“I’ll be back this afternoon,” Ben says. “Just think about it? We have a car, we have money. We can go somewhere they won’t be able to find you.”
You close your eyes, imagining it. You and Ben on a beach somewhere, the sun blazing above, all of this behind you, a distant memory. You breathe him in, all of him, letting your face press deeper into his shirt. You don’t know if it’s even possible, if there’s anywhere they can’t find you. There’s only one way out of this, you know that, deep in your gut, but you can’t say it aloud. Not to Ben.
“Okay.” You nod. “I’ll think about it.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE WINDOW IS open, and you can smell the sweet peanut sauce on the Thai food. You watch Celia as she moves around her kitchen, holding the plastic container in one hand as she reads the magazine on the counter. Occasionally she dips her chopsticks into the flat noodles, shoveling a small bite into her mouth.
When you knock on the back door she reaches to her waist, her hand on the butt of the gun, before realizing it’s you. “I’ve been hoping you’d find me,” she says, opening the door. She immediately locks it behind you. “You’re all right?”
“I am for now.”
She looks different here, in this small, Spanish-style house with lights strung up on the back porch. Her dark hair frames her face. She wears a V-neck T-shirt and jeans, the holster at her hip. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’ve been okay . . .” you say, knowing that’s not really true. But it doesn’t matter now. “I need to know: Did you find the body?”
Celia moves around the kitchen, pulling a folder from above one of the slots in her dish rack. There’s a yellow pad with messy scrawl all over it. “You were right . . . he was there. They’re doing the autopsy tonight. They’re trying to keep it from the media right now. It’s hard to know what to make of it.”
“I told them what to make of it. What more proof do they need? That’s Ivan. I told you they took him, and now he’s dead.”
Celia lets out a deep breath. “I know that, but they don’t. It turns out his name wasn’t Ivan. It was Alexi Karamov. And he doesn’t have any obvious connections to crime, even to that dogfighting ring. We couldn’t find a single person who had a problem with him.”
“So that’s it? Another dead end?” You can’t help the edge in your voice. This was supposed to be the thing that proved what you’d told them. The thing that would make them believe you. What now? Where can you possibly go from here?
Celia flips through the pages, her brows drawing together. “I have to ask you something,” she says, looking down at the leather wristband Ben lent you. “Can I look at your wrist?”
Your throat tightens. “Why? What now?”
“You said these people are hunting you, right?” Celia says. She rests her hand on your arm. “So I looked through John Doe and Jane Doe records, different unsolved homicides across the country. I found two different cases—one in Seattle, one in New York. Two bodies turned up with right hands severed at the wrist. Both of them were teenagers, not much older than you.”
“They were kids. . . .”
“Yes. And both had records. People are saying maybe it’s gang-related, maybe a serial killer, but I know it isn’t. Not after what you told me.”
You reach down, pulling the wristband away, showing her the bird on the inside of your wrist. You can barely speak, barely breathe as she runs her fingers over it, studying the numbers there.
She holds up her phone. “Can I take a picture?”
You nod and she snaps a few takes, zooming in on the numbers and letters. You thought it might be your initials, your birthday. You thought it could’ve been something you chose for yourself, something that held some meaning you didn’t yet know. But deep down you had to have known the truth. It’s just a brand. . . . It was always a brand. A way for them to identify you.
You are no one. The thought is there and you can’t let it go. You feel hollow inside. You are no one.
Celia must see it in your face, because she reaches out, resting her hand on your arm, pulling you to her. “We’re going to figure this out,” she says. “I promise you. It’s going to end soon.”
You nod, wanting to believe her. When you step back you press your fingers to your eyes, blotting them. “I came here because I need to know who they are.”
“The people who came after you?”
“Exactly . . . did you find anything? There has to be something somewhere about the woman who was hunting me. How can a person just die in the middle of Los Angeles and leave no trace?”
Celia nods, and for the first time, she looks tired. “I know, and I’ve been looking. I searched every obit and homicide report, but . . .”
“What about missing persons? Someone she’s close to might not know what she was involved in. Maybe they reported her.”
Celia writes something down on the paper. “I’ll check. I’ll let you know.”
Then she goes to the cabinet above the refrigerator, pulling down a paper bag. “This was the best I could do right now,” she says, passing it to you.
You open the top. Inside is another vial of mace, a switchblade knife, and a small silver phone. You take it out, turning it over in your hand.
“It’s untraceable,” she says. “You can use it for thirty days—calls, texts, whatever. Keep it on you. If I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” you say.
Celia grabs her keys from the counter. “Let me drive you somewhere.”
Your first instinct is to tell her no, you’ll be fine, she’s done enough. But even in daylight you feel uneasy. You feel like time is almost up.
“Just to the bus stop,” you say. “I’m heading back east.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE LIGHTS ARE all off at Ben’s house. He hasn’t gotten back yet. Once you’re inside, alone in the quiet, you’re not certain what to do. You can shower. You can pack the few things you own, get ready to leave with Ben, hoping they won’t find you wherever you go next. But is that really an option?
You cut out the back door, approaching the pool house. A pink sticky note is attached to the front window. In a loopy script is a note, WTF?—I.
Izzy. You close your eyes and you can see her there, her confused expression as you ran from her on the street the other day. What does she think of you now? It shouldn’t matter, she’s going back to New York, but you still feel responsible somehow, like it’s a wrong you need to right.
You take the spare key Ben gave you and cross into the next yard. When you get to her porch, you knock, listening to the music that floats behind the door. Mims answers. She has the clearest blue eyes, giving the impression that she’s looking through you. Her face is relaxed. She smiles without smiling.
“You must be Sunny,” she says. “Izzy told me about you.” She puts her hand on your shoulder, leading you inside.
The house is full of light. A stereo is on in the corner, playing some slow music you don’t recognize. There’s a cutting board out, slices of apples and bananas scattered all over it. Mims tosses a handful in the blender and adds some ice.
“I’m just here to say hi. . . .”
“You’re friends with Ben, right? It’s nice for her to know a few people here when she visits.”
“Yeah.” You force a smile, wondering where you’ll be whenever Izzy comes back to LA. If you’ll still be around. “Is she here?”
“Inside.” Mims points to a hallway off the living room. Her house is smaller than Ben’s and sparser. A low coffee table is surrounded by colorful pillows and cushions for people to sit on the floor. In the corner of th
e room, there are statues on a small altar. Elephants and Buddhas huddle on the bookcase and along the window ledge.
You take the right down the hallway, and as soon as you get to Izzy’s door you can smell it—the mixture of pot and incense. You don’t bother knocking.
“What the fuck?” She snubs out a joint in the ashtray. “Where did you come from?”
“Sorry about the other day.”
Izzy pulls her black hair away from her face, tying the top of it in a knot, exposing the shaved side. She folds her legs into her and just looks at you—this cold, unblinking stare.
“You should be. You ran away from me.”
“I got freaked out.”
“By what?” Izzy laughs. “It was weird, and I like weird. But that was even too weird for me.”
Izzy looks strange here, in this guest room, with a simple white bedspread and a teal blanket slung over the end. The walls are bare. Her clothes and things are piled on the chairs and floor.
“I just wanted to say good-bye.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off you. She just smacks the end of the bed, telling you to sit down. “I guess you’re leaving me in suspense, huh? I know we only spent two days together, but I’m not a total idiot. I know something’s going on.”
“I can’t, Izzy.”
“I get it. But you should at least know something before you go . . .” She pauses. “I saw you.”
Your first instinct is the surveillance picture, but then you’re confused. Izzy’s face doesn’t reveal much. She pinches the end of her piercing, turning it around, back and forth between her fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you that day by the pool. You were going to steal my wallet.”
You take in a breath, but you can’t get enough air. You’d give anything to just disappear right now, to close your eyes and be gone, away from this room, out from under Izzy’s gaze.
Your eyes wash over and you turn away. “I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“I’m not telling you to make you feel like shit. I’m telling you because you don’t seem like the kind of person who would steal unless you really needed it.” Izzy reaches over to the nightstand drawer. She pulls a few twenties from her wallet and hands them to you. “It’s all I have. Just take it.”
“Izzy . . . please don’t.” It’s hard to even look at her. You stare at the floor, at the pile of alcohol bottles peeking out from under her bed, at the crumpled clothes, anywhere but at her. You feel like you are shrinking into yourself.
“It’s not a big deal, just take it. You need it, so take it.”
Your whole body flushes, the room hotter than before. Out of all the times to run you want to go now, to leave, to never come back. You’re looking at your feet when you hear a low binging sound. “What is that?” you ask.
“Not mine,” Izzy says. She points to your pocket.
You feel your hip, remembering the cell phone you got from Celia. When you pull it out it has one picture text.
No missing persons fitting the time line but found a report of a car sitting in a lot in Riverside for days. Registered to a female in her early 40s. Husband says she’s away on business travel and came to claim the car, but feels strange to me. Here’s a pic of the owner—Hilary Goss. Is this the woman who chased you?
You scroll down to the picture, the woman with brown hair and eyes. She is looking at you, her face as clear as it was that day in the alley. Her makeup is done and she’s wearing the silver medallion around her neck. You’d recognize her anywhere.
Izzy’s still staring at you. “Seriously, since when do you have a phone?”
“I need your computer. . . .” You get up from the bed, fumbling through the clothes on her chair, looking for her laptop.
She pulls it from her nightstand and hands it to you. “Why?”
You flip it open, typing in the name from Celia’s text. Hilary Goss. You add Los Angeles, your hands shaking.
“What the hell is going on? You’re scaring me.”
You scroll down and for a moment your lungs are tight, the pressure in your chest like nothing you’ve felt before. There’s a Los Angeles Times article about a charity auction. You check the caption twice, not wanting to believe it. Hilary and Henry Goss Host Charity Auction at Their Los Feliz Home. They’re standing in front of their house, her in a summer dress, him in a pressed shirt and tie. They’re smiling. You can’t stop looking at him. He has the same eyes. The same pale, angular face. The same crooked scar cutting down his chin.
Henry Goss is the man hunting you.
Their street is listed in the story. In minutes you have the route mapped out. Their house can’t be more than two miles away, maybe less.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” You pass Izzy the computer, trying to stop the trembling in your hands. When you stand to leave she follows you.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
Within a few steps you are in the hallway, out beyond the living room, and to the door. It’s a pathetic lie but you say it anyway. “Nothing.”
You hear her stop at the end of the hall. Her eyes are on your back, as if one simple look can turn you around. You keep going, cutting through the empty living room, the door falling shut behind you.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE HOUSE HAS a high metal gate around the perimeter. The surveillance camera points toward the driveway. You stay behind it, moving back along the wall, to where a lemon tree curves over the property.
You climb the trunk of the tree, grabbing on to the awning of leaves above. It curves up, its branches twisting together, making it hard to go much farther. The courtyard below is empty. There aren’t any cameras on this side of the house. You press your foot onto the top of the metal rail and push over, hanging down on the other side. It’s a fifteen-foot drop. You land hard, but on your feet.
The sun reflects off the windows and it’s impossible to tell if the lights are on, if anyone is inside. It’s a massive Spanish villa, with rough stucco walls and a red clay roof. You circle around back, where a fake waterfall cascades down rocks and into a still pool. You feel for the knife Celia gave you, in your pocket.
The back sliding doors are locked. Pressing your face to the glass, you can see the kitchen is empty. The counters are clear. The table doesn’t have a single thing on it. Around the side of the house there’s another door, this one with a window in the top half. The panes are only six inches by four, one just inside of the doorknob. You grab a rock from a garden a few feet away, aiming it at the thin pane. With one quick jab it breaks, and your hand is inside, turning the lock.
There’s no alarm—at least not one that’s audible. You’re aware that you may only have ten minutes, maybe less, that you should move through as quickly as possible. The house is quiet. To the right of the kitchen is a massive living room. There’s a leather sofa, chairs, a zebra-skin rug. Over the fireplace is the mounted head of a spotted cat. You move closer, examining it. It’s not until you touch it that you’re certain it’s real. Touching the fur, it makes a sick kind of sense. How long have they been hunting? Where? When did killing animals stop being enough for them?
The stairwell is covered in framed awards. There are several diplomas—business schools and law degrees, professional awards. You climb the twisting staircase to an upper hall. A glass case sits at the end of a long corridor. It’s filled with different size guns, some rifles, some handguns, like the one the woman, Hilary Goss, had with her the day she chased you.
You pass two bedrooms. Both the first and second have nothing in the dressers. The beds are made, the closets empty except for a few old suitcases. You cut across the hall to an office that overlooks the front yard. There are papers stacked on the desk. You sift through them, looking for something—anything—to te
ll you more about the game.
There are bills and contracts, most of which seem to be related to Hilary Goss’s business. From what you can tell she worked in finance, the letterhead from a company called Robertson Arthur, some detailing a recent merger. It’s all the same, paper after paper. The filing cabinets are all locked. There’s a glass award sitting on the windowsill, dated less than two weeks ago, honoring her. HILARY GOSS. RECOGNITION IN OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT, it says.
You move through to the master bedroom. You pull open the dresser drawers, toppling them onto the floor, sifting through shirts and socks. One by one you go down them, but there’s nothing inside except clothes. You move through the closets, sweeping aside the hangers. You pick up stacks of sweaters, search under the shelves, slipping your fingers along each ledge to see if there’s anything you’ve missed.
You take another swipe at an upper shelf and your hand stops on a pair of pants. They’re folded in a neat square. They don’t move. You push at them and tug, but still you can’t get them off the shelf. It’s not until you lift them up that the lever comes free. They’re part of a secret compartment in the top shelf.
You grab an armchair from the corner, moving it to the closet to stand on. From above you can see how the shelf has been hollowed out. The pants are fastened to a thin piece of wood that lifts up. When you move it aside you see the yellow envelope beneath.
You sit down on the floor, handling the envelope as if it’s made of glass. There’s another folder with a logo on it: A&A Enterprises. You empty the envelope first, the glossy photos spilling onto the floor. It’s you. The first one is just of your face, your hair pulled back, your top lip swollen and bloody. You’re looking right at the camera, but you don’t have any memory of when or where it was taken. The next two are close-ups of your scars—the one on your neck, along with a third crescent-shaped one near your left ankle. The third zooms in on the tattoo on your wrist. All of them are labeled Blackbird. All of them have the A&A Enterprises logo on the top.