by Snow, Nicole
As I wander into my workshop and idly drop Liv’s notebook on the table, I tap the voicemail button and lift my phone to my ear, heart cold and sick.
“Riker?” Milah gasps on the recording. “Riker, where’s Liv? Is she with you? We can’t find her. We can’t find her and –”
I barely hear the rest.
The canned voice recedes down a dark tunnel.
All I catch are words like “missing” and then, as it rolls over to Landon’s first voicemail, “whereabouts unknown” and “right under Sky and Gabe’s noses” and “have to assume the worst.”
The worst.
The worst is that the Pilgrims have Liv.
The worst is that she’s already far out of my reach, and there’ll be no protecting her, no saving her, no getting her back.
The worst is my stupidity sent the woman I love into mortal peril, and there may be nothing I can do.
No, that black and hateful thing inside me whispers, that beast of darkness that lives to hurt, to kill, anything to complete the mission at hand.
Its voice is all-consuming, drowning out the voicemails, rising up to pull me into its blackness and swallow me whole.
This time, I welcome it because its icy determination is the only thing giving me hope. She’s not gone. Not yet. You can find her.
And no matter what you have to do, bring her back.
19
Only a Little Left (Olivia)
It’s just like me to forget to return Riker’s key.
He’s not home yet, at least. It’s funny how I know all his schedules, when he picks Em up from school, what days she has practice. It’s funny how I even know when her next math competition is, and what weekend he’s going to be away until late evening running the Enguard crew through their annual firearms re-certification. It’s funny how they told me these things like I'd be around long term, and I was part of the family who needed to know.
Funny.
Only, it’s really not funny at all.
It’s gut-wrenching.
Stepping into this house feels less like trespassing and more like sin. A sin against my own memories of the happiness I found here. A liar for believing those memories could ever be true. And a ghost, haunting the hallways of a place that for just a little while, felt more like home than a dozen massive, sprawling mansions staffed with people who were only paid to be nice to me.
Unlike people who genuinely loved me.
I can’t think about this, or I’m going to stand here and start bawling in the middle of Riker’s kitchen. I just need to leave him a check for the money he wasted on me.
Knowing him, he’ll be too stubborn to cash it...but I have to try anyway.
And while I’m here, I might as well look for my notebook. He probably threw it out in sheer loathing, but it can’t hurt to check. Maybe he saw it in the cabin and brought it back.
At least the familiar house makes a search quick and easy. I’d like to think the man I met before he closed away behind that terrible wall wouldn’t destroy something that meant so much to me – and I’m right.
I find the journal in the small room off the living room that he uses as his workshop. The walls are lined with little shelves supporting bottles as small as my hand and as large as my forearm, each with a meticulously built ship inside. I remember standing in the doorway and watching him work.
I’d meant to call him for dinner, but instead I’d found myself frozen, fascinated by his utter focus, the look of relaxed, serene calm on his face. I’d tiptoed away without saying a word, leaving him to his peace.
I’d give anything to see his face that way again.
But there’s my notebook, next to his latest half-finished project. Only the notebook is flipped open to the last page, and the last paragraph’s final sentence has been scratched out in a jerky hand, with something new written in bold, masculine letters that are definitely not my handwriting.
Leave the tragic endings to tragic pages.
Why are these words so easy in fiction, but I can’t say them to you?
It’s just three simple words.
Three simple words, to make them true.
Three simple words.
I press my fingers to my lips, a shock running through me. What's Riker saying?
Does he still care after all?
Is there something left between us to save?
I suddenly want to find out. More than anything.
But as much as I hate it, now isn't the time. There can’t be anything between me and Riker as long as my presence is a danger to both him and Em. I have to settle this, so I can cast off the shackles of my old life and my father’s problems to start over again, fresh and new. I want to come to him without baggage, without dependency, and say please.
Please, can we try?
For now, though, I rip a page out of the notebook and scribble a quick message.
I’m sorry I came and left. I’ll give your key back next time I see you, if you want it...but I really hope you don’t.
Please take the check. It’s everything it cost you to look after me.
Maybe when I get back, we'll talk about your three simple words.
-Liv
I want to sign with love, Liv, but I’m just not that brave yet.
So I tuck my notebook under my arm, clip the pen to the spine, and head outside, already tapping at my phone for an Uber. I’ve had enough highway walking to last a lifetime.
And that Greyhound here smelled like a porta-potty.
Broadening my horizons, right?
But I’m good with narrower horizons now, like a heated, private car.
I head down the block to wait. I don’t want Riker coming home and finding me standing on his walk.
I’m just reading the confirmation that a driver is on the way, checking the license plate, when a compact, battered Honda eases up toward the curb next to me. My entire body instantly goes on sizzling alert.
Last time a car pulled up to me on the sidewalk, a man was shot to death in front of me.
The window rolls down. I instantly scowl when I see Mike leaning over to look out at me with a pathetic hangdog look on his flat, sallow moon face. Not this guy again.
This jerk who let my father buy him off, who shattered everything, who was willing to put Riker and Em and me in danger just to help my father control me. All for a pathetic bribe, too.
I fold my arms over my chest, eyeing him.
“What do you want?”
“Liv, I know you’re upset,” he begins. He’s almost sniveling. “I don’t blame you. I won’t ask your forgiveness –”
“Good. Then you have no reason to be talking to me.”
“Please. Wait.” His voice is broken, raw. He looks like he’s been crying, but the redness and puffiness look a little like he’s been knocked around a bit, especially with a drying bloodied scrape on his temple. “It’s about Ryan, or I wouldn’t ask.”
My heart starts to beat a little faster. I don't like the look of this. Not at all.
I know I should just walk away. But Ryan’s a good kid, cursed with such a sleazy father, and Mike’s crimes aren’t Ryan’s fault. I sigh, eyeing him warily. “What? What happened?”
“I can’t find him. Anywhere.” He twists his hands nervously against the steering wheel. “Oh, God, I'm such a fuck-up! His phone’s at home, but he...he fucking disappeared after I picked him up from school. He’s not at the studio, either. If anyone will know where he is, it’s Em, but Riker won’t let me talk to her. He’ll let you. Please, Liv, I just need your help to find my son.”
“You're sure?” I mutter, but deep down, I know it’s true. When it rains, it pours bad luck on everyone. “Sorry, Riker and Em aren’t home. I don’t know where to find them.”
“They’re probably on their way to the studio for practice! Ryan's been trying to talk that girl back into my class.” He leans over and pushes the latch on the passenger’s side door, pushing it open. “I can drive you there.”
> Something about this is making my hair stand on end, but I can’t risk the chance Ryan might really be in trouble...can I?
I check my phone, making sure the 9-11 app is ready in case I need help, and then carefully slide into the Honda, closing the door and strapping on my seat belt.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how much this –”
“It's fine,” I say, just wanting to get this done. “But I can’t stay long. I have some stuff to take care of.”
Mike nods, saying nothing.
He’s just eerily silent as he pulls the car out into the street again.
But he reaches down into the little door compartment on his side and fiddles with something, and for some reason that makes me nervous.
I lean my shoulder against the window, watching the traffic flow past.
Somehow, I'll need to get back to Seattle without either my father or Milah realizing, if I want to make contact with the Pilgrims – unless I can find a local chapter here.
From late-night conversations with Riker, I know they have a few smaller chapters in San Francisco, Portland, a few other cities up and down the coast. The guy I need to talk to, the one in charge, is Lion.
He’s the one I’d have to negotiate with. I'll just have to get in touch with someone local and arrange a meetup in person, somewhere safe. Somewhere crowded and brightly lit where I can make a cash handover and get some kind of binding agreement that it’s enough to buy our safety and freedom from this vendetta of theirs.
I jerk out of my thoughts, though, as I realize we’ve been driving too long.
Sitting up straighter, I glance out the window. This isn’t a neighborhood I recognize, all run-down buildings and abandoned factories and shops, trash in the streets, hardly any cars around. I frown, glancing at Mike.
“Hey...aren’t we going the wrong way for the studio?”
He still doesn’t say a word.
But his eyes are bulging, fixed, staring straight ahead. That hideous unease turns into an outright bolt of fright and anger striking through me.
I reach for the door handle.
I don’t care how fast we’re going, I’ll jump right out of the car.
But he reaches over, pushes the master lock on the driver’s side, sealing me in.
“Please,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Don’t make this harder. D-don’t struggle.”
Struggle? I freeze, cold sweat soaking my skin. “Mike...what did you get roped into? Did my dad pay you to kidnap me?”
He shakes his head jerkily. “Not your father.”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple practically jumping. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry, I’m such a goddamn coward, but...Ryan. He's my son, and they said they’d hurt him if I didn’t bring you. You have to – fuck! – you h-have to understand what it’s like to be willing to do anything for your kid. And you don’t bargain with these people, Liv. Not on your own terms.”
“Who?” I press, every muscle in my body keying up and ready to run.
Like I don't already know.
I can’t do this again.
I can’t be trapped and scared with a hand against my mouth and darkness sinking over me. The second I see my chance, I’m going to use the same techniques Mike himself taught me, punch him in the balls, and run.
“Who, Mike?” I demand, though I’m afraid I already know.
Still no answer.
He just kills the engine in eerie silence, letting the Honda coast to a halt on the curb. The doors unlock, and I kick mine open and scramble out into the street.
I don’t make it more than two steps before several black cars come screeching around the corners from the streets on all sides, blocking me in. I bite back a scream and try to think smart, diving for a gap between two of them, grabbing at my phone and frantically mashing the screen on my app.
The door to the van in front of me slides open.
A tall, brutish man with a wild mane of hair leans out, his body cutting across my path. He snatches me around my waist, yanking me off my feet, knocking the air from my lungs and rocketing my phone from my hands to clatter to the ground. His leer fills my vision, fills my world, as he drags me into the van, his words falling around me like pure, cold horror.
“Hey there, little girl,” he growls. “I’ve been looking for you a long fucking while.”
20
A Little Bit of Hell (Riker)
I missed her.
Somehow, in the hour it took me to drop Em at her grandparents’, I missed Liv.
Just like that.
She was right here in my house, but a slip in time, in fate, and we passed each other right by, flirting on the edges of each other’s lives but never quite touching.
I stare down at the note on my work table. The note and...a check?
I don’t understand the check. Can't fathom how she can think this number could ever represent everything losing her has cost me. But I can hear her voice, her sweetness in the note, and that strange maturity, too. The things she’s not saying. The warmth, the kindness, the hope.
The faith she still has in me.
It's a fucking killer.
I just have to find her, because without Sky and Gabe watching over her, there’s no telling what kind of trouble she could fall into.
I just need my gear.
Fortunately, the old habit of a soldier helps me now, always having a go bag ready.
It’s come in handy for security gigs, too, and the Enguard Security branded duffel bag I keep on the top shelf of my bedroom closet is already primed to go with weapons, ammo, burner phones and infiltration devices, rope, plus a few other practicals. First aid kit, cash, a couple fresh shirts.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and nearly vault down the stairs, heading for the door, which rattles with a knock just as I put my hand on the knob.
The half-second of sharp alertness vanishes when a head of sandy hair bobs just below the door inset. That kid Ryan again.
Shit, I don't have time for this. I just hope his father’s nowhere nearby.
I pull the door open and step through, gently nudging him aside so I can lock up.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. No point in scaring him. “Em’s staying at her grandparents’ tonight. You can come back and see her tomorrow. I gotta run.”
I hadn’t even really been looking at him, preoccupied, ready to be on my way, until I see it.
He stops me in my tracks when he suddenly tries to get one word out and can’t.
Not when it breaks off in a sob, and I turn from the door, watching as he bursts into tears. Full-on gasping, gulping, red-faced despair, shaking his head and burying his face against his palms.
“Mr. Woods...y-you...you have to...help...”
He’s falling apart, panicked, frightened, can’t even get sensible words out. I’ve got my own issues to deal with, but fuck, I can’t be heartless enough to leave him here like this, especially when he might be in real trouble. I step closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Breathe, son,” I say. “Slow, deep breaths. Calm down. Clear your airways, then try again. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Ryan nods quickly, rubbing at his cheeks and taking several heaving breaths, sniffling and swiping his forearm across his dripping nose. He opens his mouth to speak again.
Instead of his voice, I’m treated to the sound of tires screeching as a car pulls up to the walk outside my house, a little Honda that jolts to a stop so fast it rocks forward on its wheels and then bounces back.
The driver’s side door opens, and Mike angles himself out, raising his voice to carry across my lawn.
“Ryan, get in the car!” he orders. At first his voice sounds sharp, commanding, but what’s really driving it is a sheer edge of raw terror.
Ryan flinches, but turns back and glares at his father. “No,” he retorts, and for all that he’s shaking, voice trembling, it’s the clearest thing he’s managed so far. “He has to know
. He has to know or she’s going to get hurt!”
I go stone-cold.
The only she either of them might have to tell me about is Em or Liv...and either of them being hurt is not an option.
Not unless someone wants blood today.
Mike comes scrambling through the gate and up the walk toward his son. I look between them both, then settle on Mike.
He deserves the sick, frozen dread that crosses his face as my gaze lands on him. His kid doesn’t.
“I want you to be very clear,” I say slowly, forming each word precisely to be certain neither my words or the threat riding silent between them is misunderstood. “What do I need to know, who’s going to be hurt, and by who?”
Ryan starts to open his mouth, but Mike catches his eye and shakes his head, before catching his son by the arm and dragging him behind him. Mike flashes me an ingratiating, practically shit-eating grimace that looks less like a smile and more like he’s trying not to piss himself.
“It’s nothing,” he babbles. “It’s nothing, nothing, I’m so sorry Ryan bothered you, we’ll just –”
“Ryan?” All I have to do is say the boy’s name for dread silence. I meet his eyes over Mike’s shoulder and ask softly, “Is your old man lying to me?”
All it takes to prove Ryan is more of a man than his father will ever be is a single wide-eyed, determined nod.
“Thanks,” I growl, nodding.
Then I catch Mike by the collar, whip him around, and slam him against the front door of my house.
Four things happen simultaneously.
Ryan yelps. Mike outright screams. The door rattles on its hinges. And I drop my grip on Mike’s collar so I can slam my palm in the center of his chest, pinning him there with my hand spread, pushing just hard enough that he’ll be able to feel his sternum strain.
Not one of his karate techniques will get him out of this, but he tries. He twists, he grabs at my arm, he whines – and all he ends up doing is kicking his feet against the porch, making the door rattle even more.
