Never Gonna Tell

by Sarah M. Ross

  From my vantage point behind the dumpster, I can’t see what it is. Marco closes his eyes and cringes.

  “You narcing on us, Daniel? Is that how it is? We show you mercy time after time, and you go and turn to the feds? That’s how you repay us?”

  Nicky is furious, and my fear reaches a new level. My hands tremble, the shaking moving up my arms into my shoulders and chest. Marco grabs my hand, running soothing circles into the flesh between my forefinger and thumb with his own. As terrified as I am, the small gesture works and the tightening in my chest loosens ever so slightly.

  “No, it’s not like that, Nicky,” Daniel pleads. “They don’t know anything about you, I swear. I haven’t said I word.”

  Nicky huffs, and the other two men laugh heartily. “So you expect me to believe you just happen to have the business cards of two FBI agents and detailed notes of my family? Names? Dates? Tsk, tsk, Danny Boy.”

  “Where’d my boy run off to?” Marco’s dad asks.

  “Shit. I’ve gotta go. Just … don’t move or make a sound,” Marco says. I shake my head vigorously. I don’t want to be left alone and, for some reason, having him next to me made me feel a little safer. Shit must be bad if Marco is making me feel safe.

  “You’ll be okay,” he whispers, squeezing my hand one last time before he stands up and jogs out of the alleyway. I shrink back, hugging my arms around my legs and trying not to cry.

  “I’m here, Pops. I was just keeping a lookout. Uncle Nicky thought he heard something earlier.”

  “What do we do with this guy, Nick?” Marco’s dad asks.

  “Well, now that is the question of the hour, isn’t it, Frankie?” Nicky’s voice is low. He’s no longer screaming and doesn’t even seem angry. Instead, his voice is eerily calm. “Guess there’s only one thing we can do. He hasn’t left us with any other choice.”

  “No, Uncle Nicky, don’t,” Marco pleads.

  He barely gets the words out before there’s a loud click, followed by a single, ear-piercing gunshot.

  MY HANDS FLY to my mouth to stifle the scream begging to escape. Without thinking, I glance around the dumpster. Blood pools around a slumped-over Daniel, slowly oozing from a gaping wound in his head. His vacant eyes are no longer moving. Nicky steps over his crumpled form, disregarding the now-lifeless body like it was a bag of trash.

  My head spins and I have to bite down on my hand to keep from screaming. I bite so hard that I taste blood, making me gag. Oh my God, Marco’s uncle just killed a guy. And Marco knows I heard it. He knows I’m here. He knows. Panic swells in my chest and I can’t breathe.

  No one is speaking anymore, but there’s movement coming from their direction, the shuffling of feet and the grunting of the men. My fear has overcome my curiosity to see what they’re doing. I don’t want to know. I want to be at home, in my room, under my blankets where mobsters only kill people on TV dramas.

  “Alex, get rid of the car. Wipe it down first. Junior, what are you staring at?” Nicky asks.

  “Nothin’, Uncle Nicky,” Marco mutters.

  “Then be of some use and go burn these. Frankie, help me with him here.”

  Any residual hope that Daniel might still be alive washes away with those words. All my life I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d hit the mother lode. The story that would make people stop and take notice, maybe even win me a Pulitzer. I just never thought the story would involve me being the sole witness to a mob hit.

  My hands won’t stop shaking and my chest is so tight, I can barely catch a breath. I’m afraid I’m going to hyperventilate and pass out. What am I supposed to do now? If I call 911, even to leave an anonymous tip, the Calottas will know someone saw something. Of course, that’s assuming Marco doesn’t tell them about my presence to begin with. Should I tell my dad? Charlie? But that would only put them in danger, too. These are people who don’t have qualms about killing. I don’t doubt they’ll do the same to me or my family without much more hesitation. Not when what I saw could put them away for life.

  I try to slow my breathing, in through my nose and out through my mouth, but I can’t seem to catch it. Where’s a paper bag when you need one? And some Xanax?

  I wait a good twenty minutes until I hear no other sounds before I dare to creep out of my hiding spot and check to see if the Calottas are gone. I poke just my head around the corner, and, thankfully, see nothing. Feeling confident that I’m alone now, I creep out of my hiding spot. My legs are shaky, but I manage to run in a full-out sprint back to my car, digging my keys out of my backpack before I exit the alley so nothing can delay me from getting home as fast as possible.

  It’s not until I’m in my driveway that I allow myself to fully meltdown. The tears start slowly, but after only a few seconds, they’re streaming down my face, soaking the collar of my tee shirt. As reality sets, in I can’t control the sobs that rack my body. Not only has a man lost his life, I might be joining him.

  I glance out the window at the dark windows of Kally’s house, wishing like crazy that she was home right now. Without thinking, I pull out my phone and click Charlie’s face from my favorites list.

  “Hey. I thought we were going to Skype. I miss your face.”

  I can’t even pull myself together enough to say his name.

  “Reagan? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  “I …I …” I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes with my sleeve before trying again. “Charlie, I ….”

  “Slow down, Rea. Breathe. What’s going on?”

  I sniff, wiping my nose on my sleeve, but don’t reply. The lump in my throat is too big and too hard to attempt words.

  “Hold on. I need to go in the other room so I can hear you.” Background noises fade away and after a few seconds he comes back on. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” I manage to squeak out between sobs.

  “What happened? Why are you crying?” he tries again.

  I open my mouth, but freeze before any words come out. No. I can’t tell him. As soon as he finds out what happened he’ll beat the crap out of Marco and go straight to my mother with the story. I can’t put him in the Calottas’ crosshairs, too.

  But I need him. I need my best friend to help me figure out how to deal with the shit storm I’ve just entered. “Please, Charlie. I need you.”

  “What happened? Talk to me, Rea.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Okay, what do you need me to do? Do you want me to call your mom?”

  My chest tightens at his suggestion. “No! You can’t call her! You can’t call anyone.”

  “Okay, that’s okay.” His voice is soft, like he’s coaxing a kitten out of a tree. “Whatever it is, we’ll make it right.”

  “It’s never going to be all right,” I whisper.

  “Do you need me to come home?”

  I want to say yes with every fiber in my being. I am so selfish for even thinking it. He has so much of his own stuff he’s dealing with. “Yes,” I hiccup and selfishly ask anyway.

  “I’m packing a bag now. Just hang out until I get there, Reagan, okay?”

  I blow the snot dripping down my nose into a Kleenex I find balled up in my center console. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Char.”

  “Anytime.” He pauses, and I can hear a bag unzipping. He’s packing already. “Will you be okay until I get there?”

  I take a deep breath. Charlie is coming. He’ll help me know what to do. Everything will be okay. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Drive safe.”

  I hang up and take another deep breath to slow my sobs. I need to pull myself together, at least long enough to get by Mom and Dad and into the shower, where I can break down without anyone noticing. I search the glove box for more tissues but, finding none, use my sleeves instead. I suck in a few deep breaths, and wipe the smears of mascara so I don’t resemble a raccoon when I enter the house.

  After a few more minutes of practiced y
oga breathing (thankful that those DVDs have finally come in handy), I feel confident that I can put on a smiling face and fake it long enough to get by my parents. And if they say anything, I can easily feign an upset stomach as a good excuse why I want to go to bed early. Maybe even skip school altogether tomorrow. Yes, I like that plan. I can’t even imagine what I would say if I had to see Marco.

  I grab my backpack and take a deep breath in the brisk night air. The porch light is on, and looking at my phone, I realize I’m over an hour late. This is not good, not that I mind being grounded right about now. I don’t ever want to leave safety of my house again.

  The front door is unlocked as I step over the threshold, and I quickly lock both the knob and deadbolt before I head for the stairs.

  “Reagan? Don’t even try escaping to your room. You’re an hour late, young lady, and you have some ‘splainin to do!” Mom’s mood is still somewhat playful, so I know she’s not truly pissed.

  I drop my backpack on the bench in the entrance way and head for the family room instead. Plastering on a fake smile, I brace to see Mom and Dad. Ever since I was a little girl, Dad always sensed when I was lying to him. I’d gotten better at it over the years, but if something is really big or bothering me, he always knows. Always.

  I can’t let him know about this, for no other reason than to protect him. I start with my excuse before they can bombard me with questions. “I’m so sorry. I ran into a few friends while I was at the library, and I ended up going out for burgers and a shake afterwards. I completely lost track of time. I won’t let it happen again.”

  Hoping that’ll be enough to appease them, I bounce over to Dad, who is reclining on his Lazyboy, drop the keys in his awaiting hand, and give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “I don’t think the burger agreed with me, so I’m going to take a shower and head to bed, if that’s okay. I don’t have much homework left and I have study hall before it’s due anyway.” I give Mom a quick hug and turn to leave. “Love you. Goodnight.”

  I don’t even make it out of the family room before I hear, “Reagan Margaret, get back here.”

  Cringing, I wipe my face of emotion and turn around to face my parents. “Yes, Daddy?”

  He stares at me inquisitively for a moment, and I know he’s attempting to read what I’m trying to hide. I make a conscious effort to not think about the events of earlier tonight. Everything depends on it. Puppies. I think of puppies. Happy puppies!

  He opens his mouth, but says nothing and after a moment seems satisfied. He shakes his head slightly and points to the dining room. “Some mail came for you today. I think it’s the letter of recommendation you asked for from your old journalism teacher in Baltimore.”

  My cheeks hurt from feigning this happy routine for so long, but I’m almost in the clear. “That’s great! Thanks!”

  I’m halfway up the stairs when Mom yells up, “And we’ll talk about how long you’re grounded for tomorrow.”

  I don’t bother to reply. Instead I head straight for my bathroom, locking the door behind me before peeling off my clothes. I set the water to scalding and step inside, sinking to the floor as the tears come flooding back. I don’t let myself worry about the consequences or attempt to think of a plan or what to do next. Instead, I grieve. I grieve for the man who lost his life and grieve for the future I’ll probably never have.

  I stay in the shower until no hot water remains, and only when I begin to shiver from the cold do I decide it’s probably time to get out. As much as I’d like to, I can’t hide in here forever. I step out of the shower and wipe the mirror clear of the steam. I look like crap, which is fitting since I feel like it too. I dry off before donning a big fluffy robe, and, scooping up my clothes, I head for my bed. I just want to crawl under the covers and drift off, pretending this night never happened.

  A soft knock on my door brings me back to the present. “Honey? You still up?”

  I tighten the belt on my robe and pick up my brush, running it through my hair. “Yeah, Mom. Come on in.”

  Mom sits precariously at the foot of my bed, crossing her legs. Whatever she came to tell me, it’s not going to be quick. She only sits on my bed when she plans on staying a while. “You had a visitor while you were in the shower.”

  Now that is not what I expected. It’s going to take Charlie at least ten hours to drive here, so it can’t be him, and Kally is still out of town. “Huh? Who would come over this late?”

  “He said his name was Marco. Didn’t give a last name.”

  My heart stops. Sweet mother of God, this is sooo not good. “Oh?” It’s the only sound I can get my vocal cords to make.

  “Listen, Reagan. I know you’re seventeen now, and your father and I don’t mind if a gentleman comes over, but after ten on a school night is not an appropriate time. Especially without calling first or without prior permission.”

  The irony makes me want to choke out a laugh. My mom thinks Marco is here to date me, when he’s really probably here to threaten my life or something equally nefarious.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Marco’s … just a friend, and we’re in a few classes together. He probably had a question about an assignment and didn’t realize how late it was. I’ll talk to him and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Yeah, this lying through my teeth is getting easier.

  Mom nods before scooping my wet towel off the floor and coming over to where I’m sitting at my vanity. “You sure you’re feeling okay, sweetie? You look pale.” She runs her hand over my forehead and down to my cheek.

  “Not really. If I don’t feel better in the morning, can I stay home? I think I’m coming down with something.” Like a case of I’m-in-deep-shit-itis.

  She leans in and kisses my forehead before standing up straight, folding the wet towel that she’s just going to throw in the laundry anyway. Force of habit, I guess. “Do you want to take something? Some NyQuil or Tylenol? You feel a little warm, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

  “No, I just want to sleep. I’ll take something in the morning if I’m worse, okay?”

  “All right, sleep well. I’ll put some Tylenol PM on the counter in your bathroom if you change your mind in the night.”

  I smile. I’m going to really miss my mom after I’m whacked. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” she whispers, closing the door behind her.

  Sliding into bed, I turn off my bedroom light. The darkness and silence envelope me, but I can’t enjoy it. Every time I close my eyes I picture the bloody bat and hear the gunshot like it’s on repeat.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Over and over until I drift off into a fitful sleep.

  I WAKE UP to the sound of the doorbell, which will not stop ringing. I bury my head in the pillow and snuggle deeper into my blankets to try and block it out, but the noise is incessant.

  “Ugh! MOM, get the door!” I roll over, hoping the noise will stop. I’ve barely slept, and want—no need—at least another hour. Maybe two. Okay, I can sleep through the entire day and not feel an ounce of guilt.

  The doorbell continues to ring, leaving me no choice but to crawl out of bed. I glance at my phone to see the time, praying I have at least twenty more minutes before I absolutely have to get up and get ready for school.

  “Nine forty-five? That can’t be right.” I stumble out of bed half asleep and totally confused. I need to find out who is at my door and why they won’t go away. I stumble down the stairs and throw the latch open on the door, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “Someone better be dead. Why the—”

  The words drown out as my brain processes the face standing in front of me. “Marco? What the hell are you doing here?”

  And then it hits me. Everything from last night comes flooding back. My hands begin to shake as my anxiety ratchets up seeing him on my doorstep. I close my eyes in mortification as my last words replay in my head and sink in. Yeah, someone is dead all right. Holy shit! I wi
tnessed a murder and now Marco is at my door. This is bad. Very, very bad. I bite my lip to keep any other gems from slipping out and digging me a deeper hole. Like a six-foot-deep hole.

  Marco smirks slightly, a brief fire igniting in his eyes before he douses it and clears his throat. “Um, you weren’t in school, so I took a guess that you might have stayed home today. I have to talk to you about last night.”

  Did his family send him here to threaten me? I glance behind and around him, but he doesn’t appear to have any weapons, and I don’t see anyone with him. That relaxes me a bit. I don’t believe he personally would hurt me. Would he? He forms a half-smile, and the fire in his eyes is back. My throat dries out, and I can’t look away from the heat in his gaze.

  No, I can’t let him pull me in. I look away and focus on what he said. His tone isn’t angry or concerned. He seems … indifferent. Neutral even. What does that mean?

  It doesn’t matter. His current tone, fake smile, or smoldering stare don’t change what happened last night or the danger I’m now in. I need to assure him I’m not looking for any trouble. I do my best to assuage him, putting on my own bright, forced smile. “What about last night? I went to the library and came straight home. That’s it. End of story.”

  Marco sighs. “Look, we don’t need to pretend that—”

  “Really, Marco,” I interrupt. “Nothing. Happened. Got it? That’s my story, and you can tell your family that I’m stickin’ to it.”

  He’s irritated by my answer, scrubbing his hair out of his face. “I’m not here to hurt you or threaten you or anything. I just want to talk. Explain. Make you see—”

  I scoff in disgust. “You want to talk? Explain what? There’s nothing you can say that will make any of that okay or justified in my mind.”

  I’m yelling now, my “play it cool” act gone as my temper rises. I can’t believe he has the nerve to come here and try to rationalize—calmly rationalize, no less—the murder of a man. Have he and his family done this so often that he thinks it’s okay? No, I don’t want the answer to that. I shudder at the thought.