by Sara Wolf
“You can stay here, if you want,” Jack offers. “I can take the couch.”
“That’d be rad.”
“All right. I’ve got work to finish, but feel free to take the bed.” He grabs his laptop and sits on the couch. I’m almost sorry for the loss of his warmth, but then I remember he’s a nerd. I spot the empty plate of what looks like soy sauce, and my stomach makes a noise like a dying cow.
Jack raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Hungry?”
“Shut up.” I flush. “I’ve got my fries.”
“Those are embalming you from the inside out,” he says and picks up the phone. “Let’s get something that doesn’t survive radioactive deterioration, shall we?”
I dive under the blankets and try not to think about the fact that Jack had sex with some old lady in them. He got the sheets changed, obviously, but it’s still a used bed. Then again, it’s a hotel! A lot of people have probably had sex in this bed! And it’s so fluffy I might as well be lying on my own flabby belly.
“Hello, yes, this is for room 1106. I’d like the salmon Parmesan, with the spinach salad, and an order of the crème brûlée. Yes. Yes, thank you.”
When he hangs up, I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah? Suddenly rolling in cash?”
“My final client is paying for the room. We could order a dozen lobsters and she’d have to pay it.”
“Ah, the perks of sex work.” I flop into the pillows. He doesn’t answer, absorbed in his laptop. “Hey, who was that tweed guy, anyway?”
Jack shrugs. “Going by your description, I think I’ve met him.”
“Oh yeah? At a gathering for the rich and snooty?”
“At a bar. Where he beat the shit out of me.”
“That’s where you got the beaten-hamburger look?”
Jack nods. “He’s good. Trained, probably. Karate, if I had to guess by his forms and strikes.”
“And you’re just trained in bat, right? Not the billionaire playboy vigilante kind, but the baseball kind.”
“I took tae kwon do until high school. He’s much better than me.”
“Someone sent me a picture,” I say. “Of your hand on a baseball bat, and a body—”
“I know. Wren told me about it. More accurately, he screamed it at me. In the library.”
“Wren? Screaming? C’mon, lying isn’t funny. Except when it is.”
“He was very worked up. Agitated. He’s a lot of things, and we have a complicated history, but he’s surprisingly loyal to the people he considers friends. Not that it mattered when he turned tail and ran that night, but still. It’s the thought now that counts. Reform and second chances and all that drivel.”
“You killed someone,” I say. There’s no fear behind it now. I’ve shown him my scars, and he didn’t flinch. So if he says yes, I won’t flinch, either. His icy eyes flicker up. There’s a long, languid silence in which I’m sure he can hear my thunderous, anticipating heartbeat from ten feet away.
“I don’t know if I did,” he says finally.
“What do you mean?”
“It was dark. The police—the police told us he walked off the cliff because he didn’t see it. But he couldn’t see it because I gave him a black eye.”
“He still had one good eye—”
“That’s no excuse,” Jack says sharply. “I may as well have killed him myself.”
He’s telling what he thinks is the truth—the guilt in his eyes is obvious. If it were a lie, they’d be clear.
“That’s not true.”
Jack glares at me. “As far as you know, it is. You’re not concerned? I killed someone. I’m a murderer, Isis.”
“You were defending Sophia. Just like you defended my mom and me from Leo. That’s what you do. You protect people.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it and stares at the floor.
“Look,” I start. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. I know what it feels like to want to kill someone. I really do. I was going to try to kill Leo, when my mom first told me about what happened with her and him. I had it all planned out—I’d drug him with chloroform, and if that didn’t kill him, I’d slice his dick off with a butcher knife, and then his fingers, and then his throat. I dreamed about it sometimes. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to make him pay for what he did to her.”
Jack looks up at me. I shrug.
“So yeah. I know what it’s like.”
There’s something like gratitude that flickers behind his eyes.
“So the guy in the tweed has an inside man on the police force,” I say. “How would the police know about Tallie?”
“They don’t,” Jack says. “But they saw Sophia. The EMTs or the doctors probably told him she…she lost Tallie. And the cops saw the blood in the forest when they were investigating the crime scene. It’d be simple for them to put two and two together, and for Tweed Incorporated to find that out. But the cops never actually found Tallie. Avery saw to that. She buried her somewhere no one else would find, if they didn’t know the area like the back of their hand the way she did.”
“So why is Tweed looking for Tallie, then?”
“I don’t know his motives,” Jack says. “Information on me, maybe? The more he knows about me, the more ammo he has to try to convince me to join him.”
“Because you’re the perfect candidate for his weird corporation?”
“Because I am perfect, period.” He smirks. I throw the extra pillow and it graciously arcs over his laptop and hits him smack in the face.
“Thanks, physics!” I thumbs-up no one. Jack belligerently coughs out a feather.
“What are we going to do?” I ask. “We can’t let them find Tallie. I don’t want them to, and I’m sure Sophia doesn’t want them to.”
Jack’s eyes get sharp, then soft all at once. “I’ll figure something out.”
He turns to his keyboard and types rapidly.
“Wow, you’re super dedicated to that computery thing over there. Wow. I can’t stop saying wow.”
“Stop saying wow.”
“What are you wowing? I mean, doing?”
“Tracing the email address that sent you that picture.”
“Oh. Then what? What happens after you find him?”
“Then I blow him up,” Jack growls.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Crash his hard drive,” he corrects.
“Slightly more legal,” I agree. “Alas, not as fun.”
The food comes, and the maid wheels it in and leaves after Jack gives her a tip, and I inhale every little thing on the tray in less than five minutes.
“Jesus, woman, you’re going to choke.”
“Worth it!” I chirp, and slurp crème brûlée. I start coughing massively.
“Choke quietly.” He turns back to the laptop and mutters to himself. “There. Finally. This guy is ridiculously good. But if I run the byte scan, I can—”
He goes still, like a deer hearing a gun cock.
“I’m…dying…” I remind him from the general vicinity of the floor.
“The IP traces back to Good Falls, Florida. Your hometown,” he says. “Someone from your hometown sent you this. It has to be someone you know. Who do you know from back then who’s good at computers?”
My heart stutters, and I stop pretending to die and start actually dying.
“Isis? What’s wrong?”
I stare up at the hotel ceiling, debating how many steps it’d take for me to get to the toilet. I don’t wanna throw up on Jack again, no matter how marvelous the last time was. Jack’s face looms over my vision.
“Isis? You’re pale—”
“Him,” I say softly. “He won the state computer programming competition for the middle school division every year.”
“Who?”
I thought he’d left me alone. I never thought the email could be him. An almost-year of silence convinced me I was free.
I grit my teeth and put my hands over my eyes, like it’ll block out t
he darkness. It can’t be, but it is. I had nightmares about this exact thing, about him finding me. I’d spent so much time away from him, I was lulled into a false sense of security, security built up by my new friends, and with Jack’s help. But I was stupid. Naive. I haven’t gotten smarter at all. Deep down, past all my newfound strength and courage, I knew the safety wouldn’t last long. It never does. Nameless is a scar in my life that will never go away. The darkness he’s planted in me hovers in every corner of my soul, waiting for an opening, a weakness to force its way in. And no matter how hard my armor, no matter how loyal my friends and how gentle Jack is, there’s always a weakness in me. Maybe their kindness has made a weakness in me.
The darkness always finds a way in, just like it has now.
“Nameless.”
Chapter Eleven
3 Years, 30 Weeks, 0 Days
Jack tries to convince me he’ll do everything he can to block Nameless from contacting me again via email. But I know it won’t work. Jack’s okay at the whole computer tracking thing, but Nameless is much, much better. He always has been. He used to spend entire weekends working away at strands of hugely difficult codes. Sometimes he’d shrug off our dates at his house to practice. He was good because he practiced, and all that practice ended in him becoming talented. The computer science teacher at our school wouldn’t shut up about him.
If Nameless can get access to a video in a federal vault, then he can get to me. If he knows about the video, he knows about Jack, probably through Wren. Not that Wren would ever tell him purposely. Maybe he let it slip. Or maybe Nameless just tracked me all the way here and somehow found out about Jack through the school’s computers. People talked about our war on the beat-up old Macs in the computer lab, I’m sure. Or maybe—
My stomach sinks, and the wonderful crème brûlée taste goes sour in my mouth.
Maybe Nameless had my email hacked all along, and he read my emails to Kayla about Jack.
“Wipe your old hard drive, just in case,” Jack says. “Get a new email address and change the passwords on everything.”
“He’ll just break in again.”
“He won’t,” Jack says sternly. “He won’t. I won’t let that happen.”
“He’s been watching me this whole time.” I laugh. “I was so stupid. I thought I got away from him for good.”
“You will. You can. You just can’t give up. Work with me, okay? We’ll fix this together.”
“It’s no good.” I roll over. “He’s gonna torment me for my entire life. He’s always gonna be here, just like this stupid—this stupid fucking scar—”
I wrap it in the sheet so I don’t have to look at it. Jack walks over and unwraps it, pulling it to his lips.
“Listen to me, Isis. He won’t be with you forever. Someday, you’ll force him to leave, and he will, and you’ll be happier for it. The memories won’t go away, but they’ll become less clear as you make more.”
I flinch. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“I want to help you make more, if that’s all right with you.”
“What about…Sophia?”
“She’ll always be a part of my life, and I’ll always support her. But I know now who I want. The truth is here, right now, staring me in the face and sitting on a hotel bed, wearing my shirt and looking ridiculously cute.”
My face heats like a brushfire. Jack stands.
“Let’s get some sleep. We can worry uselessly tomorrow. Have you told your mom where you are?”
“Shit,” I hiss. “I gotta call her. It might be one of those nights.”
“Those nights?”
“She relapses sometimes. The memories come back to haunt her and she freaks out and can’t sleep unless I’m there.”
“Jesus, Isis, how long has this been going on?”
“Ever since we moved here to get away from Leo,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal,” he insists. “Your mom can’t sleep without you sometimes? That’s a huge burden on you.”
“It’s not!” I protest. “Look, I just do what I can to help her, okay? She’s my mom. I love her. She needs me.”
“You need yourself. You can’t be there for her forever.”
His words ring true, reminiscent of what Aunt Beth said to me. But then I remember Mom’s tears at the trial.
“I can try,” I snipe.
“Isis, this isn’t healthy. She needs to get help—”
“She’s getting help. But it’s not enough.”
Jack closes his mouth, a frown forming on his lips. In the sudden quiet, I dial Mom. She sounds good. She ordered Chinese takeout for us, but when I tell her I’m spending the night at a friend’s, the forced happy in her voice throws me off.
“Oh! That’s great. Which friend?”
“Kayla,” I lie. “I can give you her phone number.”
“Sure, that’d be great. Should I call her parents and say hello?”
“Her parents are…out of town.”
Mom clucks her tongue. “Are you two drinking?”
“It’s just one bottle of wine,” I agree. “I’m sorry—”
“No, no, honey.” Mom laughs. “It’s okay. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. You deserve to relax. God knows you deserve to have fun with your friends after everything I’ve put you through. Just promise me you won’t drive anywhere or get in a car driven by someone drunk, and that you’ll be home by noon tomorrow.”
“I promise.” My heart lifts. “I swear to you, I’ll be safe.”
“I know you will, sweetie. You’re the best daughter a mom could ask for.”
“You, too. Not that you’re a daughter. Even though you are. I’m sure Grandma thought you were the best daughter ever, bless her wrinkly, dementia-addled soul.”
Mom chuckles. “Sleep well, you.”
We hang up. Jack is watching me with an appraising gaze.
“What?” I ask defensively. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What are you going to do for college?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you plan to stay here.”
“You were planning to stay here for Sophia,” I retort. “But all of a sudden you’re going to Harvard?”
“Sophia asked me to go,” he says tiredly. “I’m coming back to visit her every month. Besides, a Harvard degree will get me a much better job—one with enough money to cover her costs for a long time.”
“You talk about my relationship with my mom not being healthy, but you and Sophia are no different.”
His handsome face twists, but after a moment it lightens.
“I despise your logic,” he says. “But sometimes it’s right. I’m a hypocrite.”
“And a fathead,” I say. “But I forgive you.”
His exhale is laced with a laugh. “Let’s get some rest.”
He turns out the light and takes a spare blanket from the closet, draping it over the couch and lying on it. I snuggle under the blankets and try not to feel guilty. I can’t fall asleep at all. It’s a repeat of what happened at Avery’s house, but this time, I’m not drunk, and I’m not as scared. It’s just the darkness gnawing away at me. Nameless feels like he’s everywhere. And I’d give anything, do anything, to chase him away and feel safe again.
“It’s cold,” I say. I hear Jack roll over.
“Do you want another blanket?”
“No, um.” I swallow. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, second only to my first-grade spelling bee in which I spelled “fabulous” wrong, and third to when I had my first period ever and bled through my pants and onto the metal foldout chair during band class and had to attach the chair to my bottom as I walked sideways to the bathroom so no one would see the damage. I gained a whole new respect for crabs and their walking style. Shit’s straight difficult.
“Can you—” I try to raise my voice, but it cracks. “Can you—please— I’m usually not this bad at talking.” I laugh. “This is so stupid. I’m sorry. Never mind.”
I roll over and pull the blankets over my head so he won’t hear me whispering curses at myself. But then I feel a weight on the other side of the bed, and my lungs rapidly decide they want to burst.
Jack’s voice is close. “This?”
I pull the blankets off my head and nod, too furiously. Too eagerly. Jack chuckles, low and soft. With my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I see him roll and face away from me, pulling the blanket over him. His legs are just a few feet to the left, his back even closer. I’m shaking, but I pray to whatever god is listening that he can’t feel that through the bed. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea—that I’m afraid—and then leave. I am afraid—a deep-down, rock-solid fear burned into me by Nameless—but I’m not scared. I’m not shallowly breathing or panicky or jumping at every little thing. And that makes all the difference. It’s not chaotic fear; it’s orderly, and I know the causes for it. I can control it.
I reach out, slowly, and put my hand on his back. I feel his muscles tense under my fingers. When he doesn’t say anything, or move, I lean in and press my weight against him. He’s warm, warmer than a blanket. There’s a long pause as our breathing moves in and out of each other’s rhythm. And then finally, he speaks.
“You’re the most confusing girl I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “Not sorry.”
“Good.”
The sun barges in and sits its butt on my eyes and the world is ending and I’m blind and everything is over. And then I roll over and see Jack’s face on the pillow and then everything is really over. Permanently. Because my universe explodes.
I make small screeching noises under my breath as I try to remember how I got here, in the hotel room. It all floods back at once and I’m more than a little mad at myself for giving in and staying here without a fight. Jack cracks open one sleepy blue eye. He runs his fingers through my hair idly as he groans.
“Who gave you permission to be conscious before six, and how can I end them?”
“Why are you touching me?” I whisper. “Is it really that fun? Because most people say it feels squishy and gross.”
He laughs and puts his hands over his eyes, stretching like a freshly woken cat who likes to arch its back.
