The Arrangement 16 (2 page)

I shake my head again, unable to speak. It feels like I’ve stabbed this woman in the back. I can’t take advantage of her kindness. It’s wrong.
 

“I probably shouldn’t ask, but I have to know—Are you with him?” Her lips press together and twitch, like she’s trying to smile, but can’t.

I can’t answer her. The look on her face is horrible, like I drove a lance through her chest. She still loves Trystan, I’m sure of it, but Trystan’s here with me. I blink rapidly and wipe at my eyes. “No, I’m not.” After a pause, I tell her, “Make sure Sean doesn’t leave. He’s going to be pissed when he realizes he’s in the hospital. He hates this place. Please help him. I should go.”

She reaches out for me, but hesitates. Her fingers don’t touch my shoulder as she’d planned. Her hand hovers there for a second. “Wait!” I turn back to look at her. “Is he all right? Trystan, I mean.”

I nod once, even though he’s not. He needs her, but I have no idea what their story is or why they’re apart. Mari’s gaze lowers and she smiles. “I’m glad he’s with you, then. You seem like you’d be good for him.”

“I’m not with him.” My voice is unsteady and slight. Mari looks at me like she knows better. My gaze drops, before managing to force a smile. “Yeah, I guess everything happens for a reason, right?”

“I suppose so.”

I’ve believed that up until this point, but after Sean taking a bullet for me and running into Trystan’s ex, I don’t see how the night could get worse. That’s when I hear the newscaster. Slowly, I turn and look up at the TV. “Marty Masterson has been identified as the possible shooter at Madison Square Garden at this evening’s Trystan Scott concert. The NYPD is conducting a citywide manhunt as we speak.”

Chapter 3

Bob rushes toward me. He sees it happening before I feel it. Suddenly, my head is light and I know I’m going to topple over. Trystan’s bodyguard catches me in his beefy arms as I sway. I cling to his huge bicep and stammer, “Marty? Did she say Marty did this?” I saw the gun in his hand, at least I thought I did, but I kept thinking I was wrong—I had to be wrong.

With everything that happened, I won’t allow the truth to surface in my mind. I can’t handle it. Marty is one of my best friends and in the seconds proceeding the shooting, it made sense that all those people were killed because of me.
 

“Miss Stanz, you need to lie down.” Bob tries to steady me, but I swat at him uncertain of what I need or want.
 

I’m going to fall apart. I can’t handle this. Sean won’t see me, Mari is Trystan’s old flame, and Marty is a homicidal maniac. No! This can’t be right.

“I’m fine.” I stare at my nails feeling betrayal seep into my heart, even though I can’t accept what I’m hearing on the television. Marty is my best friend, how could he do this to me? I start shifting puzzle pieces together. That means he killed Amber and Naked Guy, and all the others. He kept aiming for me, or Sean, and they got in the way.
 

Mari says soothing words, but I can’t hear her. My heart is thumping in my ear, blaring like a train horn burst after burst. “Avery.” She says my name loudly, and I glance at her. “Come lie down.”

I shake my head and step back. Lifting my hands, I say, “I can’t. I have to go. Sean doesn’t want me here anyway. I heard Logan. Just keep him safe. Promise me.”

Mari looks confused. By the time she figures out that I was here for Sean, not Trystan, I’m gone. Darting through the front doors, I shove my way past the cameras and blaring lights. I answer no one, and don’t stop until I’m in the parking lot and standing in front of Trystan’s Hummer. I yank the door open and climb inside.

The driver recognizes me. Looking in the rearview mirror he asks, “Will Mr. Scott be joining us?”

“No, not tonight. Please drive me to Babylon Station, and then come back here.”

His brow lifts at the odd request. “The train station?”

“Yeah. I can find my way from there.” I don’t want to explain where I’m going. It’s not my home anymore, but my brain doesn’t seem to know that. When my life crashes and burns to ashes, I end up sitting on the curb watching the sun peek over the treetops. It soothes me when nothing else can, when Jones Beach or the cemetery come up short.

The man nods and guides the car into traffic. We take the expressway and then cut over to Deer Park Avenue, following it until we arrive at the train station. When I open the door to slip out, the driver says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you somewhere else?” It’s fairly dark, except for the glow of the platform above and the parking lot lights.

“There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather go.” I thank him and shut the door. The driver hesitates and then pulls away, leaving me alone in the dark night.

Chapter 4

I wander, not thinking about where I’m going, letting my subconscious mind take over. Before long, I sit down on the curb in front of my parents’ house. There’s a realty sign on the front lawn with the word SOLD dangling beneath. My stomach twists as I realize it’s changing owners again. I wish I could have bought it, but I have no money. I’m a high-dollar call girl, offered a madamship—if that’s even what it’s called when a hooker interns as a madam—and here I am homeless, helpless.
 

The void stirs within me. I need something to cling to, something that feels solid. I thought that something was Sean. I loved him. I still do, and now he won’t see me. Why would he say that?

Maybe Logan made it up. Maybe he didn’t want me near his cousin for some reason, but no logical explanation comes to mind. It sounds like something Sean would say—especially if he doesn’t trust himself around me. If I’d taken the shot, I would have asked for him as soon as possible. But that isn’t what happened. He pushed me out of the way and the bullet went into him, not me.
 

Sean was acting smitten before the concert. I knew he was worried that someone would try to hurt me. In so many ways he’s been right about everything. I was wrong and naïve. I made promises and then broke them. I said I’d be there for him and I wasn’t. Guilt twists inside of me until I’m ready to puke on the lawn. I was the worst kind of friend to him. I didn’t keep my word. I promised him that I wanted all of him, the dark, the light, and the monster within. He finally trusted me and gave himself to me, and I couldn’t handle it. He was right to hide from me, to push me away. He knew that his demons were bigger than I’d known.
 

But now, nearly losing him, I can’t bear to think of my life without him. The fact that he’s so broken, so miserable that he needs to exert control over a woman to get off frightens me. What happens when that’s not enough anymore? That was the reason I backed off, the reason I left him. It felt like I was feeding his darkness instead of saving him from it. I wanted to be the one who brought him through the darkness and back into the light.

I wanted to save him. I still do.

Easy, Avery. He’s still breathing. That’s enough for tonight—he’s alive. Be thankful for what you have. Stay in the moment.
 

Stay in the moment. I’ve said that to myself so many times. When life is ready to crush me, when the massive hammer is hanging over my head, I tell myself to live breath by breath. It works, but it’s a painful way to live. Sometimes it seems like a happy ending isn’t something I’ll get. My cards weren’t dealt that way, but I won’t be given more than I can handle. I can handle this. I can get through this.

I stare blankly for hours, watching the sunrise over the houses until streaks of pink and gold mingle together and chase away the inky night. When the first ray of light hits my face, I want to cry. Trystan’s words come back and I realize how much I’ve lost tonight.
 

Pushing up, I decide to go peek in a window. The grass under my feet crunches as I peer into my old home. It’s empty. The house sits silently reminding me of better times. This place was my anchor in the storm, and now I have none. As I walk around to the back, an idea forms. I have nowhere to live. I can’t go back to the dorm. There’s nowhere to sleep and I’m not safe going to any of my usual spots. No one will look for me here, not inside the house.

Before I have time to think about it, my fist smashes through a pane of glass in the kitchen door. I reach in and unlock it, slipping inside before anyone notices me.
 

I refuse to drift anymore. I refuse to accept this is my life and I have nothing to show for it.

Padding inside, I watch as the morning sun pierces through the blinds, displaying shafts of light on the carpet. The house looks the same as it did when my parents were here. The last owners didn’t even change the wallpaper. I wander into the empty living room and sit down. It’s not long before I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.
 

Closing my eyes, I call out to her, even though I know she can’t hear me, “Mom, I need you.”

The stillness of the house cocoons me until I fall asleep.

Chapter 5

No one knows where I am and I keep it that way. Trystan still has my cell phone, so no one can track me. The closest they’ll get is the train station and I could have gone anywhere from there. It’s nightfall by the time I wake up. My face is patterned on one side from the carpet pile. I rub it out and stretch, looking at the clock on the microwave. The dried blood on my clothing cracks and makes my skin itch and I’m so thirsty I could drink a cow. I’d give anything for a glass of cold milk right now. My throat is so dry it feels like I swallowed a flamethrower.

Blinking slowly, it dawns on me—they left the power on. Maybe the water is on too. Pushing up, I pad down the hallway to my old bathroom and turn the faucet. I expect it to do nothing, but cold, clear water comes pouring out. Yes! After leaning forward, I gulp greedily until my cracked lips no longer sting and my parched throat feels better.
 

I straighten and look into the mirror in the darkness. A golden streetlight casts a halo on top of my frizzy brown head, and in that moment I look so old. Gazing into the glass, I stare watching my reflection—seeing my mother’s face appear, happy and content. Her voice chimes in the back of my mind like a faded memory, half forgotten. I can’t quite hear it anymore; I can’t remember the way she spoke or that thick Long Island accent. It’s vanishing. I’m losing her. The vision fades back into my haggard appearance and I turn away.
 

I want to see Sean, but I can’t go anywhere looking like this. I need money. I refuse to call Black, even though I know she’ll give it to me. I want to avoid that day as long as possible. As it is, I’m sure Gabe is out looking for her investment. I bet she kills Marty if the cops don’t find him—maybe they already have. My stomach aches as my heart twists. I can’t stand this, what Marty did.
 

After wandering into the kitchen, I sit down on the only chair left in the house. The metal seat is cold and hard, but I don’t care. I lean back and stretch, arching my spine and staring at the cupboards. Mom had climbed up onto a stepstool to clean the upper cabinets so many times. She’d tell me it was a breeding ground for dirt. I stare at that spot, gazing at the wooden doors and the soffits above. They’ve not lived here for a while, but there’s no dust up there. It makes me lean forward and look closer. Maybe the old owners cleaned it, but that’s not why I’m staring. The upper cabinets are made of wood paneling, a remnant from an old kitchen. The last cupboard hangs at the end of a run of cabinets, jutting out slightly from the rest. It’s the style from the time the house was built. I keep staring, not understanding what I’m seeing that bothers me. Something’s not right.

The need to touch the panel overcomes me. I slide my chair over to the spot, feeling my mother calling my name as I do so. My skin prickles as the pads of my fingers touch the spot she touched so many times before. I slide my fingertips across the wood, feeling one bump after another. When my hand is at the end of the cabinet I slide it over the molding on the corner. I do it again, then once more. I laugh at myself for being silly. It’s like I want to hug this thing. The compulsion to run my palm over the wood strikes me again, so I humor myself and do it one last time. I’m ready to step off the chair, but the panel under my hand shifts slightly.

“Mom, what did you do?” As I say the words, I press my palm on the wood and shift it, making it slide out on one end. It barely moves, but it’s enough that I don’t need more prodding. Grabbing the trim on the piece of paneling now sticking off the side of the cabinet, I pull hard. The piece moves and opens, revealing a hiding place in the top of the cabinet. I stare, awestruck.
 

Behind the panel, under layers of dust, are old wine bottles, papers, and a coffee can. I shift through things instantly recognizing my mother’s handwriting. Stuffed in a mason jar, I find a letter sealed in an envelope that was never mailed. I take the note and break the seal, instantly feeling my mother’s soft touch on my shoulder.

It’s her handwriting. My eyes scan the words:

My dearest,

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this, but if so it means it’s too late for me. I’m so sorry, my love. Take what’s here and don’t let them find her. I’m so sorry, my love. Please forgive me.

At first I’m shocked to see her handwriting, but my surprise won’t lift. Her words seem panicked and her normally elegant handwriting seems messy and hastily written. The letter was meant for someone else, because I don’t know what she means. I assumed it was written to Daddy, making the ‘her’ in the note me.
 

I turn the paper over, hoping for more on the back, but there’s nothing. Quickly, I grab the rest of the jars and cans from the space and shove it shut. Sitting on the living room floor, I empty each can, one by one. There are no more letters to explain, only jars full of money and a set of fake IDs, one with my mother’s picture. She looks like me. This must have been taken years before they died, maybe even before I was born. I blink at it, not knowing what to think.

“Mom, what is this?” I shuffle through more papers, and when I open the last envelope I gasp. It’s stuffed with one hundred dollar bills. I pull a few out and look at them. They’re the old style, but they’re real. There must be a few thousand dollars here, easy.