by A. K. Smith
I’m showered, packed and ready to get back on the bus to California. I need to look at Jack’s Instagram one more time. I convince myself that seeing his face will give me strength.
Sixteen messages pop up on my Hannah social media. One is from Hudson, a short note but it makes me happy: “Hope we stay in touch. I’m here if u ever come back to Vegas. Good luck in LA.”
The other 15 messages make me sick to my stomach. All fifteen are from Amir. They start out calmly:
“Sunday, are you alive?”
“Sunday, are u okay?”
“Answer me, Sunday.”
“I see someone messaged you. Sunday, where are u?”
“Sunday, please answer me; I need to know u are OK.”
“Sunday are you in Las Vegas or LA.?”
Each message seemed angrier. The very last one took my breath away.
“Sunday, if you don’t fuckin answer me, I’m going to tell your parents. I’ll tell them everything about Hannah Williams. They will know you are in California. Just answer me.”
Stupid, Stupid, Stupid me. Amir created the Hannah Williams accounts; he knew my password and had friended himself. I click out of Facebook and Instagram as if it burns me. He can see if I’m online right now. I am so stupid.
Oh shit, I have compromised my new identity. Connections: I had been so careful about my digital footprint and now my internet connection was my accomplice. The world was intimately connected by our digital trail. I remember reading in ‘my how to fake your death’ books to fear the buttons. We press buttons every day on our phones, our laptops, our tablets, and it all leaves a trace of when we get on and where. Amir was so convincing when he created my social media accounts, asserting I had to have an existence online to be real. Back then, I was concerned about the phone number/email you had to enter to register, and you had to have a phone line so they could send you a text. Amir used my prepaid cell phone and then called to delete my number. A record still existed. I hunched my shoulders, rocking back and forth.
If I close the account, he will know; if I change the password, he will know. Amir will know I am alive, and my gut tells me this is the wrong thing. If Hudson messages me again, Amir will know I am in Vegas. If I don’t do anything, he might think it was random or a wrong message.
Amir knows too much. Will he guard the secret he vowed to keep?
Now doubt, anxiety and Amir are making me question my California plan. Should I stay or should I go?
Chapter 15
Everything stays in Vegas, Sleeping in Closets, and Stalkers
The stench of cigarettes and alcohol fill my nostrils as my eyes adjust to the dim light. The smell is overwhelming, almost suffocating. The dinging of slot machines drowns out the piped-in music, the temperature about forty degrees colder than the hot Las Vegas sun. Inside the casino feels like a meat locker. Goosebumps instantly appear on my skin. Outside, Las Vegas breaks temperature records and the high today is close to 107 degrees. Dry heat, not humid like the Baltimore summers, but burning hot in my tight black uniform as I walk to work, careful my feet do not slip out of my sweaty flip-flops and touch the scorching concrete. Slow roast, Hudson jokes.
Hudson was right about the job. George hired me and now I have survived my first week as a cocktail waitress at the Magic Hat Casino. The best thing about this dark den of drunks is the fact that George, my new boss, pays me under the table for my trial period. The worst thing is the tight, revealing leotard uniform and the black top hat that I had to buy for $50.
I think back to the interview. Before he would hire me, George, with his sweaty olive skin and greasy long black hair, asked me to change into a two-sizes-too-small uniform behind a thin wooden room divider. I wanted to leave, but I also know I need some fast cash, and I walked out with the mantra that this is just a means to an end. All this as I tried to pull the shiny tight black fabric over my underwear and bra. My skin crawled, just thinking about him watching.
But I sucked it up. I’ve had worse things happen. I’m no longer that naive girl, they won’t happen again. Forcing my expert fake smile, I walked out to show him.
“You need to wear more makeup,” he barked as his eyes zeroed in on my chest. “Slather it on, Hannah, and keep your shirt low. I’m giving you a break because of Hudson. He’s a hard worker.”
It’s a job. I’m thankful to have one. I already am way down on cash, after I made myself pay the medical bill from the clinic. I don’t want any debts in Hannah’s name. Money goes by so fast when I have to pay for everything. Rental prices in California stresses me out. It’s five times higher than Vegas. The anxiety of living on the streets in California gives me anxiety. Hudson thinks I can make fast money here and be better prepared for my new life in California. I’m going to stay for a little while. I know Amir knows exactly where I want to go in California, so I have to readjust and take some time to find a new place with enough money saved for a few months of rent.
I’m determined to make some money and think this through. Something about this glitzy façade of a city makes me think it might be easier to hide here. After all, they created a city in the middle of a nowhere, and it is a thriving. If they can dress up and hide a desert with lights and fake attractions, I know I can create a new identity in a never-ending stream of tourists.
Since this decision, Hudson, my one and only friend, hovers over me like a mother bear watching her cub. He’s found me a room for rent with two other girls he met at the UNLV summer school. Jamie and Adriana. It’s actually more like a walk-in closet than an actual room (there are no windows). I have a twin mattress on the floor with a door I can now (thanks to Hudson), close and lock, a small cardboard dresser, and a long rod to hang my clothes over my mattress. But, it’s my space, and the rent’s cheap and the bathroom and kitchen are fairly clean.
I hide everything—money, prepaid credit cards and gold jewelry—in a tampon box in the cardboard dresser, praying it will stay safe as I lock my door each day.
When I first met my new roommates, Adriana and Jamie, they were somewhat friendly, basically just happy to have a little more cash towards the rent. I can tell they are curious who I am and my relationship with Hudson. I’m almost certain Adriana has a crush on Hudson. I don’t care.
Today, despite our opposite schedules we meet in the kitchen. I’m throwing the last of my groceries in a lunch bag for work.
“Hudson said you have a job?” Jamie asks. She sports a huge mane of hair that is always on the top of her head with the ponytail swinging. Adriana, the younger and always half-dressed of the two, gets up from the futon looking couch to listen.
“Yes, Hudson helped me get an interview. I’m working at the Magic Hat.”
They toss a cynical look back and forth to each other, their eyebrows raise, and their eyes meet as if they speak a secret language.
“You’re only eighteen, right?” Jamie asks.
“Yes, I’m eighteen,” I say because Hannah is eighteen, even though Sunday is not quite seventeen.
“Can you dance?” Adriana moves her bare shoulders in a graceful move, her Hispanic accent exaggerated, laughing and looking at Jamie.
“I guess so,” I answer with a half shrug.
“Great,” Adriana smirks, swaying her hips low to the ground. “If you lose your job, you can always dance for the rent.” I don’t get the joke. I would never strip.
Jamie, the motherly figure of the two, and very matter of fact, takes in a sharp breath. “You can dance naked at eighteen, but you can’t serve alcohol until you’re twenty-one. If someone asks you how old you are, you’re twenty-one. You better be careful, because you can get in a lot of trouble waitressing underage.” Jamie is twenty-one has a huge crush on Adriana, and seems to be a proud cocktail waitress at Bally’s. Hudson told me she’d worked hard to get the coveted spot.
Adriana, nineteen, is a hostess at Hooters. No surprise there. The first time we met, it seemed obvious she liked Hudson and obvious to everyone but Adriana, Jamie’
s in love with her. She flashes a fake smile and says, “Just pay the rent on time and we will all get along fine.” She dances around and wraps her arm around Jaime and dips.
Just then, there is a knock on the door. It’s Hudson. We are on the same shift today and are going to walk in together. Adriana answers the door and she flirts shamelessly while Jamie watches her. Her low-cut uniform makes it impossible not to notice her chest.
Adriana has it bad for Hudson; probably the only reason they rented me the small bedroom (aka the closet). I can see the desire in her eyes when he talks to her. It reminds me of how I’d once looked at Tyler, but Hudson is no Tyler: he has a heart. I don’t care why they rented the closet to me. I have an address without any credit check, rent that covers all the utilities, a bed, a job, and I am starting my new life, even if this is now Plan C.
Go for it, Adriana.
My new life consists of long hours of waitressing in the meat locker, sleeping during the day, and creating digital dirt on my social media.
I need a plan, although I know where plans get me, but I have to do something. Amir is going crazy with the messaging:
“Sunday do not ghost me.”
“Sunday call me. Call me.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Sunday please do not ignore me. Contact me NOW.”
“YOU BETTER RESPOND TO ME.”
I’m sure the shooting and Eric hasn’t made his life easy. With Eric dead, I must be his only friend. He must be lonely and stressed. But he has to let me go.
I can’t help but wonder what it is like at school with local families. I can’t let myself imagine or I’ll think of Jack. I have to block it from my conscious voice when a memory pops up. I can’t go there in my heart or in my thoughts. If I did, I will break, I won’t survive.
I confided in Hudson last week and told him I didn’t want my old boyfriend to find me, so I was going to act like I was in LA on social media. I know he thinks I’m talking about the boy who I thought got me pregnant, but regardless, he was eager to help. He posted a few comments about visiting me in LA next month and we even copied some photos off other people’s social media in L.A. to complete the charade. I friended a few guys in Los Angeles and told them I just moved there and asked some questions about the area. I kept it up, posting a few times a week.
Yesterday, after not sleeping because of Amir’s messages, I decide the best thing to do is write Amir a personal message from Hannah Williams. He was on my side before, and I’m sure he is going through so much with the shooting, though I need him to forget about me and be my old friend once more.
Amir,
I thought it would be easier for you if you didn’t know anything. I’m okay and I sincerely apologize for not responding after everything you did to help me. I can’t imagine what you have been going through. I’m so sorry I can’t be a friend to you when you need me. I appreciate everything you helped me with in the past, but please let me go. It’s the only way. Remember what you taught me: no connections, no footprints. Do this for me. Please.
And then I block him as a friend and change my password again. This will surely make him angry, but I hope my old childhood friend will be relieved I’m alive, and let me peacefully go.
I was wrong. So wrong.
He doesn’t let me go. He friended Hudson. Then Hudson blocked him on my request, after I created another lie about Amir being some weird friend of my ex-boyfriend.
I check social media. He isn’t stopping. He isn’t moving on with his life. I can now see he created other social media accounts and is trying to friend anyone I friend and follow anyone I follow. Amir is stalking me.
My gut tells my brain that this is not normal behavior. I make up excuses about Amir just being concerned and try to push it away. I need to close all social media. My addiction is looking at Jack, and I need to stop.
From everything I learned about facing a threat when faking your death, you have two choices: stay and hope for the best or get the hell out of town.
Amir knew I was in Vegas at one time, but does he know I stayed, or did he believe I was in California? If I start all over again, I will have to lose my Hannah identity. It seems unfathomable to begin again.
One week later, I log in to close down all my social media when a new private message and friend request comes in from an unknown Facebook account—the message stops my heart.
“Sunday, I’m coming to Las Vegas with my father on his business convention next month. I know where you are living. Meet me or I will go to the police and your parents. There are things you need to know.”
Chapter 16
Trapped by Computers, Footprints, and Digital Shadows
It has to be the driver’s license.
Five days ago, I went to the Motor Vehicle Department with my Social Security card, birth certificate, my employee id with my new address, and aced the vision check, computer test, and driving skills test. I had to pay Jamie to borrow her ancient black steaming hot Toyota Corolla—the A.C. was broken—and I sweated from the atrocious heat and the fear of getting caught. The inside of Jamie’s car smelled like spoiled burnt food, and I had to stop myself from looking at what lived under the seats. Even with my hands slipping on the steering wheel from sweat, I succeeded. Now here the driver’s license is in the mail.
Can Amir hack into the Motor Vehicle Department? I know he’s brilliant, but the MVD?
I’ll keep this identity and figure out how to deal with Amir. I want this to be a happy day for me. Hannah Williams is a real live person with a genuine driver’s license. I can do anything, now. I can’t bear the prospect of running again.
Hudson, Adriana and I are going down to Fremont Street to celebrate my new Nevada residency. They think I’m just getting a Nevada license to replace my West Virginia license, but I laugh, smile and dance over the fact I now legally exist. My next step is taking the GED. After cocktailing for two weeks in a dim, smoky casino and being gawked at and touched by old men, I have to get back to the origins of THE PLAN. My sights are set on college.
So, Amir had to have found me in the system.
Amir. Why is he doing this? What is he hoping to achieve? If he continues, he will ruin everything. My stupid mistakes are going to cost me everything. Amir is a computer genius. My new address is on the license. Amir knew THE PLAN. We had spent hours together down by the creek, figuring out how I could make Hannah Williams legal in the system. My new identity is the singular component that will allow me to start my new life. Why would he jeopardize this?
“Connections,” Amir had said. “You will never ever be able to speak to Jack again. You will never be able to speak to anyone you have ever met, or at least not as Sunday, and you better hope you never remind them of Sunday. Connections, Sunday. It’s all about losing all connections forever.”
Is he in trouble? What in the world are the things he needs me to know? I have to meet him. And, he probably knows that I don’t have it in me to flee again.
In less than three weeks, Amir will be in Las Vegas.
While counting my money and stashing it in the tampon box, Amir continues to fill my thoughts. Was Amir trying to tell me something to do with my escape from the shooting? My presumed missing body? I long for him to be the boy next door, the nerdy computer geek who remembers my birthday every year.
What happened to my Amir since I’ve been gone—the one who’d kept his distance at the creek? Who is this new Amir, who threatens my existence? It just proves what I always knew:
Trust NO ONE.
Chapter 17
Terrorists, Birthday Candles, and Bunnies in a Cage
It’s a good thing the internet doesn’t have a way to track those who have been looking at your profile. I’ve studied Jack’s Facebook and Instagram page like an obsessed follower. I can’t help myself. It’s the best part of my day. I love reading about how he is doing. Seeing his smile makes me happy.
Last week he wrote:
Sunday is my hero. She p
ushed me off the raft just as my life jacket was hit. The police suspect the bullet that grazed my life jacket hit Sunday. She saved me. I wish I could’ve saved her. Sunday, I miss you.
Jack downloaded a video filmed by a bystander on the banks of the river.
I hit play. The video is taken several hundred feet away from our rafts, after the shooting, and whoever’s recording tries to zoom in closer, so the video is grainy and blurry. It’s difficult to discern who or what is in the video.
Jack writes below the video: It’s Sunday lying face down in the raft, lifeless, floating down the river. I know it. Sunday, I’m sorry. If you hadn’t pushed me off, I’d be right there beside you.
If you asked me how I’m doing, I would say I’m doing just FINE. Sunday used to say she was FINE—Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. She had read that definition in some recovery book or heard it from some kids in rehab for addiction. She loved to use it when someone asked her how she was doing.
Yes, FINE is what I am. I still believe she is out there. I won’t give up until there is a body.
Show me she is dead, show me she is no longer here, and then I’ll give up, but I’ll never forget.
Yesterday he wrote another post.
Sunday was it for me. She used to tell me I was born under a lucky star. She’s right, because I was lucky to love her. She also told me I was her sunshine. She was wrong, because it’s pretty dark without her. I miss you, Sunday. Did you know I would travel the world to be with you? I hope so.
I can hear our familiar banter.
“You’re my sunshine,” I would say, and start singing, “You are the sunshine of my life.”
