Forget Me Always

by Sara Wolf

  “I’ll take care of that,” Wren says. “Just promise me you’ll tell her when I give you the opening.”

  “You’ve become quite the little dictator,” I sneer.

  “I’ve had it”—he clenches his fist—“with running away. Every time I do, someone’s gotten hurt. But not this time. I won’t run this time. We have to own up to what we did. We can’t keep living like this.”

  He turns and leaves before I can verbally cut him down to size.

  The rest of the day passes in a panicked blur. I watch Isis from the parking lot, feeling every bit the stalker but bent on studying her face in a new light. She knows what I did that night. That’s why she’s ignoring me. She’s too smart not to put two and two together.

  And she knows about Tallie.

  My biggest secrets are in her hands now. Just as I’ve known hers for months. I’ve had her number for months. But I’ve never texted or called. Until now. My thumbs fly over the keyboard.

  We’re even.

  I see her stop and pull her phone out, Kayla chatting aimlessly at her. She looks up and scans the parking lot, and our eyes meet for the briefest moment. For one second, the warm amber engulfs me, and I let it.

  And then I release it and turn away.

  Tonight is the last night.

  This woman is the last woman.

  She’s older—the trophy wife of a lawyer, confined to a house and left to treadmill and Martha Stewart her way into being ignored by her husband, who has enough hookers and blow to far outlast a wife. They have no children. She is miserable and in shape and anxious, and the hotel room is nicer than normal, and when she’s satisfied and exhausted, she starts crying.

  “Thank you.”

  I pull on my jeans and nod cordially.

  “How— How old are you? I know I asked that in the lobby, but really, you can’t be twenty-three.”

  I flash a smile. “Over eighteen. You’re safe.”

  She covers her eyes with her arm. “Oh Jesus. I practically cradle-robbed.”

  I think of all the women who came before her, who were deceived by the fact that I’d looked twenty-one since I was fifteen. She has no idea. I grew up fast, and she has no idea.

  “This is my last night,” I say as I button my shirt. “Of this job.”

  “Oh? That’s good. Someone as nice as you doesn’t need to stay in this field. It ruins good people.”

  And yet you still use our services. I curl my lip where she can’t see it. There are plenty of good people at the Rose Club. She’s ignorant, just another person who considers sex work base and below her. Hypocrite. She showers and dresses, and I pull out my laptop and sit on the bed, taking advantage of the free, harder-to-trace wifi.

  “The room is yours for the night,” she says when she comes out, now in a pressed pink suit and perfectly styled red hair.

  “Thanks,” I grunt. The woman—I forget her name—leans over my shoulder.

  “Ooh, what are you doing? It looks fascinating—”

  “I’m running seventy-two targeting executables for a free-roam IP trace.”

  She gives me a blank look. I sigh.

  “I’m trying to find someone.”

  “Oh! Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend?”

  Tiresome. Women like her always jump straight to romance. I roll my eyes.

  “An anonymous email sender.”

  She laughs nervously. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again.”

  “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” I nod. It was no pleasure at all. The last time I felt honest pleasure—not sickly release—from sex was the last time Sophia and I slept together. And that was nearly a year and a half ago. Before the pain flares got so bad she couldn’t walk sometimes.

  Before her soul got darker.

  I wait until the door clicks shut behind the woman to pull up the trace results. I parse them down twice—once using the email address name and once using Isis’s email address. Which I also happen to have. She didn’t exactly hide it when she put up posters around the school asking for people to contact her with dirty information bits about me.

  She knows about Tallie.

  I shake Wren’s words out of my head and work quickly. I’m by no means gifted at computer hacking—if you could even call it that—but I know my way around a program or two. Ruby and C++ are far easier languages than any drivel humans speak. People much smarter have made sinfully simple IP trace programs for people like me to use and abuse.

  After two hours of parsing, I’m left with 137,108 possible IP addresses the email could have originated from. I could go through them all one by one, but there has to be some connecting factor. And that factor is no doubt Isis. Why her? I check Maryland and Washington, DC. There are two IPs there, but none of them from the federal bureau where the investigators have the tape. The tape Wren gave to them behind my back.

  I’m not mad about it. I was at first. But then I learned the tape was badly damaged, and video-imaging technology back then wasn’t the best. The police discovered Joseph Hernandez’s body days after the incident, but ruled it an accident. The other three men Avery hired were conveniently paid off by Avery’s parents, who knew something terrible had happened because of their daughter but never quite knew what, preferring to make the problem go away instead of linger on it. Those three men never spoke a word of what happened.

  That reminds me—Belina, the woman whose husband is gone because of me, because of that night in middle school, will be needing her check sometime soon. I’d give it to Wren, but this was the last lump sum I’d have for a while. Of course, I’d invested a small amount in a hedge fund so she wouldn’t be completely cut off when I went to college, but she’d quickly run out in a year or two. Hopefully, by my second year, I’ll have an internship that pays well. No, I have to have one. It’s the only option.

  By then, Sophia’s surgery will be over.

  And she will either be dead or alive.

  I press my fingers to my temples and try to focus. The majority of the IP address near-matches are located in Florida. I narrow my eyes. Florida is where Isis used to live. That can’t be a coincidence.

  But there’s one IP address that bucks the norm, way out in Dubai. The rest are in America. Whoever this person is, he clearly knows how to access information that isn’t his. He’s good. Rerouting his IP through proxy servers to Dubai would throw anyone looking for an American off the trail. Unless he kept his IP in Florida, purposefully, knowing something like Dubai would stick out like a sore thumb. Basically, every one of these dots is suspect.

  I sigh and pick up the phone to order room service and a change of bedsheets. It’s going to be a long night.

  Between coffee and eggrolls at 1:00 a.m., I get a text. From someone in my phone I’ve labeled “Never.” I ignore the palpitation in my lungs at the sight of that name on my phone.

  What would you do if everyone hated you?

  I pause and consider my answer carefully. Everyone has hated me at some point. Women, because I turn them down. Men, because I turn the women they love down.

  I would ignore them.

  I try not to stare at my phone, waiting. I have work to do. But I slog through it reluctantly until her answer comes, ten minutes later.

  That’s what I’m doing. But I don’t like it much.

  Then stop doing it. Do what you like, not what you don’t.

  But what I like hurts people. I get in the way. I mess things up.

  Sometimes people need to be messed up. It reminds them life is short.

  There’s a long silence. Just as I start regretting what I said, my phone lights up again.

  She would have been a very pretty baby.

  My eyes sting. The cold numbness of the woman I’d slept with earlier and the single-minded focus on finding the mystery emailer melts. Just like that, with a single sentence.

  Thank you.

  Chapter Ten

  3 Years, 29 Weeks, 6 Days

  The dark, dry trees lo
om like massive sticks of cinnamon. Lake Galonagah at midnight looks like a sheet of glazed black sugar. The moon resembles a perfectly white round of Brie cheese.

  I am lost as hell. Also, hungry. But that’s nothing new. I am hungry approximately 363 days of the year. The one day I am not hungry is Hitler’s birthday. And also the day after Thanksgiving. Thankfully these two days are not on top of each other, otherwise we would’ve named it “ThankGodHitlerkickedthebucketbackintheforties-giving” and that assuredly does not carry the same ring capitalist America likes so much for their holidays.

  In my vast and strenuous consideration of the importance of holiday cheer, I manage to get myself even more lost. Contrary to popular belief, flashlights don’t contribute all that much to awesomeness other than being a cool thing you can use to put on a makeshift rave. I rave alone for two whole seconds and since it is horrible and quiet I give up immediately and sit down. On a skunk’s home. The great brute is understandably displeased and pokes his butt out just in time for my ankle to get completely soaked by hellacious spray.

  “Oh holy—” I gag and cover my nose with my hoodie sleeve. “You knave! Hear ye, hear ye, this stripey beast of yonder wood is an ASSHOLE! Oh Christ, this is never going to come out, is it?”

  The skunk admires his work for a split second before taking off. I shake my fist at him impotently. I can’t mess around with the local bitchy wildlife. I have to find Tallie again. The forest in the day is way different from the forest in the dead of night, and when I hear a crow caw hoarsely, I start to regret my decision to wander onto the apparent set of a horror movie. But I stick to the cliff side, careful to always know where the edge is, and follow it around.

  Finally, the white cross peeks out of the trees, and I dash to it. The dirt’s still soft where I dug it up and put it back, and I dig it up for the second time. Grave-robbing isn’t my ideal job, but I’m getting pretty freakin’ good at it. Not that anyone needs to know that. Ever.

  “Hey, Tallie,” I say in a low voice. “I’m back.”

  The little pink bundle is dirty. I brush the mud away and pick pine needles off it. Tallie looks up at me with her tiny, fragile eye sockets. They’d be blue, since Sophia has blue eyes and so does Jack. I bet they’d be stunning, like lapis lazuli or the ocean on a summer day. And she would’ve been beautiful—with Sophia’s hair and Jack’s height and face. I smile and open the bundle and grasp the bracelet with her name on it.

  “Is it okay if I take this with me?”

  Tallie lies there, and I nod and take it, the silver flashing in the moonlight. I close the bundle back up and rebury it for what I hope will be the last time.

  “I’ll come visit,” I say. “Your mom can’t, but I can.”

  “Hey! This way!”

  Someone’s voice cuts through the night, and the forest rustles with newcomers. Footsteps, heavy and deep, reverberate through the ground. Lots of them. Lots of potential serial killers ready to chop off my head with a fire ax. Or it’s Avery’s parents. Either way, I’m fucked. I duck behind a rotting log and hold my breath. I can barely hear their words; they’re a good distance away but close enough.

  “Find anything?”

  “No, sir. Are you certain this is the place?”

  “Of course. My source at the police department is reliable. Keep searching. We need that leverage.”

  Leverage? My foolhardy marvelous curiosity gets the better of me, and I peek over the log. A man in an impeccable tweed suit stands with two other men in dark, matching suits. The man in tweed is so tall and broad-shouldered. His hair is a shocking white, and he has an old-white-guy-in-charge aura about him that makes me instantly dislike him. Not Avery’s dad—I’ve seen him at open house. And he’s rich, but not rich like this guy—Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes, and anybody who runs around with two guys in suits taking orders from them is rich enough to have a lot of enemies.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking—is Jack Hunter really worth all this trouble? He’s just a high school student,” one of the suits says.

  Tweed Guy sighs. “Yes. He’s in high school. But he’s four months away from college. It’s just a matter of time before the Harvard scouts sniff out his brilliance, and I intend to recruit it before them. I won’t let Aramon take this one from me. He’s too smart, too ruthless. He’s perfect. Now, get back to searching. The body has to be here somewhere. Look for a badly dug grave, small enough for a baby.”

  Body. They’re talking about Tallie. I can’t let them find her. I have to get to her first—

  I move my leg because it’s cramping, and it’s the last thing I ever do. Theoretically. In the alternate reality where they have guns. But they don’t. All they have are ears. Which is still slightly problematic.

  “What the hell was that?” One of the suits looks up.

  “Deer?” the other offers.

  “No deer here,” Tweed Guy says. “Moriyama, check over there.”

  A suit starts moving toward me, his back hunched and his fists clenched. Saying I don’t wanna get caught by these guys is like saying being on fire is a mild discomfort. My heart throbs in my ears. I scrabble for a rock and chuck it to the left of me. The suit freezes and then starts gravitating toward the noise, and I move in the opposite direction around the log, slowly.

  And then something fuzzy scampers over my leg, and, unable to contain my fabulous voice, I yelp. Or sing an opera. I can’t be sure, because all of a sudden there’s chaos, and I’m running, and someone’s running after me, and the tweed guy is shouting, and a hand grasps my hair and I stop dead in my tracks and duck, and he goes soaring over my head down the hill, a chunk of hair in his hand.

  “Thanks for ruining the do, doo-doo!” I scream. My gloating’s short-lived, as the other suit catches up with me and puts his arms around my torso, pinning my arms to my side.

  “Fuck you! Unhand me at once!”

  “Don’t think so, princess.” He struggles to contain my flailing. I switch up my voice to make it sweet.

  “Please let go of me. Your future children will thank you.”

  “What?”

  I take his moment of confusion and dig my heel into his crotch. He lets out a strangled moan and collapses, and I tear away and slide down the hill. My car isn’t far down the trail. Air burns like cold flame as it goes down. My legs want to collapse and never work again. It’s not fear. Okay, it’s a little bit of fear. But like, 15 percent—60 percent is elation at what a fantastic ninja I’d make, and the last 25 percent is my mind screaming at me to let Jack know about these fuckers. Platonically. We’d texted earlier and I said some dumb shit about Tallie, but he didn’t seem mad. Hopefully my luck sticks long enough. Hopefully my stupid newfound butthead fear of him keeps its voice down.

  Finally the trail gives way to the parking lot, and I scrabble into my lime-green Beetle. Don’t let me down, baby. It coughs and sputters as it starts, and I glance wildly back at the trail entrance. “C’mon, c’mon, now is not the time to fart out on me! Pick another time! Like, you know, when I’m not running for my life from mysterious gangsters with thousand-dollar suits and tiny nuts!”

  The engine roars to life, and I do the greatest U-turn in Ohio. Which is saying a lot, because everyone here drives like they just got their license and are celebrating with six beers.

  I pull over only when there are ten miles between Lake Galonagah and me, and fourteen McDonald’s to choose from. They’ll never find me. Unless they saw my car in the parking lot and are looking for it now, which is likely. I consider a midnight paint job. Maybe I could just, I dunno, bathe it in the blood of my enemies really quick and turn it red? Avery doesn’t have enough blood, though, and I feel kind of sorry for her, and the only other people I really hate are the people chasing me, and they are not an option because they are chasing me, and—

  “Did you want ketchup with that?”

  I look up, the cashier handing me my order of fries. Just fries. An entire bag of fries.

  “Ketchup
is the great illusion. Only when you put barbecue sauce on your fries will you know truth and freedom,” I chastise.

  He looks appropriately enlightened. I head to the nearest, least-greasy table and inhale my kill. When my writhing stomach is appeased slightly, I text Jack.

  I need to talk to you. In person. Right now.

  His response is nigh instantaneous.

  What happened? Is something wrong?

  I don’t wanna talk about it over text. Where are you?

  Come to the Hilton on First and Broadview. I’ll meet you in the lobby.

  I grab my bag of fries and head out. I shouldn’t be scared. I shouldn’t be feeling nervous. I told him off, but I’m the dragon, and he’s just a prince, and I breathe fire and I meddled and hurt the people he loves, and him, but I’m still the dragon, and I can fly away if I need to. I’ll be fine. I am always fine. I survived Nameless. I survived Leo. I can survive this. I’m fine. I’m fine.

  I find a parking space four blocks away. The Hilton is small here compared to the one in Columbus, but it’s fancy—fresh orchids and a fountain in the marble-floor lobby. The concierge smiles at me. Jack is waiting, sitting in a leather chair with too-perfect posture and a lazy flannel shirt and jeans. He’s on edge. The second I walk through the doors, he bolts up and walks over.

  “What happened?” he demands. “Are you all right?”

  “I won a million d-dollars,” I say. I can’t look at his face for some reason. Shame. Shame and guilt, probably.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf. Come on. It’s warmer in the room.”

  “No— I—” I pull away. “I just, I just want to tell you something, and then I’ll leave. I don’t want to— I don’t want to—”

  “Be in the same room as me?” His voice is low.

  “Just…don’t be nice to me. I’d appreciate it if you’d just momentarily forget I’ve been pretending you don’t exist for the last few weeks long enough for me to tell you this. Just like, develop amnesia. Wait, shit. Don’t. I’ve been there. It’s terrible. Also, there’s a lot of Jell-O involved.”