by Sarina Bowen
I never, ever dress like a slob. But this is my disguise. I’ve got the hood pulled up, and all my hair is invisible.
As I approach Rayanne’s house, though, there’s a cruiser parked outside. The young cop from the other night is leaning against it, just watching Rayanne’s house. His muscular arms are folded across his chest, and he wears a patient expression that gives nothing away.
“What are you doing?” I ask him as soon as he notices me. I push the hood off and remove the cap, so he can see who I am.
“Miss Copeland,” he says. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss it.”
“Is someone in Rayanne’s house?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen anyone, though.”
I glance at the house, which looks about the same as it did the other day when I’d searched it myself. But I’m careful not to look at the garage, which is where I really want to go. If I walk in there right now, I’ll only draw attention to it.
“You need anything, miss?” the cop asks.
“No, thank you,” I say primly. “Just out for a walk, hoping my stepsister had come home. But I’ll come back later.”
“Okay, then,” he says easily. His words give nothing away, but I notice that he’s fingering a cell phone in his pocket, the way I’d do if I were waiting for a call.
Hmm.
“Bye now,” I say, and keep on walking. I do a slow circuit of the little town green. When I’m on the opposite side of the square I take out the burner phone and text Rayanne. Why didn’t you check in? I’m worried sick. And now I think you’re in a whole lot of trouble. There is a cop parked outside your house. RIGHT outside!
The phone rings in my hand a few seconds later. The noise is so unfamiliar that I jump, and then scramble to answer. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “I fell asleep and forgot to text you last night.”
“You forgot,” I spit. “This isn’t a game, Raye! I’m still in Vermont for the express purpose of worrying about you! And—”
“Hush,” she demands, cutting me off. “I got played, okay? I’ve been hiding in this Jeep for three days, eating granola bars and shivering. And it was all a setup.”
I take that in. “Who set you up?”
“An asshole named Sparks. He told me shit was going down here at the lake, but it was a lie. Nothing happened here. Except that I can’t feel my toes.”
“That sounds miserable. But you still haven’t told me a single flipping thing about Sparks or the trouble you’re in. And now Benito thinks you’re a hit-and-run driver.”
“Fuuuuuck!” Rayanne whispers. Then she lets out a heavy, knowing sigh. “After seven months he finally found the truck?”
My heart drops all the way to my two-inch heels. “Raye!” I hiss. “Tell me it isn’t true.” I’d walked up the hill to see the truck myself. I was positive I’d find it free of scratches or dents.
“I didn’t hit Zara’s car, okay? Sparks did that. But nobody will ever believe me.”
“Sure they will,” I argue. “Either you were behind the wheel, or not! It’s not that complicated.”
She groans. “We were both in the truck.”
“Why?”
“Because of sex, Skye. We were having a sexual relationship. But then he tricked me into doing some things that are totally illegal. I mean—I picked up on the fact that he’s a scary dude. But I thought I could let him do me without becoming part of the story.”
It’s my turn to let out a groan.
“Trust me, I know. Anyway. I told Sparks that night in my truck that we weren’t having sex anymore, and I wasn’t going to do any more of his dirty work. I was driving us away from the Gin Mill, and I was sober. But Sparks was wasted. He didn’t like what I had to say, and he threatened me.”
Oh no.
“I started the truck because I wanted to drive home. I was in a snit, so I accelerated like an asshole. That’s on me. But then he grabbed the wheel and intentionally steered me into Zara’s car door. He did it to scare me. And it totally worked. I screamed like crazy and then banged the truck into a post.”
“This is the most effed-up story I’ve ever heard.” Although it sounds like something that would happen to Rayanne. The girl has gotten into more scrapes than a clumsy kid in roller skates. “And you thought it was a good idea to leave the scene of an accident?”
“No! But I did anyway,” she wails. “He was yelling, ‘Floor it! Floor it! You’re the driver, you stupid bitch.’ That stunt was his way of buying my loyalty. That and telling me every day that he’d kill me.”
“Who is he?” I demand. “And make it good, because I’ve had enough of not knowing a thing.”
“He works with my dad.” She snorts. “I just made it sound like they own a real business. But I guess they do. They buy heroin and cut it with fentanyl. And they tricked me into helping them.”
“Tricked you?”
“Long story. But fentanyl is small. You can drive a hundred-grand-worth around under the spare tire of your dad’s car, and not have a clue it’s there. Ask me how I know.”
I shiver. “That’s terrifying.”
“That’s just the beginning,” she says, sounding smaller and more scared than she did a minute ago. “I need out. I drove up here to take pictures of Sparks picking up this month’s drop. He let it slip what day it was.”
“But it didn’t happen?”
“No. It was just a ploy to get me up here alone. Last night he was cruising this town in slow circles, looking for me. I saw his headlights four times. He’s going to kill me, Raffie. I’m a dead girl.”
“So turn him in!” I plead. “You must have the goods on him.”
“Yes and no,” she says quietly. “I need pictures. Because if I’m not convincing, I’m a dead girl. The only way this works is if he’s in jail forever and I’m not. Even then it’s a tossup. He could hire someone to kill me for him.”
I shiver again inside my hoodie. “Why don’t you just explain this to Benito, and let him hide you?”
“Because he doesn’t run the world! The more help I am to him, the better this goes. I’m so close to proving what Sparks is up to. But now he doesn’t trust me. He drove up here just to hunt me down.”
I’m afraid for her, but she also sounds a little paranoid. “How can you be sure?”
“I put one of those Tile tracker things in his car. That’s why I needed the rental Jeep—so he couldn’t spot me. I watched his location do slow circles around the lake all last night. I was lying on the floor of the backseat, terrified that he’d look into the windows.”
“Oh gosh.”
“You can curse, you know. When people are trying to kill me, you can say fuck.”
“Go back to the truck a second. What about fingerprints? His prints should be on the steering wheel of your truck.” That’s how it would work on TV, anyway.
“No dice. I have a fuzzy, sheepskin steering wheel cover.”
“Why?” Of all the stupid things.
“Hello? Vermont? It’s minus-twenty here in January. And fingerprints aren’t going to save me. Nobody is going to save me except for me. But now you know why I left you at the rest stop. Sorry about that. I couldn’t think what else to do.”
I want to argue, but it’s a waste of time. “What do we do now?”
“We? Nothing. You stay there and boink Benito Rossi. I need to find a new hiding place.”
“Come home,” I beg.
“No can do. If Benito has a brain in his head, there will be a warrant for my arrest before lunchtime. And now they’ll be looking all over Vermont for a red Jeep with a kayak on top. Fuck my life.”
I stop dead on the sidewalk. “Where will you go?”
“Not sure, but whatever it is, I’m not telling you.”
“Raye! I wouldn’t rat you out.”
“I didn’t say you would. But I don’t want you to have to choose between me and hot cop. I’ve made some bad choices in the nam
e of sex, and wouldn’t expect you to be any wiser. And I’d ask you if he’s good in bed, but we’ll have to catch up some other time, because I’m running for my life, here. Later.”
Just like that, she hangs up on me.
Twenty-Five
Twelve Years Ago
Zara Rossi sits stonily in the passenger seat of her mother’s car on the way home from the police station. She’s already missed the pre-party. And now she’s missing the grad prom, which ought to be devastating.
But it’s nowhere near as devastating as the sight of her brother in handcuffs, his face bloodied by Gage.
She’d had to watch Benito marshal his temper about five seconds too late. She’d watched his expression turn from outrage to fear as the truth sank in—you don’t pick a fight with a man carrying a club, a Taser, and a service revolver.
He hadn’t fought back while Gage beat him.
Even now, Zara can’t believe he just took it. Her strapping eighteen-year-old brother could have overpowered Gage’s fists. But as Zara stood there, choking on her own fear, Benito stuck to defensive moves only. After Gage dropped him with the second punch, he rolled away from the swing of Gage’s trooper boot. And when he struggled to his feet again, Gage made another run at him.
Zara almost threw up as Gage charged, swinging. Benito blocked his face with his arm and spun out of the way the best he could. Jill sobbed like the world was ending when Gage finally landed a punch to Ben’s nose. The blood was instant, a gush down his face.
And the blood changed everything. Gage stopped, breathing hard, surveying his damage. Maybe that was the moment he realized beating the neighbor kid to a bloody pulp would look bad on his record. Or maybe he was just tired.
Jill’s sobs were the loudest sound among them. They drowned out Zara’s own quiet tears. But as Zara wiped her face, she saw that Jill was clutching her shiny red phone. It’s the new kind—with a camera. Wordlessly, Zara slipped the coveted thing out of Jill’s hand and took a quick photo.
It’s her only act of bravery. And she’s still too afraid to raise the camera and make herself noticeable. So the angle will prove to be awkward. But even so, it will prove be valuable. It will eventually convince a judge that Gage came unhinged.
A month from now, all the charges will be dropped.
But tonight all Zara sees is the devastation she’s caused. Texting Benito to come to her rescue was the worst idea she’s ever had. How did she think this would end? Seconds after Gage broke Ben’s nose, he’d barked at Ben to put his hands behind his back.
And her brother did it, a leaden look in his eyes.
Then Zara was treated to a view of her twin in handcuffs—something she never ever needed to see. They’re eighteen now. Her brother could be a felon for the rest of his life, and it would be Zara’s fault. He might never get a decent job. The military might cancel his enlistment.
None of that will happen, but Zara doesn’t know it yet.
Just as Gage pushed Benny’s head down to force him into the back of the cruiser, her brother gave Zara one instruction. “Tell Skye I’m sorry.”
And then he was gone, and Zara was left alone at the side of the road with a sobbing Jill, who was still holding a corsage box meant for someone else.
Zara’s bad night wasn’t over, either. She had to call her mother and tell her that her youngest son had been arrested.
That went over about as well as you’d think.
In her anger, Maria Rossi exceeded all of Zara’s expectations. She was white with anger at the police station. And then a very rosy red color from shouting at Zara outside of it.
And now, as they drive home from the station, she’s still yelling the whole way. The theme is, “Why didn’t you call your mother? Or your uncle? Or just pay the damned ticket!”
Zara doesn’t explain that Gage didn’t want ticket money. What difference does it make now? She already knows that calling Benito was a dumbass thing to do. Her mom is terrified, and they don’t have three-thousand dollars for bail.
“What about those bail bondsmen?” Zara asks. “We can go first thing tomorrow morning.”
Her mother launches into another lecture about how bail bondsmen exist to take advantage of desperate people. Zara hears words like “usurious” and “vulnerable.” And then her mother says, “And after we shell out for that, we have to move, too, you understand. We can’t live next to that man. Not after this.”
Moving is something else they can’t afford. Which means Mom will have to borrow money from her brother, who will lecture her about it, too.
It’s all Zara’s fault.
When they pull into Pine View, Skye is sitting on her tiny front stoop, looking amazing in a sleek dress. She looks like a supermodel waiting patiently between takes at a cover shoot.
Zara is filled with horror. She’s supposed to be the one who breaks Skye’s heart by telling her what happened? Seriously? The night’s devastations aren’t over.
“Go inside,” her mother snaps. She’s still in a full-on lather. “Lock the door behind you. And don’t you dare step out, young lady. Not for anything. Your night is over.”
Zara gets out of the car feeling numb. Her mother is watching, so she goes into their trailer and shuts the door, just as she’s been told. Her mother’s car turns around and drives away. She’ll drive to Uncle Otto’s house and ask for bail money.
Her mother hates asking for help. She’s going to blame both twins for this disaster. Zara is still wearing her dress. Her new dress that they couldn’t really afford. It’s all a waste.
And Skye is still sitting out there.
Zara goes into her bedroom and peeks out the window at her. She dreads telling Skye where Benito is and watching her cry. The light is gone from the sky, so her brother’s date sits patiently in the dark, even though she must know the dance has already started. The pretty line of her long, elegant neck is unbowed.
Zara closes her eyes and rests her head on the window sill. Everything is shit. She’s a high school graduate now with no good job and no obvious way to pay for college. If college would even have someone as stupid as her.
Mom said to stay inside. She’ll wait until Mom comes home before breaking the news to Skye. She’ll wait a little longer.
But then she hears a car approaching.
Zara opens her eyes in time to see Gage step out of the cruiser. Whatever he says to Skye makes her stand up fast. “No!” she yelps.
He laughs. And it’s the cruelest sound that Zara has ever heard.
Zara closes her eyes again, wishing she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. But at least she doesn’t have to break the news to Skye herself. It’s done.
Benito can give his own apology in the morning.
Twenty-Six
Benito
“You want the good news or the not-so-great news first?” my boss asks.
“Uh, you pick,” I say, taking a seat in front of Sergeant Chapman, the head of the drug task force.
“The not-so-great news is that the judge only gave your Colebury boys a limited search warrant. They can search the truck and the garage. If there’s any evidence of collision on the vehicle, the judge will consider a broader warrant.”
“Ah, that’s okay. I still have a good feeling about this.”
“Good,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’ll have an even better feeling when I tell you that a midlevel dealer in Burlington gave up Sparks’s name last night.”
I play that sentence back in my head, because it sounds too good to be true. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as an overdose. This was the dealer’s third arrest, so he’s looking at a shitty sentence unless he can plead it down. That’s apparently enough incentive to cough up Sparks’s name and a very few other details.”
“Jesus. Can we convince him to make a couple of controlled buys for us?”
“If we ask nicely.”
We both snicker. No perp wants to become our informer. It’s dangerous work. But if
we’ve got him red-handed, then wearing a wire and buying drugs from Sparks is his only way to stay out of jail.
“You can watch the video of the interview as soon as we’re through here,” my boss says.
“I’ll make the popcorn!” This is the break we were looking for. “I wish it had been me that busted him.”
Chapman grins. “I’m sure you do. I know you have a boner for indicting Sparks and Gage.”
“And you don’t? They single-handedly changed the flow of drugs into Vermont. No—into the whole goddamn country.”
“Of course I do. But for me it isn’t quite so personal. Be cool, cowboy. We’re gonna need to be careful with our evidence. Maybe you’re too close to this one.”
“Now way,” I insist. “I’m careful. Always.”
“Good. Now go watch the video and tell me what you think.”
“On it,” I say. And then I get the heck out of there.
I watch the video three times, making extensive notes. Then I start making plans. First, a small buy from Sparks—with no wire, in case they frisk my favorite new informant. But we’ll capture the transaction on video from a hidden camera. Then we’ll go back for seconds, this time for a larger amount. Sparks won’t roll over on Gage unless we’ve got a lot of evidence against him.
“Hey, Brooks?” I call out to our assistant.
“Yessir?” he asks, peeling a banana at his desk.
“Can you find out if our informant has any relatives outside of Vermont? Parents or siblings, maybe? Bonus points if he happened to go to high school somewhere outside the state.”
“Sure. On it.”
Maybe my perp is planning a trip to see his sister, and he wants to bring some inventory to push off on his lowlife friends…
I’m working through all the possible set-ups when my phone rings. And the caller is Skye. “Are you going to arrest Rayanne?” she asks without preamble.
“Me? No,” I say. “But the Colebury police are probably looking at her truck. Why?”
