Trust Me, I'm Trouble (11 page)

“I know,” he says, holding up a placating hand. “I know leaving was a shitty thing to do. I still think it was necessary, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t wrong.”

“It wasn’t just you leaving. You wouldn’t take my
calls,
Sam. How can I trust you’ll have my back when you wouldn’t even pick up the phone?”

He sighs, rubbing his ear like he always does when he’s thinking. “I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

“I can’t take that kind of risk right now. I have a killer on my tail, not to mention all this stuff with my mom. Even I have limits.”

“You trusted Tyler, and you barely knew him.”

Why the hell is everyone poking my Tyler wound today? It’s like I have this giant neon sign hanging over my head that says
FREE EMOTIONAL PUNCHING BAG—TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT
.

“And look where that got me.” I toss my napkin on my plate. I’m losing my appetite a lot lately. “He was spying on me for Petrov the entire time.”

“I’m saying I’m not him. You’ve known me for half your life—”

I shake my head roughly. “The Sam I knew vanished that night at the warehouse. I don’t know you.”

He flinches, like I sank a knife in his chest, which I guess I did metaphorically. “I deserved that,” he says, slumping in his chair. “I know to you it seems like I left you, but everything I did, I did for you. Not a day went by that I didn’t hear you in my head. I don’t expect—” He cuts off before finishing the thought. “Can I please just help you? That’s all I’m asking.”

I scan his face, though I’m not sure what for. I know he means it. He means it with every fiber of his being. He still has that much of the Sam I knew about him. But the rest…the rest is what worries me. It’s not just that he looks different. There’s something about his bearing, his core, that’s different. I can’t put my finger on it, and the fact that I can’t place it makes me crazy. I’m afraid of it, because if I can’t define it, I can’t plan for it like I do all the other variables.

“Go home, Sam.”

He sighs and gets slowly to his feet, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes me shiver. That is also
not
my Sam. My Sam was a puppy. This Sam is a wall.

He leans over the table, trespassing ever so slightly on my personal space. “I am not giving up that easily. You need my help. And this time when you call, I will answer on the first ring.”

Then he leaves, taking all the air in the house with him. I watch the door for several minutes after he shuts it. I could go after him. It’ll take him at least ten minutes to make it to the “L” station. But I won’t. The less he knows, the better for him. And for me. I won’t be the death of anyone else I love. Even if the people I love morph into pod people I no longer recognize.

Angela appears in the doorway between the kitchen and hallway. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not much to talk about. He left. He tried to come back. I told him to take a hike.”

“You know, he might have left to protect you the way you just chased him off to protect him.”

“How do you know I’m not protecting myself?”

“Because you’re still looking at the front door,” she says, walking to the table and clearing a few plates. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who needs protecting.”

“I’d rather not test that theory if I can help it.”

She gives me a pitying smile. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to help it.”

The sound of the garbage disposal accompanies my thoughts as I sit watching the door.

• • •

“Is she in?”

Janet, Sister Rasmussen’s timorous aide, flashes me a tiny smile and dials the president’s office number. “Sister Rasmussen? Julep Dupree is here to see you.” She pauses, listening. “Yes, Sister.” Then she hangs up the receiver, gesturing for me to go in.

I open the door and poke my head around it. “Hi, Sister Rasmussen,” I say. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, please. Come in, my dear.”

I obey and take the seat she reserves for guests.

“I wanted to ask how you are doing. You’ve had an eventful year.”

Well, that’s not open-ended or anything. I don’t even begin to know how to answer that question.

“I’m fine.” Which is classic opposite-speak for “not fine.” So, there’s that.

“I hear you’ll be participating in the New World Initiative summer program for independent study credit,” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“It’s a good program, to be sure, but I wonder if you’ll find it as effective at paving the way for you with your Yale application as you hope. You might do better to have a company in a recognized field on your transcript.”

This is…interesting. What does Sister Rasmussen have against NWI? The program is practically dripping with networking opportunities. Not to mention I’m pretty sure that at least some of the students who interned at NWI ended up at Yale.

“I’m only a sophomore,” I say instead. “I have plenty of time to add more targeted experience.”

“But precious few summers. Besides, I’m not sure the philosophy behind the program will align with your worldview.”

Oh. She thinks my sarcasm will be too harsh for the delicate spiritual types who buy in to all that positivity crap.

“Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll behave myself,” I say, winking at her.

She presses her lips together, which is the closest I’ve ever seen her to betraying frustration. Weird.

“I’d like you to consider an alternative.” She slides a paper across her desk. It’s a printout of a brochure for a company called Brillion. I skim the subheads but not the content. It doesn’t matter if it’s the best internship there ever was. I need
this
program—NWI. I’m not signing up for my own betterment. I’m on a job. And anyway, I’m not sure about the whole Yale thing anymore. I can’t imagine they’d be thrilled to have a crooked, friend-sacrificing professional con with a criminal history on their roster. Normal is not a thing I’m ever going to be, no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise.

“It looks great, really. But I already committed to NWI.”

Sister Rasmussen gestures at the brochure. “There’s still plenty of time to reconsider and apply for something more appropriate. The recommendation of a school president goes a long way.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me. I’m surprised you would, considering how much trouble I’ve put you through this year.” Deflect. Distract.

“It hasn’t been dull, that’s for certain,” she says.

“Well, I’ll give your proposal serious thought. I’ll let you know if I decide to change programs.”

“I strongly urge you to do so,” she says. I’m struck again by the strange route this conversation has taken. I’ve never seen her so committed to an opinion. Even when I brought her the heads of more than a hundred of her students on a silver platter, blackmailing her into helping a bunch of Ukrainian strays, she didn’t show this much personal investment. She’s always kind but distant, like an observer or witness, not a player. She knows something about NWI that I don’t. Something she’s decided not to tell me, despite her concern.

“Thank you for taking an interest in me, Sister.”

“Always,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

W
hen Dani picks me up at seven the next morning, she doesn’t say much. I guess I should be grateful that she agreed to take me to see my dad at all. We didn’t leave things well on Thursday, and she was working yesterday, so Angela took me to school and Murphy drove me back to the Ramirezes’. I haven’t seen Dani since she was epically pissed at me and I lied to her about texting Mike.

Now that my initial irritation at her attitude has passed, I can see that going to the Ballou was perhaps not the most responsible thing for me to do. Plus, I’m going to have to fess up today that I didn’t text Mike, if she hasn’t guessed already. She’s not an idiot, and I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Par for the course, I owe her an apology. The last time I was in this boat, I’d made a similarly poor decision in the personal safety department. I’m sensing a theme. I’m sure she is, too. And after what happened with Sam, I’m doubting my ability to keep friends. An hour-long drive to Ransom Correctional Facility seems a good time to amend that.

“Look,” I say as we exit onto I-57 and reach minute five of stony silence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I should have listened to you.”

Dani blows out a breath she’d been holding. “I cannot believe you actually apologized.”

“Shocking, I know,” I say, smiling.

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, I am sorry, too. I should not have lost my temper. But I—” She clenches her jaw and tightens her grip on the wheel. “When I imagine bad things happening to you, permanent things…It just cannot happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but it isn’t easy for me. It doesn’t come naturally, working with people, even after all these months. I’m going to screw up.”

“I realize that, and I try to adjust, but some things are nonnegotiable.”

I nod. “I’ll work harder at it. Though why you stick around is the real mystery.” I mean it as a joke, but she doesn’t laugh.

“If you are the patron saint of lost girls, then I am your crusader. My fate is linked to yours until one of us is martyred. But I prefer that does not happen soon.”

I am floored by her response. It’s one thing for the Ukrainian trafficking survivors to believe I’m an avenging angel. It’s entirely another for Dani to believe it. I’m strangely reluctant to disabuse her of the notion, though. I’d trade a lot to keep her good opinion of me—just not her life.

“I’m not a saint, Dani. I’m a thief. You know that. And neither of us is dying over this.”

Her smile holds a tinge of regret. “If you are a saint,
milaya,
you may even be able to pull off that miracle. Just remember when the time comes to stand behind me.”

I’m trapped again in a breathless moment as her gaze captures mine. Her eyes flick back to the road almost immediately, but the contact, for all its brevity, liquefies my insides. What I thought I knew to be true has gone fuzzy around the edges. I can’t think right. I can’t even breathe right. And the rest of the drive I spend desperately reconstituting my poker face.

Unfortunately, pulling into the prison parking lot doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better. Lots of ways to die in a prison. Or worse—get locked up. I hate prisons. And police stations. And doughnut shops. Being surrounded by cops makes me feel claustrophobic. But then I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Let me just say it again. Cops make me edgy.

“Will you be all right?” Dani asks as I shift to get out of the car.

“Yeah, fine.” I lift the door handle. “No hit man in his right mind would try anything this close to a prison.”

“I meant about seeing your father. About asking him about your mother.”

I dredge up enough courage to look at her. “I’m okay. He’s the one you should be worried about.”

She nods, and I take that as permission to leave. I sign in at the front desk and walk down the familiar hall to the visitors’ area. Thanks to Mike, my dad ended up in a medium-security prison, which means no bulletproof glass walls with phones on either side. It’s more like a conference room with tables and chairs. Only the tables and chairs are bolted to the floor.

I’m the first visitor of the day, which is not my favorite thing. I hate having guards overhear my talks with my dad. It’s a pain having to censor everything. My dad enters from the inmate door and gives me a big smile. He looks older every time I come. Being imprisoned is taking its toll on him.

I give him a hug. He feels thinner. I swallow the rock in my throat and take a seat across from him.

“Any news on your mom or Ralph?” It’s his first question, always. Usually, my answer is no, but today…There’s so much to tell him that I don’t have a clue where to start.

“You found her,” he says quietly, sorrow shadowing his face.

“No,” I say. “I found a missing-person article. From the same time you left thirteen-year-old me stranded without a word for two weeks.”

He looks down at his hands.

“What aren’t you telling me about her family? About my family?”

“All I know—all she would ever tell me—was that she had a falling-out with her family. That she didn’t want to talk about it, wouldn’t even consider reconnecting with them. Ever. After a while, I stopped pushing.”

“You could have gotten it out of her if you wanted to. You’re one of the best con artists there is.”

He smiles halfheartedly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Julep. But your mom would not bend on it, and I figured it was her right. Whatever happened to her, it never interfered with us…until it did.”

“You think she left us because of her family?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s a guess at best.”

But his guesses are always more than just guesses. His grifter instincts penetrate other people’s motivations with laser precision.

“Was she running away from them, or back to them?”

“I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. Her going missing at the same time I was…out of town…It’s just a coincidence.”

Right. Coincidence.