Lies That Bind

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  “I’m so glad my brother kicked me out of the room,” he whispered.

  “Uh huh.” I nodded against his lips.

  “I’ve wanted to be with you for so long.”

  There was such longing in his voice that an alarm went off in my head. Be with me. He wants to be with me… Did I want that? Could I handle that? Could I really do that and never see him again? My face flamed. Was I excited? Was I scared?

  This was our last night together.

  Our last night.

  I’d never see him again.

  “Wait.” I pulled away, breathing heavily as I looked down at him beneath my body. His lips moved for mine once more, the look in his eyes making it very clear what he wanted to do next. “Hold on.”

  I sat up straighter, still straddling him as I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, doubt warring within me. I was feeling everything he was feeling, sweating like he was sweating, panting like he was panting, but I was starting to realize there was a big difference between us, one we’d never discussed. “Thing is, um… I mean, like, I’ve never really, you know, done…” I gave him the look of please don’t make me say it out loud.

  “Ever?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  “Boyfriends haven’t exactly been my priority,” I admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “You can say Keira and I took our parents deaths very differently.” I returned my gaze to his. “If I leave, it’s just…I don’t know if or when I’ll see you again. And I don’t know how I’m going to feel about that.” I lifted myself off of him, sitting beside his long frame as he covered his eyes with his forearm and sighed heavily—with annoyance or disappointment, I wasn’t sure.

  “Fine. Whatever,” he grumbled.

  “I’m sorry.” I sounded as small as the child I felt like. “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea, if I know I have to go soon—”

  “Mira.” He yanked his arm down and glared at me, his eyes angrier than I expected. “You might be able to convince yourself that’s the reason, but don’t expect me to listen.”

  “Marcus—” Obviously, I knew he’d be disappointed, but I never thought he’d be mad.

  “No. It’s true. The reason you’re stopping all of this”—he sat up, gesturing to the two of us—“is not because you’re leaving or because you’re a virgin.”

  An involuntary breath huffed out of me, as if even my lungs were offended. There was something about hearing that word “virgin” aloud that felt like I was being slapped with a sexist insult. Only women were virgins, guys just “haven’t done it yet.”

  “You’re stopping because you don’t trust me.” His words slurred around the edges as he spoke faster. “You say you do, but you don’t. Not really. You don’t trust me when I tell you I know my brother. You don’t trust me when I promise not to speak to my parents about you. You don’t trust your sister to offer an opinion on when you’re leaving or what you should do next. You don’t trust Julian to tell your story, even though we all think it’s a good idea. You don’t trust the police to help you. You don’t trust the CIA to keep you safe. You don’t trust the whole damn world.” He pointed a finger at me. “You ran, full speed, toward an assassin in Venice. By yourself. Leaving all of us behind, everyone trying to help you. Those aren’t the actions of a girl who’s fighting to live.”

  His eyes were still glazed with booze, but his intention was perfectly clear. This was what Marcus had talked to his brother about, what he really thought of me, and this truth hurt more than any punch from a random spy.

  My jaw dropped as I stared at him. He thought I was so screwed up I was incapable of trusting anyone, of loving anyone.

  “I’m going to sleep,” he hissed, then dropped back onto his pillow and rolled over. Within moments, he was snoring, a drunk deep slumber, and I continued to sit there, gawking at him, wondering if it was true, wondering if I trusted anyone. Even myself.

  Chapter Six

  The culinary tradition continued. Keira and I were seated in a booth at the Sun in Splendour pub in Notting Hill, which I wasn’t positive was the best fish and chips in all of London but possibly the best fish and chips in a neighborhood where Julia Roberts had once filmed a movie. Keira insisted we visit the posh address, which used to be more bohemian back in the days Julia and Hugh Grant pretended to wander the streets. Now every block was so gleaming white that the townhomes didn’t look lived in, and there were as many ridiculously priced fashion boutiques as there were quaint bookstores near Portobello Road. But the pubs were still pubs—scratched wooden booths mixed with tin ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and beer stickers papering the walls. In true British style, we ordered our beer-battered fish doused in vinegar with mushy peas that were mashed like potatoes, and a scotch egg that was like a deviled egg only wrapped in Stovetop stuffing. We also had warm beer.

  It was the lone family tradition we could cling to. There might not have been ham on Christmas or sausage stuffing on Thanksgiving, but we’d be damned if we didn’t try the famous cuisine in every destination we traveled. London would be no exception—even if we were leaving tomorrow.

  I leaned back in my rustic wooden chair, staring out the large pub windows, which were so old the glass looked warped and wavy, the panes held together by black mullions. It reminded me of Boston. Of Marcus. Everything reminded me of Marcus. I couldn’t stop his words from echoing in my head. I ran after Craig Bernard in Venice, alone. Yes, I could see why some might consider that a death wish, but I got my sister back at the end of it. So didn’t that mean I was right? My plan worked.

  But that wasn’t what was bothering me. It was the other part—the annoyance in Marcus’s eyes, the feeling that he’d spent the day complaining about me to his brother, and his insistence that I didn’t trust him or anyone else. Of course I trusted Marcus. He was with me every step of the way through Italy—well, except for that Craig Bernard street fight, but that wasn’t because I didn’t trust him.

  Was it? No, of course not.

  I could admit to having problems connecting with people—professional psychologists diagnosed me as being “emotionally detached” after my parents “died.” That was old news and, frankly, justified. I told my parents I hated them, and then their car burst into flames (or so I thought). I had issues. But Marcus was one of the few people I let in. At least, I thought I did. I was closer to him than I’d been with any guy, or friend, ever. Except for maybe Charlotte. She was right there with Marcus in my very small, but quite existent, circle of trust. How could he doubt that?

  Or was he doubting me? Was this how he really felt about me? Or had Antonio put these thoughts in his head? I didn’t remember Marcus questioning my feelings before his brother got here. Sure, I might have been the one who made us stop last night, but it wasn’t because I wanted to stop. I wanted to be with Marcus, but I couldn’t seem to shut down the part of my brain dedicated to protecting me at all costs—even from Marcus, even from myself.

  I stabbed at my food. Like everything fried, the breading tasted better than the fish, kind of like KFC. Pubs really should just serve breading on a plate with a side of vinegar; give the people what they want. I glanced around aimlessly, my eyes landing on a gas light outside, and I found myself wondering if it was really burning gas in its old-fashioned black frame, or if the city had replaced all its antiques with LEDs. Was anything real anymore?

  “Should I ask where your mind is at or just let you brood silently?” Keira questioned, as she sliced open her breaded egg.

  I hadn’t told her about Marcus. It was as if repeating his words would make his accusations real or more embarrassing. Especially after she’d spent the night with Antonio probably without a second thought. Despite everything that happened to her, months of captivity orchestrated by a man she thought was her boyfriend, she could still hook up with a guy who worked for Department D. It made no sense. Sometimes, I felt my sister and I understood one another in ways no one else ever possibly could, while at other times, I worried we didn’t share
a common thought.

  “I’m going to miss everyone, that’s all.” My voice cracked, the force of Marcus’s words trying to break out.

  “You know, we don’t have to go, not alone at least.” Keira dug her fork into a lumpy mound of mashed peas that only tasted good if you doused it with vinegar, but at least the sour smell was appropriate for the conversation. “Maybe we could all walk away from this together?”

  “Their parents work there.”

  “They’re not speaking to their parents.”

  “Marcus texted them yesterday.” I dropped my fork, frustrated. “Keira, do you really think I want to leave Marcus? Of course I don’t. But all of you ganging up on me isn’t helping.”

  “We’re not ganging up on you.”

  “Yes, you are. Everyone is. You’re acting like I’m forcing this unreasonable decision. Marcus said it last night. He thinks that I can’t trust anyone, that I don’t listen to anyone. But we don’t have another option!” I sat back with a huff. “Even if you put Marcus and Antonio’s parents aside, think about this—what if Mom and Dad are alive? We could be putting everyone we know in danger just by being near them. Who knows how many enemies they have and who those enemies might try to kidnap next?”

  “They had those enemies before the accident, and that didn’t change anything,” Keira retorted.

  “Didn’t change anything?” I squawked. “Mom and Dad were either killed because of those enemies or they faked their own deaths. I’d say that changed a lot. There are countless people trying to use us to get to them—the CIA, Department D, Randolph Urban, and who knows who else—and the only way to get all of them off our backs is to make sure they can’t find us. We can’t do that while living with two brothers whose parents play golf with the kingpin, while drinking champagne in a penthouse of a guy who wants to put our faces on the evening news.”

  “Do you really think Randolph Urban is ever going to stop looking for you?”

  She didn’t know about the baby picture. No one did, aside from Charlotte. I wasn’t sure why I was keeping it a secret. If I spoke up, Keira might understand why I was so determined to leave right now, why I thought the danger was getting too close. But then I’d also have to talk about what that photo meant, about him possibly wanting to be a dad and how that made me feel. I’d sooner get on a train.

  “He can look all he wants. He won’t find us.” I stared at my food.

  “He’s a spy. No, actually, he’s like the king of the spies. And you’re his…” She let her voice trail off.

  Daughter. I was his daughter. That was the word she couldn’t bring herself to say.

  It wasn’t that I was in denial. I knew I would have to face him eventually, but I was hoping that day would be far in the future when he wore an orange jumpsuit with a pane of glass between us. Not today. And not through a constant drip, drip, drip of memories.

  “Urban has bigger problems to focus on right now than me.” I kept the truth about the photo for later, when we were safe and countries away. When our problems are over. I tore my paper napkin in half. We'll admit to everything. I ripped it again. When we’re alone, away from everyone, all by ourselves. I tore it again, and again, shredding the napkin until I had a fluffy pile on my plate.

  “Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Marcus last night, what he said to get you this upset.” Keira stretched her hand across the table and swept the paper shreds away. “But I know you trust him and me and Charlotte. You’re not broken, Anastasia, any more than I am.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath before her next words came out. “But Urban is your father. You can’t run from that.”

  My eyes shot up. Did Charlotte tell her? Does she know about the photo? I searched her gaze for some hint of the truth, but I wasn’t sure. We’d become too skilled at lying to one another.

  “I swear. This is about doing what’s smart, for us, and that means getting as far as away from Department D as possible. Let’s move on.” I clapped my hands, sharp, trying to force a smile and shift the energy of the conversation. “There’s an upside to all of this. Tomorrow we’ll be someplace new. We’ll get new jobs, make new friends, meet new people. We’ll start over.”

  “We’re always starting over.” Keira sighed, wiping her greasy hands on her jeans. “Are you still thinking France?”

  “Yeah, we can choose a town together, and we both speak French. The people hate Americans, so they’re not going to ask too many questions. It’s perfect.” This was the fantasy life I’d wanted to have with my sister ever since she went missing—me and her, together, somewhere new, safe and normal.

  “Anastasia!” The call came from behind me.

  I turned toward the pub doors and spied Charlotte aglow in the amber light of a wall sconce, her golden green eyes stretched wide.

  Something was wrong. Department D. Urban. They found us. Found me. I jumped to my feet, rising so fast that I nearly toppled my wooden chair to its side.

  We should have left sooner. Why did I wait? Why did I listen to them?

  “What happened? Where are they? What’s going on?” Fear clenched my throat as my eyes darted around the pub for assassins.

  Keira rose beside me, her gaze locked on me like she’d never seen me before.

  “It’s not them,” Charlotte insisted, ringing her hands together, tears in her eyes. “It’s…it’s Tyson.”

  Tyson? My karate buddy? What does he have to do with anything? He was back in Boston, at Brookline Academy, eating lunch in the cafeteria with Regina or practicing roundhouses in our old studio. What could possibly be wrong with Tyson?

  “I’m…I’m so sorry.” Charlotte’s voice cracked, her face morphing into a familiar look of pity.

  No. Absolutely not. I shook my head, hair whipping back and forth, trying to block out whatever she was going to say next.

  I knew that look. I’d lived with that look for years.

  I can’t possibly be having this conversation again.

  I closed my eyes, the acidic stench of fried fish suddenly everywhere. My whole life I’d been standing on a cliff waiting for the next push, and it always came.

  Finally, I opened my eyes.

  “I just heard from Regina, in Boston,” Charlotte continued when I looked her way. “She called my parents and got my number here. She was trying to find you. My parents are still your legal guardians, you know, so she figured they could get in touch with you…”

  She was rambling, doing her best to stall, and I understood. No one wanted to deliver this news. Only I’d sadly become an expert at receiving it.

  “Just say it,” I said, giving her permission to inflict the pain, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard I felt my flesh give way.

  “It’s…it’s Tyson,” she repeated, sucking her lips and tilting her head in sympathy, eyes pooling with thick puddles. When she swallowed, a visible lump traveled down her throat. “He’s…he’s dead.”

  Chapter Seven

  I held it together at the pub, for the sake of Charlotte and Keira. I didn’t want to worry them. Quietly, I climbed into the spacious interior of a charming British taxi, one of those black hatchbacks with a bulbous shape and rounded silver grill. All it needed was a British flag on its antenna and it would have been perfect for a postcard. That was where I was as I was hit with the details of my best friend’s death—riding in a postcard.

  I sat on my hands to hide the shaking. I pretended that I didn’t hear my bed calling through the rainy London sky, begging me to collapse, inviting me to lay down, stay down, let go. I could hear Tyson’s name mentioned again and again, by Charlotte, by Keira. I could picture his face.

  We got back to the hotel, and I sprinted to my room, shouting promises that I was okay and that I’d meet them in the lobby for breakfast in the morning. We needed to discuss next steps, they said. We needed to decide what to do. I kept nodding, saying I agreed, saying we’d all sleep on it and discuss it in morning. Then I closed my hotel room door and clicked the hea
vy deadbolt. That was when the first tear dropped. They didn’t stop. I stumbled to my bed, collapsing, soaking my pillow, my entire body convulsing.

  Tyson’s gone. Tyson’s dead. Tyson. The boy with the huge smile, the kid I sparred with in karate, the boy who let me sit with him and his girlfriend in the cafeteria, the kid whose father was dead and who could actually relate to what I was feeling. He was my first friend in Boston, my first real friend ever. Now he’s dead. Everyone I love is dead. Why does this keep happening?

  Several knocks pounded on my door. I didn’t answer, not when it was Marcus or Charlotte or Keira. Tomorrow, I would pull myself together; I would do all the things they needed me to do. I’d talk strategy and make decisions. But tonight, I stayed in bed. I wasn’t strong or brave or rational. I was a seventeen-year-old girl whose best friend was dead, and I wanted to be alone.

  When the sun came up, I climbed out of bed without a blink of sleep and turned the shower all the way to cold. I stepped behind the ivory plastic curtain, eyes wide from the shock of ice pelting my skin as I washed off the funk, freezing any remaining tears inside of me, jolting my system awake. I stepped out shivering, not using a towel, letting the goose bumps take over. Then I tied my wet hair in a bun, got dressed, and went downstairs to meet my friends.

  We argued for hours. Everyone had ideas, theories. Tyson’s death was a homicide, a mugging gone wrong. It was in all the Boston newspapers. Charlotte had articles on her tablet. The demented part? I wanted this to be true—I wanted my best friend’s murder to be a senseless act of violence, another crime statistic, just like his father. Because if it wasn’t arbitrary, that meant he may have died because of me, because he was connected to my family. We couldn’t ignore the alarming coincidence.

  Only that possibility made me want to willingly wave the funk in like an old friend, so we instead focused on the immediate issue—Tyson’s funeral.

  I wanted to go, and practically everyone down to our waiter had an opinion. None of them mattered. Tyson was my best friend, and I was not going to ignore his death. I would say goodbye, and I would make sure my absence didn’t cause Regina any more pain. I may have abandoned them with a text message, but at one point we were the three outcast musketeers; now her first love was gone. I could only imagine how lonely Regina felt, and I was going to be there to support her, to honor the last friendship, the last tie I had to my old life, my normal life. Because the truth was, I missed being the person I was when I was their friend. I had to say goodbye to that. Not to mention, if Charlotte and I didn’t leave our supposed European finding-ourselves expedition for a friend’s funeral, we’d not only look heartless, but suspicious. That led to us deciding to attend the funeral together.