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Will Valor and Second Union even let me have a future?

And yet, at the same time, it's not like I'm going to go work for Valor Savings, become a willing cog in their machinery. I'm still the same person I've always been, in my heart. Each of those people I've killed—they had a choice. If they wanted to pretend it wasn't real, that I wasn't serious, that's not my fault. Choice after choice, it was always in their hands. Two out of eight people seems like a pretty high rate of acceptance, and they were the two people who I thought deserved their Valor card the least. That can't be a ­coincidence.

And that makes me wonder how many people like me opted out on the first round. Was it just kids my age, like on that list in Alistair's trailer and like the Black Suit told my mom? Did they give that career aptitude test to every kid between sixteen and eighteen? Or did they choose all sorts of people to become homemade assassins? How many people didn't live past that first Glock, held in the hands of a black-suited man who didn't quite seem to breathe? And why, of all the people in America, had they targeted me? What did that test tell them? I wasn't dangerous. I wasn't trained. I wasn't particularly brave.

I was, however, expendable.

And I don't look like someone your average American would want to shoot, even though most of them wouldn't want me hanging around their neighborhoods.

Teen daughter of a single mother, no father, no other family.
No money to hire lawyers. A mom too proud and ashamed to ask for help and sick enough to be grateful for any shred of hope. We're poor, and we live in one of the poorest neighborhoods of a poor suburb. Wyatt's Preserve is like a king's castle to most of us, and Chateau Tuscano might as well be Disney World. Ashley Cannon, Sharon Mulvaney, and Alistair Meade—they're at the rougher end of the spectrum, but they're closer to the real heart of Candlewood than Robert Beard and Dr. Ken Belcher. Personally, I've never let myself dream higher than Kelsey Mackey.

And that can't be a coincidence, either. All of my assignments have been in the five-mile radius of my house, and all of the people are somehow connected to my life. Whatever's happening to me is not the same as what happened to Jeremy. According to what I read in Alistair's trailer, my situation is playing out all over the country, where undesirable teens are being sent out to cull the debt-­ridden herd, activate new assassins, and generally spread mayhem and fear. It's pretty smart, if you've quietly taken over a country known for freedom but dependent on the government employees on the other end of the phone to get help. If no one answers 911, if the police really were assassinated, people are going to start freaking out pretty quickly. But since most people don't need 911 on a daily basis and Valor appears to be controlling the media, the average person wouldn't know about the problem until they'd already become collateral damage.

The more I think about it, the bigger it gets and the more tiny and helpless I feel. And the more I wish I had had time to ask Alistair Meade a few questions. But Valor was coming, and he told me to burn it all. Maybe destroying the evidence in his trailer helped uphold his memory. Maybe it continued whatever he was fighting.

The truck rolls to a stop, and I look up. I've been so busy thinking that I wasn't really paying attention. I should have been, though. I gasp, and my feet slam down on the floorboard.

“Drive!” It comes out strangled. “Drive fast.”

With a confused shake of his head, Wyatt steps on the gas just hard enough to keep it from squealing. He turns so fast in the cul-de-sac that the truck is practically on two wheels, and I have to hold on to my oh-shit handle to keep from falling into his lap. All the stuff in back clatters around, the shotgun banging against the metal. He doesn't say anything until we're out of the neighborhood and onto the road.

“Sorry,” he says. “I figured you'd want to knock one more out, so I pulled the directions out of the old GPS before we left the truck. No lucky number nine?”

I just shake my head.

“I want a milk shake,” I say darkly.

Maybe a milk shake will settle my stomach. Because the house we were just in front of? Seeing it again was just about enough to
make me crap myself. I haven't let myself think about the ninth name on the list. Part of me hoped that something would happen before it came down to this. A Deus ex machina, as my English teacher calls it.

I don't want to go there again.

I don't want to talk to her, much less kill her.

My ex–best friend can wait.

9.

Amber Lane

To his credit, Wyatt doesn't ask me any questions until we're in the drive-through line.

“What flavor?” he asks, and I mutter, “Surprise me.”

After careful consideration, he orders one chocolate, one vanilla, and one peppermint chocolate chip, not to mention a pretty big meal for himself and, on second thought, one for me. I stop stewing and brooding long enough to thank him, and I watch for that Valor credit card, but he's onto me. He hands it to the girl front-side down and slides it back into his jeans pocket.

He hands me all the food, and the smell turns my stomach. I drop the bags on the floorboard and start in on the peppermint chocolate chip milk shake, stirring in the whipped cream and ­shoveling
it into my mouth with a spoon because I know it's too thick to suck up yet. Wyatt just drives, his face flat and passive. Still, it's like he can read my thoughts, because he parks at the vet even though they're closed for lunch. It softens me up enough to tear the straw wrapper and blow. It hits him right between the eyes, and he can't help grinning.

“Are we cool now?” he says. “Did the milk shake work?”

“The milk shake is starting to work.”

I stick the straw in and suck so hard my cheeks hurt. A brain freeze would be really good right now. Any excuse to avoid the discussion that's about to start.

“So what happened back there at number nine, Patsy Klein?”

Grabbing the bags of food and the milk shake carton, I hop to the ground and head around to the back of the old blue truck. Wyatt follows me, and when I jab my chin at the truck bed, he pulls down the tailgate, lifts up the camper hatch, and spreads out my quilt so we can sit. It's a beautiful day, with a perfect blue sky and the unusually warm sunshine that sometimes makes November feel like late summer in Georgia. I take my time with the food, pulling out my sandwich and squeezing mayo onto it, getting the little puddle of ketchup ready for my fries. I'm trying to organize my thoughts, too. Where am I even supposed to start?

“I know her, okay?” I take a big bite and chew so long that he makes a “go on” gesture with his hand. His mouth is full too. He's
already on his second sandwich. “Amber Lane. We used to be best friends, a long time ago. Before her family got too rich and we stayed too poor. We look a lot alike, and we used to pretend to be sisters. And then in seventh grade, her grandmother died, and suddenly her family had money, and her mom stopped inviting me over, and Amber said my clothes weren't good enough to be her best friend anymore. She fought it at first. But then she got popular and ruined my life worse.”

“She ruined your life . . . worse?”

“I kept following her around like a lovesick puppy, and she trashed me in the cafeteria, in front of everyone. Reminded me that I gave her lice in first grade, told everyone how poor I was, then called me a bastard. Said my dad left because I was such a loser, even though there's no way that could be true or that she could even know. Everybody laughed. I cried. Total movie moment. And I guess that's when I figured that I should just stop trying to fit in.”

He puts down what's left of his sandwich and ropes an arm around me.

“And she's on the list? Damn, girl. It's like they're trying to punish you.”

“Maybe they are,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

I've been pussyfooting around whether or not to tell him about all the connections. I glance at the box of laptops, which is ­nestled
between our backpacks like a really ugly Oreo cookie. Alistair Meade's trailer didn't say anything about me in particular as compared to all the other names, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I'm different. That something about my current predica­ment is personal. But I need to make sure we're really, seriously alone before I open my mouth.

“Where's the shirt?” I ask, on the brink of going frantic. I don't remember what happened to it at the orchard, but I know I can't go back for anything we might have left there. And even if I'm terrified that I've already messed up and doomed my mom, my only chance at sanity and survival is to keep pushing forward like I can still win this game. Until all ten names are done, I need that shirt. My mom might be in trouble now, but I'm completely sure that without that shirt, she'll be dead.

“I put it under your seat.”

Of course he did.

I lurch to the front of the truck, retrieve the shirt, wad it up tighter, and stuff it in the glove box. Wyatt sits on the edge of the tailgate, swinging long legs, oddly graceful for a big guy. I bet it's something else, watching him play lacrosse. Or bass, which revs my engine even more. His food sits beside him, but he isn't finishing off his last sandwich, and after three days with him, I know that this is a big deal. He must sense that I'm finally about to crack.

I asked him back there if he trusted me.

He has no reason to, and yet he does.

Now I have to trust him.

“That guy back there, he was a conspiracy theorist. That trailer was full of data on Valor, on me, on banking, on debt. He had maps with stars and circles. The results of our career aptitude tests.” I pull the poorly folded piece of paper—the call to arms—out of my pocket and put it in his big hands, where it looks like a crushed origami crane as he unfolds it gently. “Alistair Meade, or whatever his name was, he knew what was going on. That's why he was acting so weird. He wanted me to cover the camera so he could talk to me. He was a double agent. Those are his laptops. And if we can get inside them, I bet we can learn a lot about what's going on with Valor Savings.” I point to the paper. “And now we know when and where these guys are meeting. It's in two days.”

“That is . . . some deep shit.” Wyatt reads the paper through several times before picking up his chicken sandwich and taking a bite. He scowls, pulls out the pickles, chews, bites, chews, bites, his face screwed up like he's thinking really hard. After a long slurp on his Coke, he says, “So none of this is a coincidence.”

But it's not a question. I shake my head.

“The only thing I don't get is why Valor picked you.”

“I don't get it either. But there's more.”

Wyatt swallows and turns toward me, waiting. A small dam breaks inside me.

“Every person on the list meant something. My mom worked for your dad. The second person was dying of the same thing my mom has. Ashley Cannon was my uncle. The lady at the crack house was the mom of an old friend. Kelsey Mackey was like looking into a crystal ball of my ideal future. Tom Morrison's little girl was like a carbon copy of me as a kid. Everything is related. There's a pattern. But I don't know why.”

He puts the grease-spotted paper in my lap. “So maybe these guys will know. We should go to the meeting.”

He finishes his last bite of sandwich and starts in on his fries. I'm pretty sure his brain runs on fast food. But he has a point. This whole time, I felt like I was the only person on earth being forced into a horrific choice and that there was no one to complain to, no one with answers. From what little I can piece together, I'm one of thousands, maybe millions of people—teenagers—in mail trucks with magic GPS machines and stamped Glocks, shaking and puking in the bushes as they walk up strangers' sidewalks and become bad guys. And there are maybe some other crazy guys in army costumes chasing us on behalf of yet another bank. And then there are people holed up in trailers or basements or apartments with weird antennas and stacks of information, trying to figure out what Valor has planned. And, hopefully, what can be done to stop them.

Belatedly, I notice that Wyatt casually used “we” again. That
alone is enough to convince me that I'm not the only person in this fight. And feeling like I'm not alone makes me feel, for the first time, that I can win.

“So you think we can fight them?” I say quietly, but before he can answer, the door to the vet's office jangles open, and the receptionist walks out, waving at us.

“Y'all come on in,” she shouts. “Matty can't wait to see you!”

Wyatt's smiling as big as I am. That damn dog just has a way of getting under your skin. I jump down off the tailgate and jog inside with Wyatt by my side. I wish I had thought to stop somewhere and buy Matty some biscuits or a toy or something, whatever dogs like. I guess half a chicken sandwich will have to do.

We burst in the door, and there's a frazzled-looking lady in a sweatshirt and yoga pants sitting in the waiting room, holding a crying kid. The woman is shaking and panting, her makeup dripping down her face with tears and snot. She looks like she's being hunted. And considering what's going on, maybe she is.

“Don't worry, honey,” she says, rubbing the kid's back. “The doctor's going to fix Coco right up.”

“Why dat guy shoot her?” the kid asks between sniffles, a big green snot bubble in his nose. “Why dat mailman shoot the doggie and Miss Carla? She is my neighbor. She is not a bad guy.”

“I don't know, honey,” the woman says, rocking him back and forth, her voice breaking into a sob. “I don't know.”

I look at Wyatt quickly, worry written across my face. Now we know without a doubt that it's true. That other shootings are happening all over the place, even in the same town. That there are more people with Valor-issued guns. And that normal, thus-far-­uninvolved people are starting to take notice.

“Here she is!” the receptionist calls, leading Matty through the door on a worn-out lead. She's got one of those horrible neck cone things around her face and a big dressing on her neck, but she's wagging, and her whole body is rippling with happiness. I feel the same way. I drop into a squat and wrap my arms carefully around her.

“How you doing, Matty?” I ask. “You feeling better, girl?”

She wags and wiggles and whines, trying to lick my face, but the cone won't let her. I put my hand in there, and she just slobbers all over it with meaty dog breath. I don't care. I've got my dog back. Wyatt squats on her other side and scratches above her tail, and she makes a funny face and licks her own nose. They even sponged all the blood off her, and she smells like baby powder.

Dr. Godfrey comes out and says, “She's doing great. It should heal up without a problem. And y'all can keep that lead, if you want. Just give her soft dog food for a while, or wet her kibble until it's mushy. Chewing will make her a little sore.” She squats beside us, patting the top of the dog's silky head. “Matty's one of the best patients we've ever had. Y'all take good care of her, you hear? Lots of gunshot wounds this week, for some reason.”

“We will,” I say, and I hope it's true.

Maybe we can lock her in the camper part of the truck to keep her from jumping out and getting in trouble. Then again, I hope neither of my last two assignments will end in a gunfight.

Wyatt grabs four big cans of expensive dog food and hands over his credit card again, just as grimly and secretively as the first time. I think about saying something, but he saved Matty, so I don't. The receptionist gives us some paperwork about how to take care of Matty's wound, and I decide that if everything turns out okay, I'm going to pick up a book on dogs and some nice treats for her. As we walk out the door, Dr. Godfrey kneels in front of the frazzled woman and her kid, saying, “How did you say Coco got shot again? This is our third gunshot this week. Did you call the police?”

I pause in the doorway to help Matty out.

“We called,” the lady says, voice shaking and puzzled, “but no one answered. Just a weird recording from the bank. How can no one be at 911? Where are the police? My neighbor—they just shot her and drove away. They left her body. It's in the street. No police. No . . . I just . . .” She wails and doubles over.

I nod to myself as the door shuts behind me. That's all I needed to hear. And I can't listen anymore.

Together, we lift Matty into the truck bed and scoot in with her to finish our food. My appetite is back, but I feed Matty as much of my sandwich and fries as she wants to eat. They said to give her soft
food, and I guess this is soft enough. Wyatt finishes up the other two milk shakes while I suck up the crunchy candy cane dregs at the bottom of mine.

We take our time, talking to Matty, petting her, letting her slurp all up and down our hands and arms until we're both slick with chicken-­crumb slobber. She's so happy to see us; it's almost like she's forgotten that she got shot yesterday. After a few moments, the air in the truck gets pretty thick with the fact that we're not talking about what to do now. We've got our dog. We've eaten. We either have to go to the next assignment or find someplace to rest. There's no more red clock on the dash, but I can feel the seconds ticking down in my heart.

“Your call,” Wyatt says, as if he can read my mind.

I take a deep breath and swallow a ball of air. The milk shake wobbles in my stomach. I've never been big on procrastinating, and it's not like it's going to be any easier to do this tomorrow. And, worst of all, I bet Valor can still find us as long as I have that bugged button. We have to end it. Now.

“Let's go back to Amber's house.”

Wyatt nods, his mouth quirking up in a smile. “You're the bravest girl I ever met; you know that?”

“I'm not brave,” I say, blushing a little. “I just don't like waiting around for things to suck. Let's get this shit over with, hide the bug in a mailbox, and take a nap. She has to take the deal. I'll make her take it.”

I don't say it, but mentally I add,
Max, too
.

We hop down and climb into the front seats, leaving Matty in the enclosed truck bed, and I open the back window so I can pet her while Wyatt drives. I don't need to see where we're going. I can sense each turn, each stop. I know my way to Amber's house. I know the layout inside, the way the fridge door never shuts all the way unless you bump it, although I guess they probably have a new fridge by now. My name is written on the concrete blocks of her basement wall behind the door,
AMBER + PATSY BFF
. Unless she erased it. But our friendship didn't end that way. She moved beyond me, destroyed me, forgot about me. I'm the one who still feels petty and spiteful. She probably doesn't even know I exist, just like I had forgotten all about Ann Filbert until I stumbled past her picture. We grow past people and just leave them behind without a second thought. Money is the kind of debt that everyone talks about, but friendship is a debt that's taken for granted until it's lost.