Keira freaked. She wanted to come, obviously, but the entire world thought she was dead—Charlotte’s parents included. She couldn’t pop up at a funeral with an “I’m alive!” banner and a Welcome Back to Life party. So Marcus insisted he come. He’d attended Brookline Academy, his presence at the funeral wouldn’t seem out of place, and he’d add an extra layer of protection in case any mysterious enemy was lurking in the wings. On the surface, the idea was solid, and I desperately wanted his hand to hold through this, but ultimately, we decided that placing me, Charlotte, and Marcus in the same building, steps away from Dresden’s headquarters (from Department D’s headquarters), was dangerous, not only for us but for everyone paying their respects. Even Julian agreed.
Besides, my greatest fear wasn’t a spy jumping out of a church pew and attacking me in front of an open casket; it was Keira being kidnapped (or harmed in any way) while she and I were separated. I had a hard enough time being away from her for one night while at the Guy Fawkes festival. So I pleaded with Marcus to stay behind and protect my sister. If Tyson’s death wasn’t accidental, if it was some horrific Department D plan meant to separate us, then Keira couldn’t be left alone.
Eventually, everyone agreed, and Charlotte and I boarded a plane for Boston. We landed at Logan Airport, and we went straight to her parents’ house. It only took minutes for me to realize I didn’t have the Academy Award acting prowess to deal with the Conners. They thought my parents, my sister, and my best friend were all dead, and they were gawking at me like I was a leper missing a foot who’d just been diagnosed with AIDS. I couldn’t tell them the truth, so I bolted out of the house to meet Regina. The funeral was tomorrow, and I needed to hear everything in person—exactly what happened and how. Then I wanted to hug her before all of the fake hugs she was about to receive. I wanted her to know that I understood, really understood, more than most. More than anyone. I wanted her to know I was still me.
I sipped my cinnamon cappuccino, my eyes on the café’s entrance as I waited for Regina in a coffee shop. A flash of daylight shone as the glass doors opened, illuminating the rustic brick-walled café as my friend walked in. Her shiny, stick-straight black hair was unexpectedly short, cropped from her waist all the way to the nape of her neck, angling down toward her chin. And she had bangs. She looked completely different, cute but different. Had I walked past her on a street, I might not have recognized her.
I stood from my cushy rust-colored chair and waved halfheartedly. When she saw me, her eyes widened, as if she were surprised I’d actually shown.
“You look different,” she said, approaching the wood table, stealing my words. I instantly hugged her, but she didn’t hug back. Her arms hung limply.
“I was going to say the same to you.” I pulled away, awkwardly creating space between us. Mentally, I understood why she didn’t want to be held, but it still made the air around us colder. “I like the bangs.” I tried to smile.
“Thanks. So did Tyson.” She brushed them to the side.
“Regina, I’m so sorry.”
We both plopped into wingback velvet chairs, befitting an urban hipster café, surrounded by BU students absorbed in their laptops. It was nearly Thanksgiving break, and the large college campus had the buzz of midterms, the feeling that everything was rushed, stressed, and vital. We were the only patrons in the coffeehouse without schoolwork on our table.
“How did this happen?” I asked when she didn’t speak.
Regina closed her eyes, wincing like the act of inhaling oxygen caused her pain. Ugh. I had never been on this side of the conversation, watching someone relive the anguish. Usually it was me, my tragedy, my agony. And while I felt the hollow ache of Tyson’s death, he wasn’t my first love.
“I was there,” she started. “I watched him die. I held him…to the end.”
The audible sound that escaped my chest caught her attention. I hadn’t known. Not for sure. The news articles said that Tyson was mugged downtown with “a friend,” but there was no mention of a name because the “friend” was a minor. Since Regina hadn’t said anything to Charlotte’s parents, nor to me when I called to set up the coffee date, I’d hoped it wasn’t her.
I reached for her hand across the table, but she pulled away, crossing her arms as she leaned back on her burnt orange cushion. I remembered not letting Marcus touch me after Keira’s disappearance, and for the first time, I realized what that rejection felt like, how hard it was to want to be there for someone who didn’t want you to be there.
“Things got bad after you left. Tyson’s mom fell apart. I don’t know what started it, but she was drinking all the time, like vodka for breakfast. Tyson would run around the apartment throwing out bottles, but she’d always find a new spot—lampshades, toilet tanks.” She shook her head, anger creasing her face. “Obviously, she got fired from work. They had no money. Their electricity was turned off, then their water. Tyson was working at the store as much as he could, skipping school to work extra shifts, trying to make ends meet. His grades tanked, of course. He was put on academic probation. Still, they didn’t have enough money. They were getting evicted.”
She glared, eyebrow cocked as if daring me to say I cared. In a way, she was right—I wasn’t around. I’d been consumed with the horror that was my life, and I never stopped to think about the friends I’d left behind. But it wasn’t because I was heartless; it was because I was a little busy saving my sister’s life.
“You have to understand, every penny Tyson made meant food on the table, time spent out of school, and rent to keep them from living in a car.” She spat the words with a hatred I didn’t know she was capable of, then she squeezed her dainty hands into fists and tucked them below her armpits. She looked like she was barely containing the urge to throw punches at everyone within reach. “We had gone to a free concert at Government Center, and when we were walking back to the T, this guy came out of nowhere. He asked us to hand over our money, just like that. But he didn’t have a gun or anything. He thought we would simply give him our wallets, because he asked in a scary voice. Obviously, we should have. I know that. Everyone knows that. But Tyson refused.” She closed her eyes, and I knew she wanted to erase that memory like an Etch-a-Sketch, shake and start all over with a fresh picture. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way.
“The guy reached for Tyson, like he was going to grab his arm or find his wallet himself, I don’t know.” She looked up at the funky lights hanging from the ceiling, crafted out of old car parts, her brain clearly replaying the scene. “Tyson reacted, like on autopilot. Suddenly, there were kicks and fists everywhere. It was crazy.” I could picture it. Tyson and I both had double black belts in karate, only he was over six feet tall and built like a wide receiver. His size and reflexes were impressive. “Everything happened so fast, and at first, I thought he was winning. Tyson looked so strong, so in control, and I stood there watching in awe. I didn’t move. I didn’t scream. I didn’t call 911. I didn’t take a video. I. Did. Nothing.”
“You froze. That’s normal,” I offered sympathetically, but her eyes turned deadly, and I instantly regretted my words.
“What do you know about it?” she spat.
I suddenly felt sympathy for every person who said the wrong thing to me after my parents died, after Keira disappeared. Nothing about this was normal. I hated seeing Regina living through the torturous drip of what-ifs. I wanted to lift some of the agony off of her.
I exhaled slowly, not wanting to make things worse. “You’re right. I wasn’t there. But I also wasn’t there for my sister when she was attacked, so I know what it feels like to be helpless and full of regret.”
Regina met my eyes, her teeth gritted, tears clinging to her lashes, and her gaze harsh. For the first time, I realized she wasn’t merely angry at the world, she was angry at me. She was wondering what would have happened if I had been there. Because a year ago, I would have gone with them to that concert, I would have been on that walk back to the T, and it would h
ave been two black belts against one mugger.
Finally, she grunted and glanced away. “I had never seen Tyson fight before, not like that, not for real. And I thought it would be over quickly. I thought he would win. I mean, I understood why he didn’t want to hand over his wallet. He couldn’t. It was all he had. His life was shit. He was so stressed out, and at one point, I was worried Tyson was going to kill him. I never saw the knife. I guess Tyson didn’t, either. One second, he was throwing an elbow at the guy’s jaw, and the next Tyson was dropping to the ground, real slowly, like he’d just decided to sit down. I didn’t see the blood at first, and his face looked so confused.” She paused, her big brown eyes clearly still seeing the image that haunted her. “The guy ran away, and I went to Tyson and saw the knife sticking out of his stomach. He never had a chance to say anything, not a word, but his eyes were open all the way to the end. I held him until he stopped breathing…”
Her voice trailed off, and I involuntarily reached for her hand again, my mind reliving the moments I spent diving into a tub of my sister’s boiling hot blood. It was a pain I’d wish on no one, yet here I was witnessing that same anguish on the face of one of my best friends. Only her pain was final. Tyson really was gone.
“People are gonna try to come up with the right words to say tomorrow, but there are none,” I said as she finally let me hold her palm. Her nails were painted black. I never remembered her painting her nails before. “What you went through, what you’re going through, defies words. No amount of flowers or ‘I’m sorrys’ is gonna change that.”
She nodded, saying nothing.
“Are the cops helping? Are there any leads?”
I’d read online that no arrest had been made, and the prospect of finding my sister’s attacker had been the only thing that snapped me out of my funk. Regina needed that.
Rage returned to her face. “They said the knife to Tyson’s abdomen was so precise it severed a major artery. If it had been a few millimeters either way, he probably would have lived. But he bled out before the ambulance arrived. It was like the guy knew exactly where to stab him.”
She held my stare, and I could sense an undercurrent in her words, like the wound was too surgically exact, like she didn’t think a random street thug could get so lucky. Fear cut through me, and I shivered, imagining assassins.
“Do they have any suspects?” my voice shook. The thought that I could be connected to this made my stomach feel wrung out to dry. Please don’t let this have anything to do with me…
“There were no cameras in the alley. They got prints off the knife, but they’re not in any database. I tried to give them a description, but it was so dark and everything happened so fast... I’m pathetic.” Her forehead crinkled with frustration. “You see all these shows, all those what-would-you-do type things, and I did nothing to help him.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I insisted.
“No,” she snipped, her eyes ice-cold. “But it was definitely someone’s fault. Why am I even here right now?”
I’d expected the grief, I felt that myself, but the resentment and rage steaming off of Regina like body heat had me worried about what she might be capable of, what she might do next.
“Regina, are you talking to someone?” I asked, despite how much I despised when people asked me this exact question. I was a hypocrite, but I knew I’d hate myself more if Regina hurt herself.
“You mean a shrink?” she scoffed.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, believe me I know, but if you think it might help…”
“That is definitely not what will help me.” She cleared her voice and straightened her posture like she was ready to move on. “So how was your trip?” The look in her eyes suggested she didn’t really want to hear about my adventures in Europe, like the fact that I might be having fun offended her. If she only knew…
“It’s been hard,” I admitted, trying to squash the conversation.
“You still grieving?”
“Of course,” I lied, sipping my cappuccino to hide my fake expression. My sister was currently in a hotel room in London, and my parents were rumored to be hiding in an evil lair somewhere, but I couldn’t exactly say that.
“So it’s just you and Charlotte over there, traveling around?” Her voice sounded suspicious, and I wasn’t sure how to react. Was I being paranoid? Was I too accustomed to hidden sinister meanings?
I tried to stick to the facts, my mind flicking through the honest tidbits I could share. “Yeah, I’ve been taking online courses. Art History and stuff. I should be able to get an online diploma. Charlotte’s parents have been really understanding.”
“Uh huh.” She nodded, glaring like she didn’t believe me. “Well, then, tell me a story, get my mind off everything. What’s something cool you’ve done over there?”
Saved my sister from crime lords. Fought assassins. Researched my criminal family. Learned my parents might be alive. Oh, and my dad’s not my dad…
“We spent a lot of time in Italy. Lately, we’ve been in London,” I replied.
“Wow, that sounds awesome—traveling the world, not caring about anyone. Maybe I should do that.”
“It wasn’t awesome, believe me.” My eyes stretched to emphasize exactly how legit that statement was. She might have been sensing guilt oozing off of me, but it wasn’t because of how much partying I was doing. “Regina, what you have here, your family, it’s rare. They love you, all three million of your Filipino relatives. I’m guessing they’re already at your house, fighting over who gets to be there for you the most.” She was the only person I knew whose parents had been married for more than thirty years, she was drowning in loving siblings, and her entire extended family lived within a thirty-minute drive. Sunday dinners were all-you-can-eat buffets, so I could only imagine how many wagons had circled at the Villanueva residence.
“They don’t know how to help me. They’re just making themselves feel better, saying rosaries ’round the clock and dedicating Catholic masses. It means nothing—to me or Tyson—and it’s definitely not gonna change anything.” Her jaw twitched.
I sat back in my velvet chair and yanked out the only tactic I had left, the one I’d planned with Charlotte on the plane, the best advice I could give a grieving person who didn’t believe in Heaven or anything beyond a big dark void.
“Did you know it’s scientifically proven that after you die, your energy remains?” I recited the atheist grief blog Charlotte had found. “It’s called the Law of Conservation of Energy, and it says energy can neither be created nor destroyed. So Tyson’s body heat, his actual vibrations, and particle waves, haven’t gone anywhere. It’s been measured by physicists, before and after someone dies. It means all of the energy that made up Tyson, every bit of it, is still here, on Earth, all around you. You can feel him. Literally. It’s proven by science.”
Regina looked at me, her big brown eyes softening for the first time, her jaw relaxing as she considered my words. Everything about her seemed to ease. “Thank you for that.”
I exhaled with relief as I finally caught a glimpse of my old friend. She was in there somewhere, but she needed time to find her way out of the funk.
We were burying our friend tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
There were as many eyes staring at me at the funeral as there were staring at the red oak casket in front of the altar. It seemed every student at Brookline Academy attended, even most of the teachers and administrators. It was like my high school reunion, only I was still in high school. Technically.
The service was being held in a massive, historic Episcopal church on Tremont Street. The sweeping gilded altar was surrounded by so many colorful frescos and stained-glass windows that I felt I’d been magically transported back to European soil. Maybe they weren’t as ancient, but it seemed American cathedrals could still be impressive.
I sat in a carved walnut pew in the rear of the church. Regina and her enormous Filipino Catholic family encompassed several
rows in front. Tyson’s mother was in the first pew. It was painful to watch her hobble down the aisle, doubled over and sobbing, her somber black dress wrinkled and sagging like a child playing dress up. She appeared to be hemorrhaging weight; her cheeks were too sharp and her eyes sunken as if her chocolate skin had dissolved into a thin layer of tissue that was now slipping from her bones. A man, who I recognized to be her brother, Tyson’s Uncle Donovan, was physically supporting her weight. She was the grieving mother, the surviving member who warranted sympathy, yet I had to wonder if she was sober right now. I had to wonder if she felt guilty. Responsible.
Charlotte sat beside me. The scene was all too reminiscent of Keira’s memorial, my parents’ memorial. We were doing this again. Beside Charlotte were her parents—my legal family. Recently, they’d helped me sell my family’s brownstone. They even worked with a contractor to demolish the master bathroom and the ominous claw-foot tub before it went on the market. The last place I lived with my family sold in less than a week. I told them the money would be used to pay for college. Really, I planned to use it to run away with Keira. I wasn’t sure what our plans were now.
The pastor finished his remarks, commenting on Tyson’s “love of life,” his “courage” after the loss of his father, his “unyielding dedication to his mother,” and his “bravery” as he protected Regina from a violent mugger. While this was all true, it was also oversimplified. Tyson wasn’t given a choice in forming those characteristics. His father was murdered, much like his son, on a street in Boston. His mother fell apart and never put the pieces back together. Tyson became the head of his household at the age of ten, and by seventeen, he was caring for an alcoholic parent and financially supporting her by working at a convenience store. Given a choice, he would have been a reckless, carefree teenager playing too many video games and worrying if he could afford a tux for prom. But that wasn’t an option for him.
Lies That Bind Page 7
