The owner of the club steps inside. “Genesis.” He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, nor does he seem angry. He looks . . . worried. Two men in nondescript suits step past him into the club, and one of them flashes some kind of identification at us.
“Genesis Valencia?”
I nod as I grab my phone from the dock with one shaking hand. I know the drill. I’ve seen Holden arrested twice, and both times he’s been sprung by his family’s attorneys within the hour.
Kids in my tax bracket don’t get in serious trouble.
But then, kids in my tax bracket don’t usually kill twelve hundred people, then try to pay for legal services with drug money.
Indiana stands, studying me in concern.
“Homeland Security,” the man with the badge tells me. “We need you and your friend to come with us. Now.”
Anxiety sends adrenaline straight to my chest, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. Theoretically speaking, I no longer want to be dependent upon my dad’s illicit income. But if that means spending the rest of my life in prison, I can’t swear that my moral stand will win out over self-preservation.
I’ve already spent enough time locked up.
6 DAYS, 8 HOURS EARLIER
There was never a good time to tell you.
MADDIE
I’ve hardly been alone with my mother since Pen, Luke, and I got back to Miami. That wasn’t intentional. But as I open the front door of our apartment, the dread churning in my gut tells me that maybe, at least subconsciously, it really was.
My mother is sitting at the table, sipping from a cup of coffee. The funeral catalogues are gone. She’s just staring at the woven placemat until I close the door at my back. Then she looks up and sees me.
“Maddie, hon, I am so sorry.” She stands, but keeps her distance, as if she’s not sure how I’ll react if she tries to touch me.
Good call.
“For what? Trying to kill yourself? Or sleeping with Uncle Hernán? Or lying to me and Ryan for our whole lives?” What else is she not telling me?
She bites her lip, but that isn’t the guilty expression I’m looking for. That’s the expression that tells me there’s more. Something she’s trying not to say.
“What?” I demand, and she starts to shake her head, but I cut her off. “Just tell me, Mom.”
Her expression crumples and fresh tears fill her eyes. “Ryan knew.”
My hand falls to my side. The car keys jingle as they hit the carpet. No. He would have told me. Ryan always told me the truth.
He stole ten dollars from Dad’s wallet when he was twelve. He ate the last sugar-free brownie, even though I’d called diabetic-dibs, because he was too lazy to go to the store. He wasn’t sure he could stop drinking on his own.
Letting me believe a lie was as bad as lying to me himself. Why would he do that?
My father. My mother. My uncle. My brother.
It’s too late to get answers from Ryan, but my mother . . .
“Why would you tell him, but not me?”
“I didn’t tell him. He . . . figured it out. And we didn’t tell you because your father had just died, and that seemed like more than enough for you to deal with. Then Ryan went into rehab, and things just . . . There was never a good time to tell you. There was never a good reason.”
“I’ve always found the truth to be reason enough.”
My mother flinches, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I’ve never been so mad at her, but hurting her only makes me feel worse.
“Dad didn’t die,” I point out in as rational a voice as I can manage.
She sinks into the chair at her back, as if the truth has somehow punctured the bubble of denial she’s evidently been living in. As if it’s deflating all around her. Sapping her energy.
She isn’t healthy enough for this conversation. I know that. But neither of us can move on until we’ve had it.
I cross the small living room into the dining area, and the fact that I’m coming closer—voluntarily—seems to prop her up a little. “Did you know?”
She exhales slowly. “He . . . He put too many things in order before he left for Colombia that last time. I suspected he might not come back. And when they told me they’d found his body, it was easier to believe he’d died than that he’d just left. Even if deep down, I knew better. But I had no idea about the rest of it, Maddie. About what he did . . . I’m not sure I truly believed it until—” She bites off the rest of her sentence, but I can hear what she isn’t saying.
“Until Uncle Hernán told you.”
She nods. “I just . . . It sounded so surreal.”
“If you didn’t believe it, why did you take a whole bottle of pills?”
For a moment, she only stares at her placemat. As if she’s searching for the right words.
I don’t care if they’re right. I just want them to be true.
“That wasn’t about your father,” she says at last, and her voice sounds fragile. Flimsy. As if it could be torn like a sheet of paper. “Not entirely. I just . . . I made a really bad call. In that moment, all I could think about was everything I’ve lost. I felt like I had nothing left.”
I stumble back from the table. My face burns as if she’s slapped me.
Too late, she realizes what she’s said. “No, Maddie, that’s not what I meant. Obviously I still have you. But at the time, all I could see was what I’d lost. I was sick, honey. I’ve been sick for a while now and the truth is that when Ryan died, that light at the end of the tunnel died with him. I couldn’t even imagine a time when I would feel better, and I thought . . .” Her tears spill over. “I thought you’d be better off without me.”
“That’s not true.” My voice sounds strange. I feel oddly numb. As if I’m hearing someone else say the words.
“I know. I know that now. I knew that then. It was just . . . That was really hard to keep in focus at the time. I just . . . I need to know that you’ll forgive me.”
I can only blink at her. I know I’m supposed to say something, but all I can do is stare.
“It doesn’t have to be right now. I know you need some time, after what I’ve done. But I’m going to get better. I’m going to do whatever it takes. For you and for me. I just need to know that it can happen. Eventually. I just need that hope, Maddie. Can you give me that?”
I nod.
Then I turn and walk back to my room. I close the door. Then I lock it.
This can’t be happening.
GENESIS
“How did you find us?” I know there are more important questions I could be asking the agent sitting across the table, but that one is stuck in my head. “Did you use some kind of high-tech spy gear, or have you been following me?”
The man in the suit checks the setting on the recorder sitting in the middle of the table, as if he didn’t even hear my question.
A minute later, the door opens and another man in a suit escorts my father into the room. And suddenly I understand how this happened.
I pull my phone out and disable the “track my phone” option, making sure my dad can see what I’m doing. I half expect him to threaten to take my phone away, but he doesn’t. If I didn’t have a phone, he’d have no way to get in contact with me, and I’d have no way to call for help, should I need it.
So he only frowns and sinks into the chair next to mine while the man who escorted him into the room closes the door and stands next to it like a guard.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Valencia,” the man on the other side of the table begins. As if I’m here of my own volition. “We have a few questions about your time in the jungle.”
If the FBI had brought me home, they probably would have questioned me immediately, as they did Pen, Luke, and Maddie. But since we came home on my father’s jet, without government assistance . . .
Indiana is in another room somewhere in this same building. With another set of men in suits.
“Okay.” My thoughts whirl so fast that the room seem
s to be spinning around me. My dad doesn’t look worried. But then, my dad wouldn’t look worried if he were balanced on one foot on the rim of a churning volcano. He doesn’t believe in tipping his hand.
“As you may already know, we’ve had several chats with Sebastián Cardenas since he was transferred into US custody overnight.”
Cardenas. I never even knew Sebastián’s last name.
Then what the man in the suit is saying finally sinks in. What has Sebastián told them? How much does he know?
“Am I under arrest?” The second the words are out of my mouth, I realize I’ve revealed too much. My father stiffens next to me, confirming that, and for a second, I hate that I’ve disappointed him.
Then I remember that I’m disappointed in him.
“You are not under arrest at this time,” the man in the suit says. “Whether or not that changes depends on how this meeting goes.”
“Do I need an attorney?” I ask.
My father nods. “I’ve already called—”
“An attorney would not be appropriate at this time,” the man says.
My father stands. “You’re not interrogating my daughter without an attorney present.”
“Mr. Valencia, we’re not characterizing this as an interrogation at the moment, but I want you both to understand that should that change, we are legally permitted to question persons of interest without a lawyer present under the Patriot Act.”
“The Patriot Act?” My father sits again, but it feels more like he’s collapsing into his chair. “You’re questioning her as a terrorism suspect?”
Terrorism? Because of the explosion. The Splendor victims.
A jolt of fear burns through me.
“Not as a suspect. As a material witness. Unless something changes.” The man in the suit leans toward me over the table. “Ms. Valencia, it is our hope that we can resolve this today. It’s in your best interest to cooperate with us at this juncture to avoid more . . . extreme measures later.”
Suddenly I can hear my pulse rush in my ears. This can’t be happening. Everything I did had to be done. “Look, none of this was my fault. I got kidnapped. I had a gun pointed at my head and a machete held to my throat. I found out that there were bombs, and I tried to—”
“Genesis, stop talking.” My father’s voice is low and sharp.
My mouth snaps shut.
“We already know what happened to the Splendor,” the man in the suit says. “We understand that you didn’t intend for anyone to die. In exchange for your cooperation—for filling in some blanks for us—we are willing to stipulate to that in writing and to agree to forgo any reckless endangerment charges—”
“Reckless . . . ?” The room feels too bright. My voice sounds too high. “I just spent a week starving at the hands of terrorists, and now you’re threatening to put me in prison. I’m a US citizen. Am I supposed to be as scared of my own government as I am of a terrorist?”
The man standing guard by the door snorts.
“I’m giving you a choice here, Ms. Valencia. You can answer our questions and leave this room formally cleared of all guilt in the deaths of more than twelve hundred people, or you can elect to explain your actions in a court of law instead.”
Cleared of all guilt. No charges. If I do this, Holden will have nothing to hold over me. I’ll be rid of him.
I lean forward, my elbows propped on the table, and look the man right in the eye. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But not with him here.” I nod in my dad’s direction.
“Genesis, I’m not going to—”
The man across the table stands. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”
6 DAYS, 4 HOURS EARLIER
I don’t care.
MADDIE
My phone rings, and I struggle up from an accidental nap to answer it.
“Hey,” Luke says when I answer. “I’ve been paroled. Want some company?”
“Yes.” I don’t even have to think about it. “Your house?”
“No way. Parole means I’m allowed to leave the grounds. Can I come over?”
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. “I have to get out of here. Wanna hit the arcade again?” I’d found it pleasantly impossible to think about real life while we were chomping pixelated ghosts and shooting floating hockey pucks at each other.
“How ’bout someplace quiet?”
“The coffee shop a block from my apartment,” I suggest as I sit up and dig under my bed for my shoes.
“I’ll meet you there.”
I hang up my phone and slide it into my pocket, then sneak into my mother’s room to make sure her nap isn’t of the permanent variety. Her chest rises softly as I watch, and the only thing on her nightstand is a glass of water. On my way out, I grab my house key and slap a Post-it note on the inside of the front door telling her that I’ll be back for dinner.
The afternoon is clear and beautiful, but I can only glare into the spring sunshine, well aware that I’m channeling Eeyore. No one in my position would be in a good mood.
Then I see Luke get off the bus half a block away, and I can feel my mood lift. It doesn’t seem fair to him that he’s the only ray of light in my life. That feels like too much to pin on a guy who hasn’t even turned sixteen yet.
But he keeps coming around, so I have to believe that he welcomes the challenge.
I speed up and we get to the coffeehouse at the same time. “You get a table, I’ll get coffee?” he suggests. I nod, then I pick out a spot in the corner by the window, where I can stare out at the world. I’d much rather watch it than be in it these days.
A few minutes later, Luke sets two lattes on the table, then lets his backpack swing carefully to the floor. He sits in the chair opposite mine and pulls a tablet from the front pocket of his backpack, and when I see that he’s trying to log into the free Wi-Fi, I read the password to him. It’s written in chalk on the blackboard-painted rear wall, along with the daily muffin and cupcake selections.
Luke opens an app that turns his tablet into a virtual air hockey table and sets it on the table between us with a grin. “Ready?”
I’ve just decided we’re the cutest couple on the face of the planet when a bright light flashes in my face.
Stunned, I look up, blinking, and I find a photographer standing a few feet away, zooming in for a second shot with his huge, expensive camera.
I have no idea what to do, and Luke’s so focused on his air hockey defense that he hasn’t even noticed. But the barista behind the counter has.
“Hey. Buy something or get out!” she shouts. She’s trying to be helpful, obviously, but all she’s really done is call attention to our presence.
The photographer heads outside, where he’s evidently content to take pictures of us through the window, and before I can tell Luke that we should leave, half of the customers in the coffee shop are staring.
Then the whispers begin. I hear our names. Then I hear Ryan’s. I hear my mother’s. Someone mentions the Splendor.
“Luke.”
“Maddie, you just let me score.” He looks up from the tablet, where the electronic puck now floats in front of his goal, waiting for him to send it flying with one finger. Then he notices my expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go.”
“What? Why?”
“Because everyone’s staring.”
Finally, he looks around, and now there are phones aimed at us. People are taking pictures. Some of them seem to be recording.
“I don’t care,” he says, but his jaw is clenched. “They don’t own the coffee shop. We have every right to be here.”
And I want to be here. But I don’t want to be on their social media accounts and YouTube channels.
“Ignore them,” Luke says. “They’ll get bored when they realize how normal we are.”
But I don’t feel normal. I feel like a fraud. “Thank you.” I tap the pause button on the app and meet his gaze from
across the table. “For this, and for everything else. You’re the only connection I have to ‘normal’ these days. And I’m starting to think that you and Genesis are the only people in my entire life who’ve never lied to me.”
Luke gives me an amused look as he lifts his coffee cup. “Didn’t she tell you she was taking you to the Bahamas for spring break?”
I’m almost startled by the realization that he’s right. “Okay, yes, technically she lies semi-regularly. But she’s different since we got out of the jungle. And now that Ryan’s gone, she’s the only family I have left. The only person I feel like I can trust, other than you. Which means I have to tell her about my brother.” I lower my voice to make sure none of the phone cameras can hear me. “Our brother . . .”
My phone beeps. A text from Neda pops up on the screen.
Where the hell are you?
I only reply to give myself something to do other than stare back at all the assholes still talking about us.
???
I hunch down in my chair, trying to hide behind Luke’s head.
We go live in 5 min. For my show. I texted you the details.
Neda did text me earlier, but I never read the message because I don’t want to encourage an open dialogue with her. Genesis is home. We don’t need any more publicity. Which means Neda’s just another journalist—in her case, a “journalist”—trying to use Luke and me for exposure.
We have more than enough of that already.
“What’s wrong?” Luke asks.
“Neda seem to think we’re going live on her channel in five minutes.”
“We never agreed to another show.”
“She tends to miss details like that,” I say as I type.
Not gonna happen.
I start to slide my phone into my pocket, but it begins to buzz in my hand. Neda’s calling. She must be desperate.
“What?” I snap into my phone, in lieu of a greeting.
“I was supposed to be interviewing Genesis and Indiana, but they’re a no-show, so you’re up!” Her voice is too high-pitched. She sounds upset.