by Anna Carey
“No more questions,” you say.
“Good, then let’s get out of here.” He hops up, pulling you to stand. You slip your bare feet into your sneakers but Ben is already moving. You stumble behind him, trying to catch up.
“Where are we going?”
“Swimming.”
He doesn’t look back as he says it. You turn toward the pool, watching a boy struggle to get on a neon-pink raft. “Where? Your house?” you ask.
“Better,” he says. “You’ll see.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT’S HARD TO see where the trail ends and the brush begins. You wind down the narrow path, your hands on Ben’s back, your feet unsteady in the sand. Far below, the ocean is silver and shimmering, the moon casting light on the water. “Just a little farther,” Ben says. “It’s right here.”
The metal staircase cuts down the side of the rocky cliff face, dropping two stories to the thin stretch of sand below. You follow behind Ben, watching where he puts his feet. He avoids the rusted, broken holes in the metal, the spaces where the stairs have eroded. You grab onto the hand rail, holding tight, the other hand on the strap of your knapsack. In just a few minutes you’re on the beach below.
It’s a narrow strip of sand against a steep cliff, a few rocks rising up from the shallows. A hundred feet away an old sailboat is turned on its side. From where you stand you can see the coast to the south, speckled with light, a Ferris wheel turning in the distance.
“This is one of my favorite places. We used to come here when I was a kid.” Ben turns to the water as he peels his shirt up and away, exposing his bare back. You drop the knapsack on the ground, pulling the thin blanket out and setting it on a nearby rock.
You take off the sweatshirt, leaving it there in the sand. Ben has already waded into the water, toward a small outcropping of rocks. You roll the bottom of the shorts up, tie the T-shirt in a knot above your belly button, and follow, letting the cold water hit your ankles, your thighs, your waist.
You hold your breath, dipping below, swimming to where it’s deeper. You’re far enough out that you can’t touch the bottom, but it’s easy to move with the waves, and you wonder where and how you learned to swim. In just a few seconds you’re a dozen feet from the rocks, their silhouettes cutting the surface of the water. The massive cliff face behind them is nearly thirty feet high.
The waves lap against the bottom of the cliff, where seaweed collects. It’s strangely inviting, the way the rocks jut out, glistening and gold in the moonlight. Before you question it you swim over, hoisting yourself up, finding the handholds, climbing higher.
“What are you doing?” Ben calls from somewhere below.
You don’t answer. The bottom of the cliff is dark and slippery, the stone covered with algae. You dig your fingers into the grooves, the skin on your palms burning as you go another five feet, where the rock is dry and rough. It’s so easy. Your body hugs the cliff. Soon you are twenty feet above the surface of the water, maybe more.
“Seriously, Sunny,” he yells. “You’re going to kill yourself. It’s not deep enough to jump.”
As he says it you reach a narrow ledge, no wider than six inches. You press your body against the rock, turning around to face the ocean. Ben is so much smaller from up here. The sky is right in front of you, spreading out against the horizon.
He says something else but you can’t hear it. Your feet are already pushing off the rock. You can already feel the rush of the dive, how there is nothing below you, only air. Your arms fly out by your sides, your back arches. The water rushes to meet you. In that last second you straighten out, your feet kicking over your head.
When you cut through the surface you are so awake, so alive. Your eyes are closed and beneath the water, in that stillness, you have the sudden flash of a forest. A mossy ledge beside a waterfall. A figure passes behind it, just a silhouette. You breathe out, the bubbles rising up around you, and then the image is gone. You are there, alone, listening to your heartbeat.
When you finally break the surface Ben is laughing.
“Holy shit,” he says. “That was insane. How’d you do that?”
He laughs again, and you wipe the water from your eyes. You know you’ve done it before. When and where, you have no idea.
“I don’t know. I just did,” you say. The rush of it is still with you, your heart racing, your skin stinging where it hit the surface. You float onto your back, letting your breaths slow, and then dip back under the water.
Beneath the surface you drift, letting one hand graze the sand beneath you. When you look up you can just make out Ben’s legs kicking to stay afloat. It’s too much to resist.
You swim toward him, hands out in front of you, your body cutting straight to him. As soon as you can reach his ankle you grab it, tugging him toward you. You laugh as you come back up.
He treads water, his smile bright. “I thought you were a shark,” he laughs. “I was having a total Jaws moment.”
As you swim back toward the shore he follows, racing behind but unable to keep up. You hit the shallows and start up the beach. You stand in the sand, wringing the water from the edge of your shirt.
It takes a moment for you to notice Ben. He’s frozen at the edge of the water, watching you. “What are you looking at?” you tease.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead he grabs the blanket from the rock. He drapes it over your shoulders, not letting go of the edges. “Just you.”
“Just me?” you pretend to be offended.
“I mean, you . . .” He smiles. “Come on . . . it isn’t exactly easy to tell a girl she’s pretty, and cool, and . . . different.”
“You haven’t met a girl with no memory before?”
When he laughs his breath is warm on your cheek. “No.” He says it softer, leaning in. His face is just a few inches from yours. “You’re the first. . . .”
“No bank robbers in your past?” You whisper it, but before you can say anything else he moves closer and presses his lips against yours, letting one hand slip down to your ribs.
You let him kiss you, his lips on your lips, your cheeks, your chin. You bring your hands to the sides of his face as he pulls you to him. He presses his body to yours and you hold on to his back, feeling every muscle beneath the surface of the skin, rounding down over his shoulders. He smiles as he kneels down, pulling you onto the sand with him.
“I’m glad you caught me selling pot in that supermarket,” he laughs. His hand slides over your stomach, his finger circling your belly button.
“I’m glad I caught you selling pot in that supermarket.”
“I’m glad you’re glad you caught me—”
But before he can finish you shift on top of him, kissing him again, his words getting lost. Your hair drips onto his chest and you wipe the water away. Your fingers slide over his skin. He moves methodically, covering your skin with his lips, following a line from your collarbone to your chin. It feels so easy and good it’s jarring when he stops. He pulls back. His fingers trace your scar.
“This is from before?”
You turn away, covering it with your hand. “It was there when I woke up.”
Slowly, gently, he pulls your fingers away. You close your eyes as he does it, not wanting to see his face. His breath gets closer, the warmth of it on your neck, and then his lips touch down. He kisses the length of it, not stopping until he’s covered every inch of skin.
“I hate this,” he whispers. “You don’t deserve any of it.”
“You don’t know that. I could’ve—”
“I do know.”
He seems so sure you want to believe him. He falls back onto the blanket and you rest your head on his chest. You pull the covers around you, nestling under his chin. “It’ll come back,” you say, not sure who you are reassuring. “My memory will
come back.”
“I know,” Ben says. He pulls you closer to him, squeezing you against his chest. You lie there, the sand and sea salt in your hair, watching as he closes his eyes, as he gives in to sleep.
You want to follow but you can’t. Ten minutes pass, then ten more, and you are too cold, too restless, thinking of the notebook in your knapsack. You peel yourself away from Ben, careful not to wake him.
You grab a dry shirt and pants from the bag, changing out of your soaked clothes. You squeeze the water from the ends of your hair, tying it back, wiping the salt from your face. Then you pull out the notebook, flipping to the last page with writing.
- The man was wearing a white dress shirt and black pants
- He drove a silver Camry with no license plate
- He followed you twice: first at the diner in Hollywood and later near the bus station five blocks away from there
- He found you more than a day apart
- He shot and killed the woman who chased you
- He saved your life
As you read down the last list you keep returning to two lines. He followed you twice. He found you more than a day apart. Twice the man found you, twice he knew where you were, appearing suddenly, as if out of nowhere. It’s possible the first time was a coincidence, and that he tracked you from the first location to the second, but as you puzzle it over—all the hours that passed between the diner and the bus station, all the places you had been in between—it’s that word, track, that stops you.
You grab the knapsack, handling it as if it’s on fire. You empty the contents onto a patch of sand. Sorting through it, you separate the clothes, unfold the map again and squeeze it, trying to see if it’s possible there’s anything inside. You’re all over everything, thumbs flipping through the bills, flicking open the knife blade, double-checking the canister of mace.
You’re about to let it be when you notice the pack’s lining. You cover every inch of it, pressing your fingers against the cloth walls. Finally, tucked behind the backpack’s manufacturing tag, you find a thick metal square. With one slice of the knife it comes free, falling into your hand.
It’s just smaller than a cell phone battery. You would’ve assumed it was a security device, something to prevent shoplifting. You can hear your pulse throbbing in your ears, your breaths so short they’re painful.
You glance over at Ben, still sleeping on the sand, the blanket shielding him from the wind coming off the water. You can’t put him in any more danger than he’s already in. You won’t. Instead you pile everything back into the bag and go, climbing the steep metal staircase, watching him as you start along the top of the cliff. When you get to the curb you pass his Jeep, instead winding down the narrow road that will spit you back onto the PCH.
He knew where you were, you think. He knows where you are. You walk and walk. If he followed you before, he’ll come back again, won’t he? How long will it take to draw him out again? You keep moving in the dark, waiting for the road to split up ahead. Waiting to see if Ben’s Jeep will speed past. You are still waiting when you hit the highway.
You put up your thumb, and after a few minutes an older woman pulls over, offering to take you back down the coast.
It’s time you got some answers, from the only person who can give them. You’ll have to set a trap. If the man followed you twice, he’ll follow you again. This time you will be ready.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE MAN HAS been sitting outside of the youth shelter for nearly an hour. He has the air conditioning on high but the car is still hot, the ice in his cup melted, the diet soda now watery. He looks down at the photo on the passenger seat. The kid can’t be older than seventeen. The picture caught him in profile. His nose looks like it’s been broken once or twice before. There’s a tattoo peeking out of his collar, someone’s name in tight script.
It’s almost noon. He’s sure he missed the kid going in. The only chance is getting him on the way out. It would be easier if he could just ask whoever’s doing intake, slip some money to the person at the front desk. But there were specific directions. Park here, wait here, approach him after he walks this many blocks. The recruitment is getting more detailed as the months go on. Lately he can’t blink without calling someone first.
He pops open the glove compartment. Beside the roll of cash is an open bag of Swedish Fish. Maureen would kill him if she knew. Just one? she’d say. When have you ever had just one? He pulls just one from the bag, folds the plastic a few times, as if that could seal it closed. Then he shoves the bag back in the glove compartment, hiding it behind the money. There, he thinks, shutting the glove compartment door. I’ll forget about them. I won’t have any more.
But as soon as he chews the gummy candy he wants another. He hasn’t even swallowed it and he’s reaching for the glove compartment again. The only thing that stops him is the phone, the stupid thing buzzing in the front pocket of his shirt.
It reads Blocked, like most of the calls do. He picks up anyway.
“Yup?”
“It’s me. Quick question.”
It’s never a quick question with Ivan. He always needs to be calmed down, to be talked off some ledge. He’s only been working for them for two weeks and the phone calls have been constant, these small requests for reassurance, and he hasn’t even gotten to the worst part yet. “What? I’m doing something.”
“The tracking device isn’t moving anymore.”
“Where is it?”
“Some park. It’s been there for two days, hasn’t moved even five feet.”
“So . . . ?” He watches the front doors of the shelter. A short guy with a stained T-shirt comes out, a duffel slung over his shoulder. It isn’t him.
“What do I do? I already gave them the second location.”
“If you’re worried about it, go check it out. In the meantime you should update them.” Two other guys walk out, linger for a moment on the sidewalk, then turn right. The kid appears behind them. Shaved head. A sweatshirt balled up under his arm. He doesn’t notice the car across the street.
“What does it mean? Do you think something happened?”
“It’s been over a hundred degrees every day for the last week. She’s in some park and she’s not moving. What do you think that means?”
He doesn’t wait for Ivan to respond. Instead he hangs up, tucking the disposable phone in his back pocket before he gets out of the car. He stays ten yards behind the kid, smiling because he knows it makes him look friendlier, more accessible. He wants to seem like someone this kid can trust.
Two more blocks before he’ll approach him. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, turns the corner, away from the youth shelter. Just two more blocks.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HEADLIGHTS. THE SLOW grate of tires against gravel, then the engine cuts out, leaving the woods in silence. As the sun began to set you closed your eyes for just a few minutes, and now the woods are dark. There is a car in the parking lot. The door opens and shuts. A man types something into his phone as he starts on the trail twenty feet below.
The moon is full and bright, making it easier to see the bend in the trail where you buried the tracking device, just under a large square rock. You’ve been here for two days now, hiding in the brush and trees. You left Ben on the beach alone, and you know he’s probably worried, wondering what happened to you, wondering where you are. But you can’t think about that now. You needed to do this, to lure him out of hiding. If the tracking device isn’t moving, you’re not moving, and the man has finally come to find out why.
He is looking up, his chin turned in your direction. The faint blue glow of the phone’s screen lig
hts his face. You’re perched high above, behind thick brush and shrubs, a few feet away from another narrow trail. You’ve hidden your knapsack in a ditch beside you, along with the empty water bottles and garbage from the past days, the wrappers from the sandwiches you found in the park’s planetarium dining hall. You rifle through the top of the bag, looking for the plastic ties and rope you bought at an army-supply store. You feel your pocket to make sure the mace is still there. The knife is still at your belt.
He has his phone in his hand as he walks, occasionally looking down at the screen. You can see the glow from it, a halo of light winding up from below, moving toward you. You’re just above, no more than twenty feet away from him. When he finds the device you can approach from behind.
He disappears, then reappears around the bend. He’s moving toward the device when he pulls a second phone from his pants pocket. It’s buzzing. He flips it open, answering it. “I’m here now,” he says. “I’ll call as soon as I have news.”
You recognize his voice from somewhere, but you can’t tell where. Was he in a dream? Did you know him from before? You watch him as he turns around, one hand balled in a fist. Whoever is on the other end of the line is saying something. The man’s mouth keeps opening and closing to respond, a series of “buts” and “yes, buts” slipping out, and nothing more.
He hangs up, moving his finger over the phone, glancing from the screen to the trail, then back again. He’s within a few feet of the tracking device. He winces as he peers into the bushes, using the phone for light.
You step out of the brush, moving along the trail, winding down to where he is. His back is to you as he moves deeper into the bushes. He’s thinner than you remember him, with skin so pale it seems ghostly in the dim light. He’s pulling some of the branches back, holding one arm up to protect his face, and he’s so frantic you almost feel something for him. He seems like a different person than the one you saw in the parking garage.
