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AMAZON | ITUNES | BARNES AND NOBLE | KOBO
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E X C E R P T
“You need this,” Rory insists. “You’ve spent almost every night this week stuck inside.”
I have no trouble imagining the words he doesn’t say, for once: I’m worried about you.
I know he’s not concerned about me staying in at night so much as the fact that during his impromptu visit this morning, it took me nearly ten minutes to unlock the door. The first five were spent trying to undo the numerous locks I’d recently installed. The rest of the time, I’d fumbled with my inhaler.
“I’m fine,” I assert.
Despite living in a constant state of near panic…I am totally fine.
Rather than respond, Rory casually tucks a piece of brown hair behind his ear and glances at the ornate mirror hanging on the wall across from where we stand. In lieu of his uniform, he’s wearing a White Sox tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The casual attire cuts years off his age; he almost resembles a college student taking a break from finals.
Beside him, I look…sickly. My hair is an unruly mess coiled on top of my head. My eyes are bloodshot with the telltale signs of insomnia. The only redeeming quality is my outfit—a starched yellow blouse and a gray skirt—but it’s painfully obvious that I had overcompensated. Bright colors and neatly ironed lines can only disguise so much.
“How’s work been?” Rory asks in a not-so-subtle attempt at fishing for the truth. I shrug, though I’m surprised by the fact that he hasn’t demanded answers outright. Invitations to dinner and careful compliments simply aren’t his style.
He even let me pick the place: an Oriental restaurant a few blocks away from my apartment. So far there have been no derogatory comments about the Dragon District. No tactless reminders of the crime statistics. Nonetheless, I can’t help but suspect that Mom or Dad had a hand in this gentle intervention. His next words prove it. “So…Dad said you asked for some money last week?”
My body tenses at the mention of the word “money,” but I do my best to muster up what I hope passes for another casual shrug. In the mirror, my failure is reflected back: my eyes are too wide. “I discussed it with Dad.”
“You did,” Rory says cautiously. From across the room, a beaming waitress approaches, wearing a bright red kimono-style miniskirt. A nametag pinned to her chest reads, “Faith.” If only Rory had any left in me—maybe then I could avoid the interrogation that I know is coming.
Right on cue he clears his throat. “But you never ask for money, Ames. And since when are you into designer purses?”
My stomach sinks, but I shouldn’t be so surprised. Biting my lip, I wait until Faith leads us to a secluded booth near the back of a beautifully decorated dining room, then I take the bench opposite Rory and finally meet his gaze.
“You promised me that you wouldn’t do this.” My voice trembles, and I latch onto the pleading note. Playing the martyr is a well-worn tactic that’s worked to my advantage in the past—only now my words are nearly swallowed up by the clang of silverware and murmuring voices.
I know that he heard me anyway when a guilty flush creeps along his neck. “Do what?”
“Pry. Control. Micromanage.” I say each word crisply as I reach for the ivory napkin containing my utensils and carefully unroll each one.
He huffs and struggles to look indignant. “It’s not prying to ask why you’d suddenly drop two grand on a purse, when you wouldn’t even look outside of a Goodwill for furniture for your own apartment.”
I shrug again, but even I can admit that the motion seems more jerky than casual. Shit. “It’s California,” I say, managing to muster up a snotty laugh. “The pretentiousness is rubbing off on me. Even the water here is designer.”
With a sigh, Rory sits back against the wall of the booth, but the look in his eye warns me that I’m not off the hook just yet. “Fair enough. So where is this bag that you just had to have? Don’t tell me that’s it.” He nods to the canvas messenger bag resting on the seat beside me.
My throat contracts around a hard swallow. “I didn’t bring it.”
“Amy, look.” He sighs again and forms a steeple with his hands. “Does this have anything to do with Mr. Chen’s…‘problems’ down at the Paper Crane?”
Our waitress returns to set a jug of ice water down between us, and I stall by pouring myself a glass. I don’t know why his knowledge of the incident at the bookstore catches me so off guard. Spying on my workplace—that is trademark Rory. Not to mention that he seems to have an unusual interest in the Dragon District lately.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“Amy—”
“Rory. You promised you wouldn’t do this.”
His eyes narrow and he seems to change tact; his voice loses the “bad cop” inquisitive edge. “I’m not meddling, I swear. My partner and I were the ones called out to Chen’s…accident.”
“What?” I raise an eyebrow. Considering Mr. Chen’s hesitation to call the police, I wasn’t expecting that answer. “W-When?”
“Three days ago.”
I can’t hide the surprise that crosses my face. For three days he’s known about the incident at the bookstore, but he hasn’t said a word until now. Even stranger, he hasn’t barged into my apartment and demanded that I quit.
Yet.
“Do you know what happened?” I choke out rather than ask why.
He frowns, and his expression is harder to read than before. “Nothing…other than Chen seems to believe that ‘it was an accident’ is a logical explanation for a busted window and several hundred dollars of ruined inventory.”
Twelve hundred dollars’ worth of ruined inventory, to be exact.
“Do you know what happened?” Rory counters.
I shake my head. “It’s like he said,” I say a little too quickly. “An accident.”
“Look…Ames.” He releases a heavy sigh and picks up the menu resting on his side of the table. “I know it’s a pretty rough neighborhood, but if it’s too much…you can always come home, you know that?”
Home. That word affects me more strongly than I would have thought, and I shift on my side of the bench, curling my toes in their sandals. It’s as if he’s dangling a carrot before me, and I don’t have enough sense to realize that I am starving.
Ironically, Rory is the only reason I found my apartment, selling at a steal. I’d notice the torn page of rental listings on the kitchen table, scattered amongst a bunch of case files on one of the rare nights he’d been too tired to lock them all away.
“Amy?”
“I’m fine,” I choke out, but for the first time my voice wavers.
“Fine,” he echoes ominously while dragging his finger down the list of menu items. “Okay. But can you at least tell me why Doctor Alfonse called Dad this morning and asked if you were managing your asthma okay?”
I start to take another sip of water and choke. “What?” Too late, I realize that the outburst is all but a confession. Serves me right for having a healthcare provider who is also a close family friend. “Is…isn’t that against some kind of confidentiality law—”
“Apparently, you’ve blown through two refills of your prescription in two months,” Rory says without looking up.
Damn it. I can’t think of a logical response to that. My first instinct is that, once again, he’s overstepped and pried into my life. I want to be upset. Indignant…
But for some reason I can’t forget his offer of “home.” I can’t stop wishing for a good night’s sleep. My teeth ache from the constant use of albuterol.
I’m exhausted.
I’m scared.
For the briefest moment I consider just coming clean and letting Rory drag me back to his home near the bay. My mouth opens…
“My allergies are just acting up,” I hear myself say.
“Hmph,” Rory grunts. “Allergies.”
Our waitress returns to take our orders, and the next hour passes in relative silence while we eat shared Pad Thai from the same enormous plate. I naively start to believe that I’m in the clear—that my stubborn avoidance has cured everything.
Maybe it has…at least until the moment Rory catches sight of the gaggle of girls who pass our table.
“Weird,” he says around a mouthful of noodles. “Doesn’t that look like Gram’s hair clip?”
That statement hits me like a lightning bolt. I vaguely register the distant clang of my fork striking the table as my head jerks up. My gaze hones in on her instantly—a young girl with jet black hair. A piece of it is carefully fastened behind her left ear with a silver hair clip shaped into the form of a butterfly spreading its outstretched wings.
“No,” I manage to croak while recognition floods my system. “I don’t think so.”
It’s so hard to breathe. My fingers twitch for the feel of my inhaler. Focus, Amy.
“I…I have to go.”
“Amy?” Rory seems stunned as I snatch up my bag and rummage through it for my wallet. “It’s on me,” he says before I can withdraw any cash. I bolt from the booth without even uttering a thank you.
My heart pounds as I weave my way through the aisles. The group of girls is near the exit. The one wearing my hair clip laughs. She seems to be about sixteen—wearing the plaid skirt and white blouse of a school uniform—and something inside me twists into knots.
Who is she to him? A friend? Sister? Girlfriend?
Before I can stop myself, I lunge forward and my hand falls over her forearm just as she reaches the main doors. “Hey.”
She flinches and glances over her shoulder. Up close, she seems painfully young, though she’s struggled to make herself appear the opposite with a thick layer of makeup. A pair of brown eyes lined heavily in kohl meet mine warily. “Can I help you?”
I muster up what I hope is a friendly smile. “Your hairpin. It’s lovely! W-Where…where did you get it?” My voice is hoarse. My fingers shake. Something in my expression makes the girl flinch back.
Her friends share wary glances and a round of nervous laughter.
“Thanks,” she says while reaching up to feel the clip. “It was…a gift.”
“Oh, really? From whom?” I blurt, perhaps a little too curiously. My intuition is telling me the culprit is a creepy man with a dragon tattoo on his back, who apparently happens to be a pedophile.
Unease crosses the girl’s face, causing her brow to furrow. “Just a friend,” she says. Her hair swishes through the air and grazes my cheek as she turns back to her friends. “See you guys later.”
Without thinking, I follow them out onto the street. After a few casual goodbyes, the girl wearing my hair clip turns left while the others head right.
Don’t, a part of me warns, even before I begin to creep toward the same direction she does.
This is it. I’ve officially gone insane. Insomnia, paranoia, and inhaled steroid abuse have reduced me to nothing more than a stalker, following a teenager in the dark because…
Hell, I don’t even know why.
Maybe because she’s wearing my grandmother’s clip. Or because she’s so young. Or that she’s somehow connected to a criminal, and a part of me just can’t resist following any trail of breadcrumbs that might lead back to him.
So that I can punch him, maybe? Turn him over to Rory? Smash my “spider” once and for all?
I’m so dizzy with the potential options that I barely notice when, a block ahead, the girl suddenly cuts left through an alley.
Go back to Rory, Amy.
I keep walking. She’s slipped through the gap between two businesses: one sounds like a nightclub, and the other smells like a seafood place. A dumpster overflowing with rancid garbage blocks most of her from view. I nearly feel guilty enough to turn back, but then another figure joins her.
Pale skin is all that gives him substance against the shadows. His clothes are dark, and a fringe of black hair obscures most of his face. Towering over the girl, he speaks to her so softly that I can’t make out the words. Whatever their meaning, she shrugs.
“I wanted to see my friends.” Her voice is lilting and high-pitched. The sound makes me realize that she’s probably even younger than I’d pegged her for. Fourteen? Thirteen? A pink, fuzzy key chain dangles from her bright purple purse. Even in the darkness I can tell that her nails are painted an innocent pink…and the hand that falls protectively over her shoulder is anything but.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve crept a little closer or if he’s just speaking louder, but I hear the man more clearly now. “Catherine, I told you to stay—”
“Stop!” The girl jerks her shoulder to loosen his grip. “Don’t think that you can boss me around. I’m not a little kid anymore, Jackie.”
The bravado is impressive considering that the man beside her is nearly twice her size from every angle. From behind the mess of hair falling across his face, two piercing eyes shine through. “Then don’t act like one.” He starts to say something else, but the girl slaps her hands over her ears and turns her back on him.
“Don’t speak to me in Canto,” she snaps. “You got your wish, remember? I’m American now.”
“Catherine…” The man breaks off and changes tact. “Where do your parents think you are?”
“Our parents are dead,” Catherine says nastily. “The foster ‘rents think I’m ‘studying.’” She gives the word finger quotes, and the movement of her arms draws attention to the bracelet dangling from her right wrist. It’s expensive, I know that much.
“Good,” the man says. “Then you have ten minutes to get your ass to the library.”
“You do realize that I don’t have to listen to you...” Catherine crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t sound very convincing.
“Oh, really?” Frowning, Jackie observes her through narrowed eyes as if seeing her fully for the first time. The adolescent uniform. The bright pink lipstick. The baby fat still filling out her cheeks. Suddenly, he reaches out and fingers the clip in her hair. “You stole this from my studio…”
His voice rumbles ominously, but to her credit, Catherine doesn’t even flinch. I do. My heart picks up speed as that voice reverberates off the brick walls of the alley.
“I borrowed it,” Catherine says innocently.
“You stole,” he corrects. “How did you even get there?”
“Dunno.” She shrugs. “I was looking for you.”
“Damn it, Catherine—”
“I’m sorry, okay!” She gives him a look through her wispy bangs. I imagine it’s similar to the “kicked puppy” expression that every kid sister learns to master at a young age—hell, I could still get my way with Rory by batting my eyelashes and pouting. Jackie, the violent criminal, is surprisingly no less susceptible.
He grunts, but his expression is softer than it was only a minute ago. “Get home,” he says.
“All right. All right. I’m going…” Catherine starts to slip around him, but he grabs her arm at the last minute and pulls her back.
“Wait—” In a single, fluid motion he snags my butterfly clip from her hair.
“Ow! Hey!” Catherine glares at him, clutching the side of her head. “That hurt. What do you need a barrette for, anyway? Do you have a girlfriend?” She wrinkles her nose and purses her lips in a mock kiss.
“Here.” Jackie reaches into his pocket and withdraws something that he tucks into her hand. “Use this to take a cab home.”
“Holy shit,” Catherine says, her eyes wide. I suspect that the money clutched in her fist will most likely be spent on another purse, than anything else. As if coming to that very same conclusion, Jackie snatches it back.
“On second thought, come on. I’ll flag down a cab for you.”
“Fineeee,” Catherine pouts, but when Jackie throws an arm around her shoulder, she leans into his body. Almost hesitantly, he ruffles the now loose strands of her hair, and she tugs on the hem of his jacket sleeve. “I missed you,” I hear her mutter as they head through the opposite end of the alley toward the main street.
I don’t know how long I stare after them, assaulted by the pounding bass of music coming from my left and the scent from the right.
I missed you...
It seems almost inconceivable that a man like that actually has family. A sister. Does he ever live in fear of some stranger kidnapping Catherine and holding her hostage in her own apartment? Does he ever imagine a future in which she’ll have to google “how to remove blood stains from hardwood” or “the survival rates of cauterization”? The thought churns my stomach; I didn’t think it was possible to hate him any more than I already do.
Criminal.
Kidnapper.
Book thief.
Hypocrite.
My hand flies out absently, feeling for the cool brick nearby as I turn and start to make my way back. I try to forget “Jackie” in favor of focusing on one of the many other pressing issues in my life right now. Like the fact that, if he hasn’t called them already, Rory is most likely in the middle of a frantic phone call with my parents. My cell phone is on silent, thank God, but I’m sure that it’s being bombarded with a million calls and texts at the moment.
Where are you, Amy?
Answer, Amy!
Amy!
I can’t reply. I don’t know if it’s annoyance with the overprotectiveness or the simple fact that I’m not quite sure what the hell I’ll say in response.
Take me home, Rory?
I’m so tired, Rory?
I’m scared…?
The last thought crosses my mind the moment a shrouded figure appears near the mouth of the alley. “Did you enjoy the show?” a fittingly deep voice inquires.
Recognition runs down my spine with the same speed that my hand digs into my bag. My fingers curl around the can of Mace, and I start to pull it out, fighting against the resistance of my wallet and makeup case.
It’s already too late.
Brutally strong fingers clench my forearm as I’m forced back against the wall of the alley. The can of Mace goes flying and clatters somewhere in the shadows. Before I can blink, my arms are pinned above my head. A stranger’s face is mere inches away from mine—though, on second thought, I know that face even better than I do my own; it’s the same one haunting my nightmares these past few weeks.