I sit at our crappy, plastic kitchen table, still dressed in my winter coat. I don’t even have the energy to untie my scarf. It’s wool. I hate wool. It itches the skin on my neck, but I leave it be. I stare at my ghostly reflection in our dark window, my heart pounding anxious beats against my breastbone, still waiting for the stranger’s face to appear, pressed up against the glass.
No one is safe. Torres’s voice rattles against my brain. I see him, tied up to a metal pipe with the belts of his dead guards, promising to kill the people I loved. I’ve tried to forget about those final words. Excuse them away as the last desperate lie of a manipulative man. But there’s a wariness that has been growing in my gut. And after seeing the stranger, it’s inflated, pressing against my organs and making me sick.
There’s a mole in the Black Angels.
I’m sure of it. How would Santino Torres know about Harper? How could he name all of the people I was close to at CORE? And until I can figure out who has been feeding the Torres syndicate information, we will never ever be safe.
The skin around my neck flares and I finally force my hands to move and unwrap my scarf. I take off my coat too, throwing it over the extra chair. I grab my computer off the kitchen countertop and begin my nightly check on Harper. After years of not being allowed to be on social media, I’ve created several fake accounts to keep tabs on her.
I log onto Twitter first and read through her latest tweets.
Whose idea was it to schedule 9am classes on Fridays? I want to strangle pre-college Harper.
Sick of all the tourists who have invaded NYC for Christmas. If I have to walk around one more person taking a selfie in the park …
My lips crinkle at the typical Harper snark. But a third tweet catches my eye.
Smitten is all it says. If it had a heart-eyes emoji next to those words, I’d seriously think someone had hacked into her account. I click into the replies to get more info. There are only two replies.
With a face like that, who wouldn’t be?
New boy? Drinks tonight. Time to spill.
New boy? I caught up on all her posts from the last year a couple of weeks ago. She rarely mentions guys or relationships. Most of our evenings at the Dead End Diner revolved around fries, milkshakes, and her disdain for relationships and boyfriend/girlfriend oversharers. Just … doesn’t seem like Harper.
Pictures. Pictures. I need pictures.
I switch over to Instagram. Since my last check, Harper has posted three new photos. I flip through them. A picture of Harper and her roommate eating big slices of pepperoni pizza. A photo of Harper on the street wearing a Yankees cap and a leather jacket; her wavy hair flying and her tongue sticking out playfully for the camera. The last photo is a screenshot from a FaceTime call. Harper is smiling in a tiny square in the corner. A guy with dark hair and high cheekbones smiles back at her. His long eyelashes outline his almond-shaped eyes, and a five o’clock shadow makes him even sexier. I see what has Harper so smitten. But as I stare into his face, acid begins to sear my stomach lining.
I read the caption of the photo. My favorite time of day. The photo has over one hundred likes and a few comments.
Damn, Harper.
Lucky boy. Lucky girl.
Mateo! Wow.
Your prince! I hope you get to meet him soon.
Shit. She hasn’t met him in person yet?
The bile spins, the tenuous tissue at my core burning. A physical reaction to the uneasy words on repeat in my mind: Something’s not right. Something’s not right.
My hands move quickly as I open up my email and shoot a note to Cam. Our electronics are completely untraceable and secure. Even so, I’m not really supposed to be talking to Cam. But we’ve been secretly touching base with the occasional email or late-night phone call.
Hey. Can you call me tonight? Need your help.
I hit send and close out the email. I stare back at Harper’s photo of Mateo. She looks so happy. I bite down hard on my lip, hoping the panic ballooning inside of me is misguided.
The satellite phone rings on the kitchen counter, making me jump. I stand up and rush to it.
“Hello?”
“Everything okay?” Cam’s strained voice asks on the other end.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer and sit back down at the kitchen table. “That was fast. You didn’t need to call right away.”
“I worry about you,” Cam replies quietly into the phone. “I saw your email, grabbed my phone, and ran down to one of the conference rooms.”
“We’re okay,” I say and rest my forehead in my open palm. “I mean we’re safe. We’re not okay, of course.”
“He still not really talking to you?” Cam asks with a sigh.
“Only when he has to,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table. “We got into it last night. Everything just kind of came out. I knew he was angry. I don’t think I realized just how much he hated me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Cam says.
“He does,” I interrupt. “I mean, who can blame him? If I had this amazing life in front of me and someone just threw a grenade on it, I’d hate them too.”
“He’s just upset,” Cam replies. “He’ll come around. He loves you, Reagan.”
“Not anymore,” I say quietly.
“So what’s going on?” Cam asks on the other end, rescuing me from falling into a sinkhole of self-pity.
“I told you about the threats Torres made before he died. That he’d still come after the people in my life. So I’ve been checking in on Harper’s social media and all has seemed okay but … she’s talking to this guy now. And they haven’t met yet in person and the timing just feels weird and fishy. I guess I’m just worried about her.”
“You worried it’s one of Torres’s guys?” Cam asks.
“Maybe,” I answer slowly. “I don’t want to be so paranoid but something is just … off.”
“Let me look into it,” Cam answers. “Just email me all of her social media handles and I’ll do some digging.”
“Okay, I will,” I say. “And Cam … just … don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course,” Cam answers. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you anyway.”
“Right,” I say. But that’s not why I want him to stay silent.
I’ve been running through my list of mole suspects for the last couple weeks. Lex. Anusha. The senior leaders. Even Sam has been someone I’ve considered. But for me, Cam is out. His mother and father were nearly killed a couple months ago at the hand of Torres’s men. There’s no way he could be involved. My circle of trust is getting smaller and smaller.
Cam clears his throat. “I better run. It’s almost lights out.”
I glance over at the clock on the oven: 11:56.
“I kind of miss having a bedtime,” I reply.
My throat thickens with the sentiment I hate the most. Regret. The phone falls silent as I try to push the growing lump in my throat back down.
“Thanks for checking on her,” I finally say, my throat clear from emotional obstructions.
“Of course,” Cam answers. “We miss you, Reagan. A lot.”
And with that, Cam hangs up. I keep the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the hollowness of a dead line.
“Miss you more,” I whisper into the receiver. To no one. To nothing.
FOUR
Condensation encircles my glass, fogging it with dew. I watch as water droplets run down its elegant curve, creating clear rivers that allow me to peer inside. My eyes are stuck staring at one droplet high on the glass, getting ready to run. Finally, it breaks free, picking up other droplets, greedily growing in size as it makes its way down to the circular base. It joins the other fallen droplets, soaking into a thick Bud Light coaster.
“Olivia, you sure you don’t want anything besides a Coke?” Adam asks and touches my hand, finally pulling me out of my stare. “The bartender never checks IDs.”
“You would know,” Imogene replies, reaching for a fry in the p
lastic red basket at the center of our table.
“What does that mean?” Adam says, dipping his own fry into ketchup.
“Oh, don’t pretend like you didn’t take every college girl with a summer house to Charlie’s this July,” Imogene replies, her thin lips parting into a playful smile.
Adam shrugs, a sheepish grin tickling the corners of his lips. “Lots of hot girls up here over break. What am I supposed to do?”
“Control yourself,” Imogene replies and rolls her eyes. “This kid caused so much drama this summer. There was literally a catfight that broke out in the Book Loft over him. Like scratching, hair pulling, the works.”
“Are you serious?” Luke says with a laugh, dunking his fries into a cup of ranch, giving away his midwesternness.
“Yeah, it was a kind of a cluster,” Adam answers, taking a long sip of beer. “How was I supposed to know they were sisters?”
“They had the same last name, you idiot,” Imogene replies, her eyes narrowing into slits.
“I didn’t know their last names,” Adam counters, draining his last gulp of beer. “And on that note, time for another round. You guys want anything?”
“No, I’m good,” I answer.
“Get an order of pickle chips,” Luke replies as he shoves the last of the French fries into his mouth.
“I’ll come with you,” Imogene says, grabbing her wallet off the table and hopping off her high-back bar stool.
The two of them weave their way around the tables, half of them occupied by local couples, friends and co-workers I recognize from the downtown shops, restaurants, and cafés. Charlie’s has been around for fifty-five years and it has both the wear and character to prove it. The dark-wood bar top is chipped and scuffed, with people’s names and initials carved everywhere. Dollar bills have been pinned to the low ceilings, a tradition that lives on for first-time patrons. High-end liquor bottles (the expensive stuff is for the tourists; they keep the cheap stuff out of view for the locals in the know) line the back of the bar, glowing from the bottom and reflected in the large mirror, calling out to drinkers to have just one more round.
The old-fashioned jukebox in the corner blares a new song. I recognize the first few measures of the piano before Michael McDonald’s voice picks up the lyrics.
“You don’t know me but I’m your brother. I was raised here in this living hell,” his deep voice sings to me. The Doobie Brothers’ “Takin’ It to the Streets.”
The last time I heard this song, I was with Luke in the Weixels’ bonus room, singing along with the record player, feeling happier than I ever had in my entire life. It was the night before my Templeton visit. Less than twenty-four hours before my first kiss with Luke. That was the night Luke told me to stop trying to live my life for someone else. It was the first and last time I allowed myself to think that my life could actually belong to me and not the Black Angels.
“I know what you’re thinking about,” Luke says, his eyes fixed on the empty basket of fries. His fingers pick at the checkered paper, damp with grease.
“You do?” I ask, wondering if he recognizes the song. If he’s reliving the moment, wishing he could go back in time, like I am.
“Yes,” he answers and finally looks up at me. “The song. The records.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” I reply, cradling my glass in my hands, condensation wetting my chapped skin.
“I remember everything,” Luke answers before turning his attention back to the empty basket. And from his monotone voice, I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.
“Okay, pickle chips are coming,” Adam says, setting down a fresh beer, its frothy head spilling over the glass’s edge as he climbs onto the chair next to me.
I scan the room for Imogene, and that’s when I see him. The muscles in my neck compress as my eyes lock with the stranger in the corner. He’s cradling a tumbler full of ice and a dark brown liquor. He stares at me for a moment, then knocks back his drink, stands up, and puts on his leather jacket. Dread swells at my center, pushing down on my lungs, as I watch him place a bill on the counter and hurry toward the front door.
Where is he going? What is he doing?
He pushes past a couple making their way into the bar, knocking the girl’s shoulder before slipping into the darkness.
Without thinking, I jump up, yanking my peacoat off the chair. The chair wobbles and nearly tips over.
“Liv, what is it?” Luke asks next to me, his eyes wide and suddenly concerned.
“Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head and thinking fast. “I just have a headache and think I left some Tylenol in the car. I’ll be right back.”
My legs carry me through the dark bar before Luke can ask me another question. I swing open the door, a gust of wind biting at my skin, warm with synthetic heat. I throw on my coat as I scan the sidewalk, searching for his dark jacket in the white snow.
I spot him a block away, heading back toward the Book Loft. My body moves slowly up the sidewalk. I reach inside my bag, searching for my gun.
Where is it? Where is it?
It’s not in its usual spot. I look down at the bag and dig a little deeper. Finally, I feel the weight of the pistol in my hand. The cool steel against my exposed hands makes my stomach twist, fear tingling up my fingertips like razor blades until it reaches my arms, my shoulders, my neck. I cling to the shadow of the buildings, trying to stay out of the glare of the streetlights wrapped in evergreen and red ribbons. Even in the darkness, he’d spot me.
The man pauses, looking down at something in his hand. His phone? A gun? My legs freeze midstep and my breath vacates my body.
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.
He doesn’t. My legs pick up speed as he reaches the parking lot and unlocks a blue car. My Black Angel mind immediately takes in its features, memorizing every characteristic I can see.
Blue. Four-door. Toyota. Massachusetts license plate.
I sneak up closer, trying to read the plate’s letters and numbers.
G-D-B …
“What are you doing?” a voice asks behind me and I spin around. Luke.
“Jesus Christ, Luke,” I hiss, my hand pulled over my frantic heartbeat.
“You know, for a trained spy,” Luke begins. “You don’t really know how to exit a room with a graceful excuse.”
I turn back around toward the parking lot, my neck craning, eyes searching for the car to get the rest of the license plate. But it’s gone. He’s gone. Again.
“Why did you follow me?” I ask, spinning back toward Luke.
“Because I knew something was wrong and I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he answers, shoving his ungloved hands into the pockets of his thick black coat.
“I didn’t think you’d care if I was,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest for warmth.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Luke answers, rolling his dark eyes. “Of course I care. And don’t pout and act like I don’t have a right to be mad at you.”
“I know,” I answer quietly and take a breath. “You do.”
I need to give him that. I shouldn’t sulk and think that will magically get him to forgive me. I did this. And while we’ll never get things back to the way they used to be, maybe if I give him enough space and time, one day we’ll be okay. Not great, but okay. Friends again. That, I know, is the best I can hope for.
“So what’s going on?” Luke says, his neck turning from side to side, searching the empty sidewalk for the reason I bolted out of the bar.
“There was just a guy in the bar staring at me weird,” I answer and look down, my boots kicking at the fresh layer of snow. “I saw him in the bookstore yesterday too. I haven’t seen him in town before. He’s not a local. He just … has me worried. That’s all.”
“Not every person who looks at you for a second too long is out to get you,” Luke says and we turn to walk back toward the bar.
But someone wants to kill us. Someone will always be after us, my mind screa
ms, the silent declaration, like a needle at the center of my chest.
“I know,” I lie, staring at each new footprint in the white. I don’t want to freak Luke out. Poison him with my own anxiety and fears.
“We’re supposed to be safe here,” Luke says quietly. “The Black Angels wouldn’t put us somewhere they didn’t think was safe.”
“But what about the mole?” I reply, looking back up into Luke’s eyes. “We don’t know who it is and they might know where we are.”
“I’m not entirely convinced there is a mole,” Luke says, leaning against the brick wall outside of Charlie’s. The door swings open and Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” pours out into the snow.
“Running in the shadows. Damn your love. Damn your lies.”
The drumbeat in the song is nearly in sync with my heart.
“What?” my exasperated voice pushes out, my eyebrows cinching together. “There has to be a mole. How would Santino know about Cam or Anusha? About Harper?”
“Look,” Luke says with a sigh, his hands up in the air in half protest and half surrender. “Let’s just go back inside and conspiracy theory this later. This is a very long time to search for Tylenol. They’re going to wonder what happened to us.”
“Fine,” I answer, my voice defeated.
“We’re safe here, Reagan,” Luke says, touching me on the left shoulder and staring into my eyes. After a moment of holding my body and my gaze, he lets go and opens the door for me. As I walk into the dark bar, I wonder if Luke even believes his own declaration. And if those words will ever be true.
* * *
A basket of pickle chips later, we’re back at the house. Luke is asleep upstairs while I check my email, hoping for a follow-up report from Cam. I click into my inbox. Empty.
Perhaps it’s nothing, my mind whispers as I close my eyes and take in a clearing breath, hoping fresh oxygen will push out the anxiety that clings to each organ, like barnacles taking over the bottom of a boat. I put my fingers up to my temples, rubbing them counterclockwise as I repeat over and over again, It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.
You Won't See Me Coming Page 3
