ballet shoes out of the box where she’d shoved them away and showed them to him.
From a distance, they would look beautiful, just like her. But close up, he could see the pink satin cutaway at the tip of the toe to make it less slippery. The dust and dirt darkening the sides. The frays at the end of the ribbons. Streaks of blood inside.
She was never going to have to wear them again after that night. That's what she told herself. Of course, nobody else knew that. The rest of the company planned on three more shows before going back to Russia. Then it would be another season, another production. But not for her. Her final bow that night was truly her final bow.
Now, many years later, Ian knew she looked back on that like a different life. It was like somebody else had lived all that. She was finally doing exactly what she was meant to do. It was no longer about entertaining people but helping them. And she did. Countless people. They lived because of her.
“I won't be gone long. Then, Easter,” she said happily.
“Did you kiss Emma good night?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course I did. When she wakes up in the morning, make her pancakes. I left cookie cutters on the counter so you can make them into the shapes of flowers for her. She can help you boil some eggs so they can be in the refrigerator for Sunday.”
“Do you think you'll be able to call?” he asked.
“I don't know, darling. I will if I can,” she told him.
“Don't, if it's too dangerous. You know we'll be here.”
“I know you will. I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he told her.
He brought her close and kissed her. There were only a few moments left before she had to leave, and he wasn't going to waste any of them.
“I'll see you soon,” she whispered.
He walked her out to the car and kissed her one last time through the window.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asked.
“I think so. Goodbye, my love.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Now
I type the words into the box and watch it dissolve away to reveal the profile. A breath I didn't even realize I was still holding in my lungs rushes out of me in relief. But I know I can't let myself relax. That was just one piece. Just the beginning. There is so much more, and the minutes are running thin.
“What's next?” Sam asks. “Is there anything new? New pictures, anything?”
I scroll to the bottom of the page, past the pictures of the ocean and the sand I've already looked at countless times before. On the very bottom row are three new images. I notice a little icon in the corners.
“These are videos,” I tell him.
“So, watch them,” he says.
I start to click on the first but hesitate.
“Wait. What if is this is like the password. What if I'm not supposed to watch all of them, but only the right one. One guess, remember?”
“Which one, then?” Sam asks.
I look at each of the three images, each showing a screenshot from the video. The first is a road and in the corner, it looks like a leg and foot, like someone is walking. The second is a picture of me jogging down the sidewalk in my neighborhood in Sherwood.
The third takes the breath out of every inch of my being. I've never seen this picture of my mother smiling back at me. She's looking over her shoulder, her hair tumbling down longer than I ever saw it. There's a glint in her eye, a laugh. I want to click on that one. I long to hear her voice. To see her move again.
But I have to stop myself. I remember what the note said.
“This one,” I tell him, pointing to the second video. “The note says watch yourself. For once, he was being literal.” I click on the image and see the time at the bottom. “This video is two hours long,” I lament.
“We don't even have a fraction of that time,” he sighs.
“What are we supposed to do? How are we supposed to know what part of the video is going to help us? The beginning? The end?” I ask, my anxiety ratcheting up.
For every second that passes by, my breath becomes a little shallower, and my veins seem to constrict a little more.
“Emma,” Sam suddenly starts. “The card. It was the same card as the first one. Happy Sweet Sixteen. It has something to do with your birthday.”
I look at the time stamp again. Clicking on the cursor, I drag it slightly and reveal an account of the hours, minutes, seconds, and fractions of seconds. Moving carefully, I drag it over until the numbers correspond to the date of my sixteenth birthday. Zero hours. Seven minutes. Twenty-three seconds. Seven milliseconds. I pause, then pull it back to twenty-two seconds. My stomach hurts doing it. I can't let myself think about it too much. I can't let my thoughts go down the path they want to follow, the logical progression that makes me want to scream.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” he says.
I click play.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Anson
Four months ago…
Maybe one day, when all this was over, and they rebuilt, Anson would offer his services. They would rebuild, of course. It's what they did. What the city prided itself on. They would panic first, mourn second. Then would come rage, then resilience. They would clear away the ground and build again. And Anson could go to them and offer his expertise.
He could explain to them why the security cameras they had in place were woefully insufficient. He could show them the blind spots and the entire swaths of area around the building that went completely uncovered. He would show them how easy it was for someone to move across the parking lot in just the right places and slip close to the building. He would show them how if somebody really wanted to, if they really had motivation, they could overcome the simplistic locks and walk right inside.
The security system looked impressive from the outside. At least, to anyone who didn't really know what they were looking at. They saw a keypad and a screen requiring a code. He saw a game. And not a difficult one to win at that. But they would find that out eventually. He'd be happy to tell them and to offer to create a much more effective approach. When the new building was built. When this one was gone.
For now, he walked through the dusty, sticky air of the back room. Nobody knew he was there, and they never would. He wasn't going to be there for long. All he needed to do was find access to the
ventilation system. Then it was just a matter of setting a timer, activating a trigger, and walking away.
Part of him wished he had made a second of the boxes he set into place. He knew what it was meant to do. And that was as good as knowing what it was going to do. He never designed anything that didn't work exactly the way he thought it would. He could see the pieces in his mind; know exactly how they were going to interact and what they were going to do. That's what made him what he was.
But he still wanted to see it happen. He wanted to have the chance to watch the metal split and the smaller metal creatures inside emerge. That's what would leave them guessing. Eventually, there would be an investigation. Remember, this wasn't designed for annihilation. Just destruction. The area would swarm, and everybody would have ideas of what happened. Of who did it. Accusations would fly. Tentative bonds would shatter. And someone would try to figure out exactly how it happened.
They never would. They would never be able to understand exactly how the explosion happened the way it did to create the exact damage it was going to create. But that was part of the fun. The guesses would just keep coming. Every one of them was a tiny seed of chaos. It would never let them rest.
Anson got out of the station and crossed the parking lot to the small patch of grass and trees that separated it from a gas station on the corner. He waited there, watching the door. A white car drove into the lot and parked. There she was. Already holding her phone when she climbed out of the car. She struggled to pull her suitcase out of the trunk. He waited until she turned off her phone before he strode toward her, his long legs eating up the pavement, so he got to her in seconds. Big hands easily got the bag out of place, and she turned to smile at him.
"Thanks," she said.
There wasn't even the flicker of recognition in her eyes. There wouldn't be. She'd never seen his face.
"No problem. Where are you headed?" he asked.
She set the bag down and pulled the handle so she could swing it around behind her.
"Baltimore," she told him. "Just a quick trip."
Anson nodded. "Sounds like fun. You should check out the Harbor."
She smiled. "I've heard that before. I guess I'll have to take the recommendation."
A black car slid into the parking lot and moved around to the side. It didn't matter if they saw him. They didn't know if he was meant to be there or not, and they would never question it.
"Have a good time on your trip," he said, starting away from her.
Behind him, her phone made a cheerful chirp, alerting her to a message she wouldn't know was scheduled hours before. Did you get to the station alright? Your ticket is waiting at the window. I'll be watching!
She glanced down at it and smiled, then typed a fast response. The alert in his pocket was silent, but he'd read it later.
"Thank you again…" she called after him, her voice trailing in that way that was supposed to suggest a pause, an empty space in her sentence it was his responsibility to fill.
"Anson."
She smiled.
"Anson. I'm Mary."
Chapter Forty
Him
Seventeen years ago…
It didn’t matter how far they went.
It didn’t matter where they tried to hide.
He would find them.
Nothing could protect them. Not now. Not ever. They might have run, but he would chase them. They might have hidden themselves away, but he would find them. They were lost without him. They were far more lost with him. In the end, it wouldn’t matter.
Let them run. He had no need to go after them yet. They weren’t going to get away. It didn’t matter how much time passed, they would always be in the palm of his hand, even if they didn’t know it. For now, he would mourn. Let them run. The longer they did, the more their fear would take over. Their bodies would weaken; their hearts wouldn’t sustain them.
The fear wouldn’t be worse than him. Nothing for them would ever be worse than him. For the rest of their lives, no matter what they faced, no matter what choices they made, he would haunt them. He would be the horror they faced when they closed their eyes at night. He would be what kept their lights on and made their hands shake.
That fear would be a constant, gnawing reminder that ate at them and dissolved them from the inside. It would add to the torment. Create another layer to the pain he would cause them. But it would never be worse than him.
They knew that.
So he decided to let them run. He would let them fill their skin with ink to cover themselves. He would let them slide on their bellies through the swamps. He would even let them breathe. He would even let them laugh. That laughter would open them up to more of the fear, like prying their jaws open to pour in the poison.
That night, he didn’t know where they were. They didn’t meet him in the designated spot. He couldn’t reach them. But he would find them. The day would come when he would find them, and they would pay for what they did.
It would never be enough. Both of them combined weren’t worth the life they took. But he would ensure they gave every last drop of what they could to atone for Mariya.
Chapter Forty-One
Now
There's blood on my shoes. I know it's there, and I'm tracking it along the carpet, but I can't stop. I can't do anything about it. In my mind, I imagine the fibers absorbing it. No matter how hard they try to clean it, it'll never go away. The memories will never go away.
I burst into the first empty train car on the way back to mine just in time to see the sliding door in front of me open. Intense blue eyes stare at me through the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. I stop in the middle of the aisle, my hand going to my gun.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “You shouldn't be back here.”
“Neither should you,” he says.
“I don't believe I asked your permission.”
“And I didn't ask yours. But I will ask you to get your hand away from your firearm. I'm not exactly a fan of being in a closed space with a gun when I'm unarmed,” he says.
“You need to start talking,” I say. “Or you are going to have a whole lot more to worry about than my hand on my gun.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why did you tell me you saw a blonde woman in a blue sweater at my seat?”
“Because you asked me if I saw anybody,” he replies, confused.
“I know for a fact you didn't see her, so try again. Why did you say you saw that woman at my seat?”
“What do you mean you know for a fact I didn't see her?” he asks. “What's going on?”
“You asked me earlier what branch of law enforcement I'm in. I'm FBI. And right now, you’ve found yourself in the middle of a murder investigation, so I suggest you take your attitude down a few notches and start answering questions. Starting with why you lied about her being at my seat," I say.
"Murder?" he asks.
I don't have the luxury of being subtle anymore. Seconds are ticking away. Everyone is going to know about the bodies soon enough, and I would rather it be because I told them and was able to stop a tragedy, then because they all joined them.
“The woman you described as being the person who took my computer out of its bag is dead. She's been dead since long before you supposedly saw her. If I don't miss my guess, she never stepped foot on this train alive. So how is it that you could possibly describe her down to the color of her sweater?” I ask.
He swallows hard.
“I saw her on the platform,” he tells me. “When I was walking to the train, I happened to notice her. She stood out because everybody else was already on the train, and she was just standing there, talking to one of the employees. I thought she was…" his voice trails off for a second before he rebounds. "Later, when you asked me if I saw anybody at your seat, I panicked and described the first person who came to mind. I thought it would make sense. I didn't think anything of seeing her because you looked similar."
"Why would it matter?" I ask. Some private investigator.
"Because I knew if I didn't have someone to describe, you would know I hadn't been sitting in that seat the entire time," he says.
"Look, I don't have time for this bullshit. You can explain to the sheriff later why it mattered so much for me to think you were sitting there. There's something else I need to know," I tell him. "Your name is Dean Steele."
He straightens, his shoulders squaring off slightly.
"Yes."
"Tell me, Dean. What do you know about Mary Preston?"
Chapter Forty-Two
Anson
Four months ago…
Anson watched from Mary's perspective as she scanned the bus station, taking in the monotony of just another day. People shuffled around, getting ready for their trips. Some had just gotten off of buses and were going about the motions of assimilating to being at the end of the journey. That was one of the more interesting things he had observed about some people traveling. Even if it was a very short trip, there was still a sense of permanence about the travel itself. Whether they were in a car or a bus or a train or a plane, somehow, that became reality. It felt like it was going to last forever. But then it ended, and they had to go through the process of getting used to something else all over again.
Those are the types of people who wanted to change clothes immediately or who put on makeup before stepping off their chosen mode of transportation. They would walk a few steps from the gate, put their luggage down, and brush off their clothes. Or dig through their purses like they thought something might have changed between the time they were sitting and now.
But then there were the others who barely even seemed to notice they had traveled at all. It was just one step to another. A constant flow of their life, unbroken by any change of pace. Those are the types of people who made a straight line from the gate to the door without hesitation. Didn't pause, didn't stop to look around at their surroundings or anyone else. They didn't have luggage to pick up or clothes to adjust. They were just ready.
