Blackbird (19 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD COMES
into view ahead. You recognize a few houses on the corner, thick bougainvillea covering the facade, another with a stained-glass window in the front. As Ben drove, the freeway signs counting down the miles to Los Angeles, you
kept slipping into silence, everything coming back to you. The woman who followed you. The garage where you found Ivan’s body. The man with the gun.

As Ben turns into the driveway his iPhone rings, the screen in the center console flashing
Mom
. “Shit, I have to get this. . . .”

He parks, grabs the phone, and steps out of the car, cutting across to the front yard. “Hi, I know, I’m sorry,” he immediately says, his voice getting farther away.

You pull the bag from the backseat and circle around the back of the house, knowing you have to find Celia Alvarez again, to talk to her. There hasn’t been any news about that building or Ivan’s body being found, still no information on the woman who was shot beneath the freeway. You need to know what she knows, what she’s found.

There’s a chance Ivan has already been replaced, that there is someone else tracking you now, following your movements. How else could the hunter have found you when you were out with Izzy? But there’s nothing on you—you’ve checked every pocket of your pants, the hems of T-shirts, the pages of the notepad.

You find the spare key, and as soon as you’re inside the house you go to Ben’s computer, pulling up a map. You’re jotting down the directions on a paper napkin when Ben finally comes downstairs. “What is this, 1995? We need to get you a smartphone,” he laughs.

“Is everything okay? What did she say?”

“I have to go visit today. She left a bunch of messages while we were in Cabazon and I guess she’s kind of freaking out. Some teacher called and told her how much school I’ve missed. I just have to go there and show her everything’s fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can—just a few hours.”

“It’s all right. I want to go see that police officer today. She must’ve turned up something by now.”

“You really have to?” Ben asks.

“I can’t just sit around waiting for him to come back.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I’m always safe . . . as I can be. . . .”

Ben pulls you to him. When he says it he doesn’t look at you, instead whispering the words into your neck. “When I get back . . . maybe we could just go.”

You turn you head, meeting his eyes. Last night you’d assumed it was just something he was saying, some dream you’d talk about and never actually go through with.

“Ben . . . you were serious? You can’t just leave your life.”

“What life? What do I have here?”

“School. Friends.”

Ben grabs a prescription-pill bottle from the coffee table, holding it up. “Friends? I
have people who buy pot from me. Sometimes they come over and watch the Dodgers game and smoke up. Sometimes I sell them some of my mom’s old pills.”

“Ben . . .”

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, resting his chin on your head, kissing the top of it. It’s so sweet and simple it makes you want to cry.

“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.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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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.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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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 the 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.