by Anna Carey
Ben tilts his head, squints. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that picture of you on the news?”
You watch him, waiting, realizing. He knows. Your eyes go to the door, out the front windows, scanning the street. You slide out of the booth, take two steps, but he reaches out for you, his hand resting on your arm. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he says. “I’m not stupid.”
“If you know . . . why are you here?”
“Because you called me. It sounded like you needed help.”
“I think I said ‘Want to meet up?’ What about that sounded like I needed help?”
Ben scans the empty booths beside you. You sit down, his hand still on your arm. He’s lowered his voice and he’s leaning in, his face right in front of yours. “So that’s why you needed a ride? To rob that place?”
“I know how it looks,” you say. “And I know how this probably sounds to you, but someone set me up. That person I called from your phone—they told me to meet them there. It was all . . . staged.”
“Right . . . you were set up. . . . Okay. . . .”
“Please . . . I don’t need the judgment, Mr. I-Sell-Pot-in-Supermarket-Bathrooms. It’s the truth. And now this man, some guy I’ve never seen before, is following me.”
Ben glances behind him, out the restaurant’s front windows. “He followed you here?”
“I’m not stupid,” you repeat his words. “I lost him. I’m sure, otherwise I wouldn’t have called you.” You’ve been puzzling it out, and your best guess is that the man started following you after you went to the office, that he trailed you from downtown to Hollywood, where he saw you at the diner. After that, you’re not sure. You thought you lost him at the record store, but what if he was there all along, following at a distance? Is that how he found you near the bus station?
Ben pulls the salt and pepper shakers from the side of the table, sliding them back and forth between his hands. “Where are you staying now?”
“Some motel.”
His nose is sunburned. A dusting of freckles covers his cheeks. In his hooded sweatshirt he looks younger than you, which makes his tense expression a bit funny, like a kid trying to play grown-up. “If you’re not careful they’re going to find you,” he finally says.
“Who?” Just the word they makes you think of the woman with the gun, the man in the silver car.
“The police . . .”
“They haven’t found me yet.”
You glance around, making sure no one heard what he said, what you said. A pop song blasts from a speaker in the ceiling. You suddenly regret inviting him here, wishing you could have just fallen back to sleep in the motel room.
“I didn’t do anything,” you say.
“I didn’t say you did . . . but why do I feel like you’re not telling me the whole story? Is your name even Sunny?”
You pause before answering and it gives you away. He lets out this low, rattling breath, his forehead falling to his hands.
“I would tell you the truth if I knew what that was,” you say. “But I don’t.”
“You don’t know your name?”
“No. And I don’t know the man who was following me, and I don’t know why.”
A man walks through the front door and you fall back against the seat, your hand jumping to the side of your face to hide your profile. He has thinning brown hair and a white button-down shirt. You watch the back of his head, waiting for him to turn, but when he does he has a beard and mustache. It isn’t him.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asks.
Your breaths are too short to reply. You don’t realize your hands are shaking until Ben’s staring at them, watching your fingers fold around one another, pressing down into the table to steady them.
“This guy . . . you’ve never seen him before the other day?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—I don’t know. I don’t remember anything from before a few days ago.” Ben knows there’s more, you can tell from the way he grabs the shakers again, sliding them back and forth, back and forth. The waitress comes over and he shakes his head, telling her no, he won’t get anything.
“So you’re just going back to that motel?” he asks after a long pause. “You’re just going to wait there until he finds you again? Or the police find you? What about your family? There must be someone looking for you.”
You think again of the memory, the funeral, the few silhouettes in the front pews. Was that real? How can you be sure? “I’m going to try to get to the truth . . . I just haven’t figured out how.”
“What if this guy comes back?”
You shrug. You’re not afraid of the man anymore, not really, but how can you say the truth out loud? That after setting you up, after following you, he saved your life. That a woman was trying to kill you, and for some reason he killed her. “Like I said . . . I haven’t figured it all out yet. Or any of it, really.”
You stand to go, dropping some cash on the table.
“Maybe you should stay with me,” Ben says. “I’m supposed to be at my aunt’s while my mom is getting better, but that fell apart already.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“She caught me selling pot and . . . ‘asked me to leave.’” He makes quote signs in the air when he says it. “Kicked me out Beverly Hills style. So I’m back at my house now, which is closer to school anyway. There’s a bungalow in the back. No one will know you’re there.”
“I can’t.”
“It’ll be safer than at some motel.”
“Nowhere is safe.”
“I said safer.” As you walk he scans the room, the way you have been for the past few days. He glances over his shoulder at the back exit. You can see how it’s changing him, how he already seems on edge. He’s involved now.
“You don’t want me there.” But what you really mean is You don’t know you don’t want me there. There’s too much you haven’t said. It’s not fair.
“It’s just me anyway. My mom isn’t coming back for another month at least.”
“Where is she?”
His face changes, and you can see he doesn’t want to answer, but you stay silent, waiting. “This treatment center just north of here.”
Something in you recognizes it—the way he doesn’t look at you when he answers the question. His mom is sick, and you wonder if part of you has gone through the same thing. It feels too familiar . . . too real.
“It’s just that . . . I’m in enough trouble,” you say. “I can’t be responsible for anyone else.”
“I know.”
But when you get into the parking lot he points to his Jeep. It’s not a good idea, not even an okay idea, considering what happened this morning. But here Ben is, chewing his bottom lip in a nervous gesture, digging the toe of his Converse into the pavement, grinding down a few stray rocks. His face is becoming more familiar—you could probably picture it if you closed your eyes, you could probably hear his voice even if he weren’t here.
You should go back to the motel, back to the impersonal room with the beige wallpaper and empty drawers. But when he shrugs and steps away, you follow. And for the first time all day, you don’t look back.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHEN YOU STEP out of the shower the steam is so dense it clouds the air. The mirror is fogged up and you’re relieved not to see your reflection. For once there is no scar, no tattoo on the inside of your wrist. You pull on the clean T-shirt and pajama pants Ben gave you, wearing your sports bra underneath so you don’t feel as exposed. When you walk into the bungalow something is burning.
“I got hungry,” Ben says. He moves around the narrow kitchen, flicking on a vent overhead. It sucks up the smoke coming off the frying pan. “Two grilled cheeses, well-done.”
You get a second look at the pool house now that all the lights are on. It’
s just one room, the kitchen island jutting out, separating the couches from the stove and tiny fridge. The coffee table has been moved into the corner. The loveseat is folded open, the thin mattress covered with a few blankets. There’s nothing on the walls—not a single framed photo, not a painting or poster. The furniture doesn’t match.
“You don’t use this place much?” you ask.
“Not really,” Ben says. He pushes the sandwich down with the spatula, the smoke rising up around him. “When my grandma was alive she’d stay here when she visited. That’s about it.”
You go to the window, pulling the shades aside so you can see the main house again. The back wall is all glass. There’s a single lamp on to the right, revealing a sleek modern kitchen, a few metal stools lined up in front of a counter. The upstairs windows reflect the stars. Beneath it, the pool is just a puddle on the brick patio, the lights out, the surface still. “So you’ve been living here alone?” you ask. “Where’s your dad?”
Ben grabs two plates from an upper cabinet. He doesn’t look at you, instead wiping the plates with a dish towel, working at them as if they aren’t already clean. “He died a few years ago.”
You want to ask why, what happened, but Ben’s expression has changed to something you can’t quite read. He sets the plates down and goes back to the stove. You think of the view from the altar, how there was only one bouquet, barely a dozen people there. You wonder who he was. The memory could be of your own father. It’s strange to think this might be something you share.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I was just wondering.”
“No, it’s a normal question,” he says. “It’s just a sucky one. My mom’s supposed to get home in the next month, but it’s hard to know. So, yeah . . . just me for now. I turned eighteen this summer so it’s not like they can do anything. No one can force me to stay with my aunt.”
“I thought she kicked you out?”
Ben laughs. “You’re a stickler for details, huh?”
He steps around you, reaching for a drawer, but the space is too narrow. For a moment his body is just inches from yours. His breath is on your skin.
When you finally look up at him he steps away. His cheeks are pink. He keeps pushing the sandwiches around with the spatula. You watch him, waiting for him to meet your eyes, but he doesn’t.
“You could get in trouble for letting me stay here,” you say.
He still doesn’t look up. Instead he puts one of the sandwiches on the plate and nudges it toward you. “I could get in trouble for a lot of things.”
“But serious trouble. Harboring-a-fugitive trouble,” you say.
He grabs his plate and sits down on the edge of the sofa. He shrugs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “There’s no reason for you to be here, out of all places. There’s no way for them to know we met, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then we’re fine. It’s not like you’re going to throw a party here, right?”
“No parties . . . yet.” You laugh, taking a bite of the sandwich. It’s the first thing you’ve eaten in days that didn’t come from a plastic package or deli case.
“I’m not worried. You’ll figure things out.” He brushes the hair from his forehead. “Besides, it’ll be cool to have someone here for a while.”
He smiles, and you’re suddenly aware of him beside you. His shoulder against yours. How the sleeve of his T-shirt brushes against your arm. His pajama pants sit low on his hips, revealing a thin strip of his back.
“I bet it was the reward,” he says, then takes another bite of the sandwich.
“What?”
“I bet that’s why the guy was following you. The news I saw said there was a reward for information. He probably recognized you.”
Your insides tighten. You’re reminded of everything you haven’t said. That’s not why, and you know it, but he can’t. “Maybe.”
“Anyway, if they find you I’ll pretend I didn’t see the news. They can’t prove that I did.” When his eyes catch the light they’re a paler gray, almost translucent. “So . . . Sunny . . .”
“Why are you saying it like that?”
“It’s not exactly a real name. . . .” He smirks, taking another bite of his sandwich.
Normally you’d be annoyed, but there’s a playfulness in his tone. “Well, when I figure out my actual name, you’ll be the first to know.”
“It suits you, kind of. Your sunny disposition . . .” His smile takes over his whole face, and you can’t help but smile a little, too.
You’re going to respond, but then he reaches over and grabs your elbow the same way he did the first time you met. He lifts your arm up and studies the gash in the skin. The scab is darker. “It looks better,” he says.
“Some guy I met at a supermarket told me it was serious.”
“Nah. It looks okay. That guy sounds like an idiot.” Ben’s face is just a few inches from yours. “Hey, do you want to see something?”
“What?”
“Come with me. You’re going to have some free time tomorrow.”
He’s smiling again as he pushes out the door, waving his hand for you to follow. As you cut across the backyard you feel a little different, more at ease, and you realize that you aren’t scanning the edges of the property or glancing over your shoulder. You’re miles away from the freeway, from everything that happened this morning. The woman who tried to kill you is dead, and you have to believe that no matter why the man was following you, he doesn’t want to kill you. You don’t feel completely safe, nothing can make you feel safe after what you have seen, but Ben was right. It’s safer here. Safer is the word.
“The key’s right under this rock,” Ben says, pointing to a stone beside the entryway. He takes his own keys from his pocket, opens the door, pushes into the back foyer. Dirty sneakers line the wall. There’s a basketball, a jacket piled beside it, some books.
You’re halfway down the hall and you can already feel how empty the house is. No music, no smells drifting in from the kitchen or comforting sounds of dishes clanking against the sink. It’s silent, your footsteps floating up around you, a single light ahead revealing a bare dining table.
“I hate it up here,” Ben says, and you wonder if he could see it on your face, if he knew you were thinking the same thing. He turns down the stairs and you follow. “I usually sleep on the couch downstairs. These were my dad’s. . . .”
The basement walls are lined with arcade games. There’s a row of ten or more pinball machines, a Pac-Man table, some sort of Skee-Ball game. Ben’s clothes are piled on one end of a long L-shaped couch in the corner. On the other end is a blanket and pillow. He goes over, picking up empty Doritos bags, tucking a few prescription bottles into the drawers in the coffee table.
“He collected these?” You sit down at the Pac-Man table, taking a quarter from a paper roll on the top. You drop it in, maneuvering the joystick, but within seconds you lose your first life.
“There’s this place in the valley that sells them,” Ben says. “He used to take me there on my birthday to pick them out.”
“How old were you?” you ask.
“I got the first one when I was twelve,” Ben says. He watches you start the next game, how you can’t help but get stuck in the corners, the joystick not moving as you want it to. He puts his hand over yours before the ghosts catch up, helping maneuver you away from them. You feel the heat of his palm, his fingers on yours.
“There,” he says. “You’re getting better.” He lets go, his hand falling back to his side. Then he sits down across from you.
“You have the home advantage,” you say.
“Prepare yourself,” he laughs. “This is six years in the making.”
He drops a few more quarters in. The electronic song starts. His eyes meet yours and he smiles that bright, all-consuming smile. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”
The next game begins. The motel room feels far away.
“I know,” you say. “Me
too.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TWELVE
YOU SPENT ALL morning searching for information on Ben’s computer. Nothing about a missing girl with a tattoo on her right wrist. Nothing about a woman shot by the 101 Freeway, no matter how many news sites you combed or search terms you used. There’s no website for Garner Consulting. The news clips referred to them only as a tech company, with not a single name of someone who works there.
Now you walk out of the back bungalow, a towel in your hand, letting the sun warm your skin. The backyard is quiet except for the sound of the pool filter. You slip on the sunglasses Ben gave you and his baseball cap, red with worn, frayed edges. You’re about to lie down when you notice a ripped purple hoodie on the patio, crumpled beside the last chair. There’s an iPhone in one of the pockets. As you pick the sweatshirt up a wallet falls out. There are three credit cards, some gift cards, a New York driver’s license, and a social security card. You fan it open, counting the twenties in the main compartment—seven in all. You don’t need the cash, but the cards are tempting. The girl looks enough like you, a teen with dark hair. You could use her ID and credit cards to book a plane ticket to another coast.
You’re leaning over, about to tuck the wallet in your shorts, when you hear the creak of the gate. You slip the wallet back into the sweatshirt. Then you drop down on the chair and fold your legs to you, pretending to look out across the yard.
The girl walks over, her steps so sure and even you have to remind yourself that she doesn’t belong here. Her thick black hair is shaved on one side, her bangs sweeping over her forehead, blending into the rest of her shoulder-length hair. You adjust the brim of your hat, feeling more protected behind the glasses.
“Is this yours?” You pick up the sweatshirt, holding it out to her. “What’s it doing here?”
“I left it.” She grabs it, tying it around her waist like it’s not a big deal.
