by Katie Klein
His eyes search mine, defeated. "You can't win. You won't make it out alive. They'll never let it happen."
"Then we'll be together again!" A half-crazed, delirious, laughter bubbles inside. "I'll be like you. We'll be together. And it'll be so perfect! Everything will be perfect!"
The words hang suspended between us, smile on my lips fading at the suffering weaved into each of his features. "We'll be together," I repeat. But this time I'm not so sure.
* * *
Carter is missing.
My stomach lurches. I shove the too thick, too heavy comforter aside and stumble into the Fleming's guest bathroom, stone tiles cold beneath my bare feet. I barely make it to the toilet before I'm heaving, bile burning my throat as it rises. It's tinted red from the punch, like bloody water, and the sight of it triggers more heaves and more bile and more heaves until my stomach grasps against itself, aching and empty. I flush the toilet once, twice, and collapse onto the floor, leaning my head against the papered wall, weary eyes stained with tears. I reach for the towel draped over the side of the bathtub, press my face into it, and bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back sobs threatening to rattle my shoulders.
Boat flipped upside down.
Search teams.
No sign of him.
Waves too rough.
Too fast.
But I know better. I know better because this accident has nothing to do with Carter at all, and everything to do with the fact that he was the last one left standing. The last person Viola needed to eliminate so she could have all of me. Of course he would be the next one she went after.
I should've seen this coming.
I should've kept it from happening.
Carter's gone. And it's all my fault.
* * *
I stare at the blank flat screen, sinking into one of the couches in the Fleming's formal living room, ignoring people traipsing in and out of the house, the din of conversations, the muffled speculations.
"What did I say about the TV?" An angry voice bellows, rattling through halls. Carter's father—Jack.
The TVs stay off—that's what he said. No news coverage, period. But it doesn't matter. Not really. The damage is already done—images forever etched into our subconscious. The helicopters. The overturned boat. Miles and miles of empty, endless ocean.
The housekeeper sets a tray on the coffee table without a word. Pancakes. Eggs. Orange juice. She returns an hour later, hauls it away, untouched. For lunch: a BLT and side of chips. I curl against the pillow, legs tucked beneath me, ignoring the murmur of Carter's family. Friends. Their worthless apologies.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry.
You will never be as sorry as I am.
I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Kitty Fleming rationalizes. Carter was responsible—cautious. Swim lessons at five and again at seven. He practically lived in the pool, at the beach. She refuses to believe anything other than Carter is still alive. Still out there.
Twenty-four hours.
The police arrive not long after the lettuce on that sandwich begins to wilt, asking for me, questioning my whereabouts at the time of the accident.
I burst out laughing at their audacity—I was here. The whole day—until my shoulders shake and tears leak from my eyes.
Jack Fleming screams at the officers, ordering them to get the fuck out of his house, threatening to call his attorneys. And even though Carter's mom is desperately trying to hold us—everything—together, at that moment she breaks, cracking under the burden of grief. I witness that fatal snap, the pain plaiting itself into her eyes, the sting of loss carving my memories forever.
The entire house seems to crumble, caving on top of us. Giving up.
It's like hell.
Seventy-two hours later, the search is called off.
EIGHTEEN
The wheels on my luggage bounce over cracks, thumping against concrete as I wind my way down the breezeway. I move slowly, prolonging the inevitable. I never wanted to return to this place. To this home that was never a home. This dwelling to which I am unaccustomed, unadjusted.
But staying at Jack and Kitty's is out of the question. We need time. I need time. They need time. It's over. Now we adapt. We adapt to this new world—this life without Carter.
I am a coward.
The truth is I can't stomach living under the roof of a family when it's my fault their son died. Crashing a guest room. Sharing meals. It's like sheltering the enemy, and I won't let them do that. Because I'm the reason. The reason Carter . . . Selena. . . . Every bad thing that's happened to them in the last year is because of me.
I stop at the door of the condo, twist the key in the lock.
The door swings easily, and I haul the suitcase over threshold. Inside, the air is cold and stale, presents from the wedding shower stacked like a tower in the corner, delivered and waiting with no one left to truly appreciate them. I cross the room, push back the curtain, and sunlight tumbles across the floor. The familiar summer haze, humidity settling over sea has vanished. The world is clearer, brighter, bluer.
Indications of a hasty search surround me. In the bedroom, drawers are rifled through. Contents shifted. Items misplaced. Tossed aside. Evidence of policemen passing through—a trail of fragmented clues enough to piece together and know this happened then this happened then this happened. Policemen who don't care enough to put things back where they belong.
Carter's shirt dangles from an open drawer. I take it, feel the smooth fabric against my skin, lift it to my nose. Cedar. Like the drawers. I lift another. And another. But not one shirt or sweater or sock smells anything like him.
He can't be gone already. Something must still smell like him. I rip clothes from the dresser, the closet, hurl them across the room, chest compressing, aching with grief.
It's impossible to sleep.
I move from the couch to the bed to the floor and back again, until the sun rises and I quit. I microwave a bowl of macaroni and cheese and crash after lunch, waking in time to watch the sun set. Another bowl of macaroni, and ten straight hours of late night programming and infomercials.
I don't know what to do.
Carter's mom calls—just checking in—after a week. Asks if everything is okay.
It's fine, I lie.
She's also fine, but I can tell she needs someone to talk to—someone who maybe knows Carter like she did, and, even though we were only married a month, that person is somehow me. And so I listen. When she invites me to Sunday brunch I decline, but then I feel guilty for turning her down and spend another sleepless night sure I've offended her. I want her to call back, because maybe I need to talk to someone, too.
The food runs out, forcing me to leave the apartment. I grab the spare key from my wallet and head downstairs. Carter's SUV is parked exactly where he left it the day he went out and never returned. Cold air pinches my skin as I shuffle toward it, wrestling regret with every step. I climb inside anyway, and this . . . this smells like him. Like he was here only seconds before. Like he never left at all.
My fingers glide across frozen leather steering wheel, breath fogging. Even after sitting idle for weeks, the engine barely hesitates. And suddenly it all makes sense: the preparations, the paperwork, 'til death do us part. Carter wasn't planning for the end of the world.
He was planning for the end of his world.
NINETEEN
A light shines behind closed eyes, a brush of skin skimming my bare arm. The cold shiver is enough to penetrate sleep, and eyelids flutter open.
The glow of the television fills the room, flickering with every change of scene—from light to dark and back again. I reach for the lamp, turn it on, and wrestle myself upright. The pressure behind my eyes builds, head throbbing. I slide off the couch and move into the kitchen where I find a single bottle of Advil in an otherwise empty cabinet beside the refrigerator. I squeeze the sides of the lid to open it.
The vision tumbles ove
r me, crumbling reality as I brace myself against counter.
Darkness.
A single gunshot.
I jerk back, flinching, blinking rapidly. The container rolls on its side, pills scattered across the hardwood floor. I scoop them up, as many as I can grab in my fist at once, fingers refusing to cooperate, knees shaking and weak.
"I know you're here," I say, standing to my full height, shoulders squaring.
Nothing.
But I know something is nearby. Someone is close—screwing with my head.
"I'm done! I'm finished with all of this, so you can show yourself or get out!"
Nothing.
It happens again the next night.
And the next.
He appears just after two in the morning. I'm awake—can't sleep. The lights are on. The television. I am standing in the kitchen making a peanut butter sandwich when he's right there. Almost standing on top of me.
"Holy shit!" I breathe, knife clattering to the counter, heart tripping over itself.
I back away, pressing myself into cabinets, cataloguing under details the brown robe. The salt and pepper hair. Wrinkles around the eyes. Lips seeping into a wicked smile.
"You're alone," I mumble, unsure if this is meant as a question or a statement, or if it even matters. Either way, the rest of the Council is missing. Unless they're here and I can't see them—unless they're hidden in shadows.
His eyes brush over me, appraising. "It's time."
I force a laugh, feigning contempt, pretending I do not fear him—what he represents. "Time for what?" I ask, returning to my sandwich, peeling the knife from the counter. But the peanut butter won't spread. My hands—they refuse to stop trembling.
"The Council requests your assistance. There is someone who needs to be eliminated."
My jaw tightens. "Who?"
He produces an envelope.
"You're kidding," I mutter.
"You are familiar with The Cypress hotel," he continues. "I believe you were there recently."
"I went with Carter," I confirm.
His gaze sears mine, expression unreadable. "Carter. Yes. We are deeply sorry for your loss. These last few weeks must have been . . . difficult for you."
It's then that I wonder what this man is keeping from me. What he knows about Carter. About us. About the accident. I wonder if I even want to know.
I swallow hard, tearing my eyes from him, forcing my fingers to take the envelope.
"You will find the address and directions inside, and an invitation to an event. You are to check into the hotel. You are to attend this event. You are to tell no one why you are there. You are to find the man whose name is carried within that envelope, and you are to dispose of him."
"What did he do?" I ask, hesitating.
"That is none of your concern."
"If I'm killing a guy, then yes, I'd like to know why I'm doing it."
"You're doing it for Seth. Correct?"
My heart slows, weighing the cost of the task stretched before me, the reward for accomplishing it. "I mean . . . he deserves to die, right?"
An artful smile hitches his lips. "Of course."
"What is he? A Guardian? A demon? A regular . . . person?"
"That is for you to determine."
"So, that's it? I take this . . . whatever. . . out for you," I say, waving the envelope, "and Seth is mine?"
"That is correct."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"You have no choice but to take us at our word," he says.
"You lied to me before," I remind him.
His eyes harden, previous traces of benevolence slipping away, disappearing from them. "If there is any hope of Seth being restored to his former place, you will accomplish this," he says, voice threatening.
"And how, exactly, do you expect me to accomplish this?"
"You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, Genesis. I am confident you will think of something. Please know, however, that you are bound to secrecy. You will tell no one of this meeting, and, should you fail, you will speak nothing of this assignment or of the Council, because we will deny you." Another long, lingering smile. "But then, should you fail, we've nothing to fear."
An icy chill travels the length of my spine.
"Godspeed, Ms. Green."
TWENTY
Knowing sleep will never come, I pack. I rip tags off pristine, monogrammed luggage and fill it with everything I might need in the coming days. Forty-fives between the folds of sweaters. Knives between the black bolero and shimmery gold dress. Boxes of ammunition between a tube of mascara and eyeliner. My flat iron.
As I force belongings into the largest suitcase, I step away from Genesis the Avenger, shedding the moniker like an ill-fitting skin, transforming to Genesis the Assassin. Because that's what I am. I kill for killing's sake. And I think that my life was a whole lot simpler when all I had to worry about was Viola. There was black and there was white and she deserved to die. No other punishment would have sufficed, would have held her—not after what she did to me. To Seth. My friends. She is everything I trained for. And now I wonder if there was no alternative—if this was the only way out from the very beginning, that, no matter what happened, I was destined to find this path.
I'm in the SUV by three in the morning. The streets are deserted. The night clear. Cold. Moonlight pours from the sky, brightening the landscape.
A police officer stops me on my way out of town. I pass him my license through a cracked window. It has my new name. The new address. The new me. He doesn't even ask where I'm going, just hands it back and waves me through, then returns to his make-shift office, the warmth of a space heater and mug of coffee.
And here I am again, travelling this well-worn road. Escaping under cover of night.
The sun is rising as I reach Gaineston, the world brightening from black to shades of blue, skyline looming in the distance. I punch the hotel address into the GPS, and find the building easily. My legs ache with fatigue as I roll my suitcase across the parking lot, pavement grinding beneath the wheels.
Inside, the hotel is everything I remember. The sounds, the smells, the colors. I pass the restaurant to my right, cross the lobby, head to the front desk. "The Cypress," in brushed nickel, graces a stone water feature behind the manager, who seems awfully stiff in that navy blazer.
"I need a room," I tell her.
Her fingers hover above the keyboard, poised. "Do you have a reservation?"
Would the Council secure a reservation for me?
"I don't know. You can check."
"Your name?"
"It would be under Fleming. Genesis Fleming. Or maybe Genesis Green? I'm not sure."
She strikes a few keys, examines the screen, frowning. "I'm sorry. I don't see anything."
"It's fine. I need a room either way."
"Check-in isn't until noon."
"What?"
"I can assign you a room," she explains. "But check-in isn't until noon."
I heave a weary sigh. "Look, I just drove like, three hours to get here. I'm tired. Is there any way you can let me check in now? I'll pay extra. Whatever."
"I'm sorry. Hotel policy."
"I don't get it. Is there a shortage of rooms or something?" I ask, temper swelling, body overheating from lack of rest.
A smile. It's the best she can offer.
I study her for a moment. Her too-tight ponytail and tacky yellow scarf. The pin on her lapel congratulating her for five years of service. "What am I supposed to do until lunch time?"
"The restaurant is open. You're welcome to wait. Otherwise, I'm sure there are other hotels in the area willing to accommodate you."
Because I'm not worth accommodating.
I'm too exhausted to scoff. Or laugh. Instead, I turn without a word.
The restaurant hostess greets me with a smile I can't return. The world is awake and moving now, a few of the restaurant tables occupied—all businessmen in dark suits, cell phones pressed
to ears and pages from Wall Street Journals spread across tables.
The waiter arrives not long after I'm seated, wishing me a "Good Morning."
"The morning would be a lot better if I could check into a room, but apparently I'm not worth accommodating. At least not until noon," I tell him. Another sigh. "I need coffee. Black and strong."
The coffee is cool by the time I swallow the last sip, the caffeine already working its magic. I watch people passing windows, traipsing down sidewalks, traffic stopping and starting at intervals.
There's no point finding another hotel. The Council wants me here. My work is here.
You could go for a walk. Go shopping. Take a nap in the car, the voice in my head suggests.
"Can I get you anything else, or would you like your check?" the waiter asks.
"Just the check."
I reach for my wallet, remove my bank card. The waiter returns with a black leather folder. I open it, choke back shock at the price of a single cup of coffee, stick my card between the plastic anyway, and hand it back to him, trying not to think about how this hotel is going to destroy my bank account.
I'll get a cheap room and only eat fast food. I'm sure there's a microwave. I can pick up a few things to heat up—save some money.
Footsteps approach as I am lost in this thought.
"Your receipt," the waiter says.
And just behind him: "Mrs. Fleming, I sincerely apologize. We can have a room ready for you immediately."
It's her. The manager.
"What about the policy?"
She laughs, the sound so light and cooperative it's almost shrill and unnatural. "We can certainly make an exception in this case. If you'll come to the front when you're ready, we'll get you checked right in."
I watch her leave, knowing disbelief is painted across my face, because the waiter speaks: "I ran your card. The account is flagged VIP. She could lose her job for what she did," he explains.
"Wow," I say, rising. "VIP, huh? I'll try not to hold that against her."
