Need to Know (21 page)

“When was the last time you did this?” I asked, my voice practically a shout, everything sounding muffled. He'd been shooting before; it was one of those things I knew about him, even if I couldn't remember when I learned it, or the details. Like fishing, and golfing.

“Ages ago,” he answered. He flashed me a smile. “It's like riding a bike.”

I loaded the other pistol as he got the target ready, a paper one, the outline of a person, little zones we were supposed to aim for. Chest, head. He clipped it onto the pulley system, sent it to the back of the lane. “Ready?” he asked.

I nodded, got into position. Lined up the sights like I'd learned long ago, one eye closed. Racked the gun, moved my finger to the trigger. Pulled back slowly, the voice of my old instructor ringing in my ear.
Let it surprise you.

Pop
. The gun bounced back hard, my hand, my whole arm moving with it. Like riding a bike, indeed; everything had come back to me, quicker and clearer than I could have imagined.

Matt started laughing.

“What's so funny?” I said. I could feel my defenses going up. It'd been years since I'd shot; he could at least give me a chance to warm up.

He pointed to the target. “Look.”

I followed his line of sight. There, in the dead center of the target's chest, was a small round hole. “I did that?”

He had a big grin on his face. “Let's see it again. Put it right through that hole.”

I took a deep breath, lifted the gun, aimed. Finger on the trigger, slow pull.
Pop.
This time I looked, saw another hole, close to the last one, heard Matt's laugh again.

“You sure you haven't been practicing?” he said with a grin.

It was my turn to laugh. “Let this be a lesson. Don't mess with me.”

The grin faded from his face, and he stared at me for a long moment. “Could you do this, if you were ever threatened?”

I looked at the target, tried to imagine shooting a real person. “No,” I answered honestly. “I don't think I could.”

“If someone threatened you, you don't think you could shoot?”

I shook my head. I couldn't picture myself in a situation where I'd ever have a gun. If I were being threatened, I wouldn't want a gun anywhere near me. Odds were I'd be the one who'd end up shot.

His eyes didn't leave mine. They were searching, penetrating. Making me uncomfortable. So I turned away, back to the target, lined up the sights again. Finger on the trigger. I was about to press down when I heard his voice. “What if someone threatened the kids?”

The target morphed, before my eyes, into a person, a real one, one who was a danger to my kids, one who wanted to hurt them. I pulled back on the trigger, heard the pop. The hole I was aiming for, the first one I made, in the center of the chest, had widened, just the smallest bit. I'd hit it, dead-on. I turned to Matt, my expression as serious as his. “I'd kill him.”

IN A FEW BLOCKS,
I've caught up. I see the rear of his car, that black sedan, a handful of car lengths in front of me. His brake lights, glowing red, as he stops at a light. I slide down a bit in my seat, a reflex almost, and watch the red spots.

I have the Corolla, thank God. I'm as nondescript as he is. Still, though, he could be watching for me, looking for some sort of tail in his rearview mirror. Could be a habit, even.

I learned how to do this ages ago. One of those classes at work I never imagined I'd use, another box checked. I hang back, keep those cars between us, keep myself out of his sight. I watch the lanes on either side, wait for him to switch, to make a turn, anything.

Finally the sedan pulls into the lane on the right. I stay in my lane, hang back, watch. Now will be the test. Is he watching for a tail? Or is he sure I haven't told a soul, that I'm crumpled into a ball in the parking lot, or dragging myself home, terrified and helpless?

A short time later he turns, and I realize I've been holding my breath. A car behind him turns, too, then another. I could do it, too; there are so many cars following the same path, it wouldn't be alerting. I'm getting closer to the turn, and then I see the sign. The distinctive blue
M
, a right arrow. The Metro's this way.

I look to the right as I approach. The turn leads directly into a parking garage. The sedan is at the gates, stopping for a ticket. I only have a split second to decide. I can't follow him into a garage. Too confining, and besides, it's not like I could follow him on foot, alone. He'd spot me for sure.

I press down on the gas, accelerate past the turnoff. I look as I drive past, see the gate opening and his car driving in. I'm breathing fast now, braking to slow myself. I feel lost, now that he's no longer in front of me.

But I can't be lost. I can't be helpless. I need to fight.

I fumble for the paper in my bag, the one from Omar. Pull it out, open it up, my eyes darting between the road and the paper. I look closely at the little map until I see a blue
M,
a Metro station, in the center of the marked zone.

Then I lay my foot down on the gas.

IT'S A LONG SHOT, REALLY.
I know it is. It could have been part of a surveillance detection route—pull into the garage and out again, continue on his way. And even if he actually got on a train, he could have gone anywhere in the city.
Anywhere.

But I find a spot along the street nevertheless, one with the Metro exit in my line of sight, and I sit. I wait, and I watch. In the silence of the car, I think of my kids. All I ever wanted was to be a good mother to them. And now everything is in jeopardy.

“Please, God,” I whisper. “Protect them.” I haven't prayed in years, and it seems wrong to be doing it now. But if there's even a chance it could help them, it's worth a shot. Because every second that ticks by, every second I don't see Yury come out of that Metro exit, makes it more likely this won't work. And if this doesn't work, I don't know what to do next.

I cast my eyes up, at the roof of the car, like somehow that'll make God more likely to hear. “I don't care what happens to me,” I say. “Please just keep them safe.”

And I'm incredibly conscious of the fact that my dad's gun is sitting right beside me, buried deep in that bag.

I ALMOST DON'T SEE
him when he emerges from below ground. He's wearing a baseball cap now, a faded red Nationals one. A jacket, too—black windbreaker. He's walking my way, on my side of the street, a fact that makes my breathing go shallow, my entire body go stiff, but his head is bent down, the cap the only thing I can see. I watch him from behind a pair of sunglasses, stock-still, silently imploring him not to look up. I don't breathe as he passes, and then I exhale noisily, catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, head still down, body hunched forward.

I keep my eyes glued on him as he gets smaller and smaller in the distance, then panic begins to take hold. I need to follow him. I need to see where he goes. But if I pull out now, I'll lose sight of him. I'll have to double back, follow him down the street, and by then he might already be gone, or he might catch sight of me and it'll all be for nothing.

I turn the key in the ignition with trembling fingers, my eyes still on the rearview mirror, on his back, heading into the distance. My eyes leave him for just a second as I check for traffic, get ready to pull out of the spot. They're back on him a second later, and just as I'm about to pull away from the curb, I stop. He's turned. He's walking up steps. He's at the door of a townhouse. Letting himself in.

A rush of adrenaline runs through me, a burst of relief. I watch until he's out of sight. I memorize the door, blue, the arch above it. White mailbox. Three down from the fire hydrant.

I reach for the burner phone in my bag, tap the last number I called, hold the phone to my ear. Then I set my eyes back on the blue door.

“Hello?” my mom says.

“Hi. It's me. How's everything with the kids?”

“Oh, they're fine, dear. They're all home, safe and sound, happy as clams.”

“Thanks for getting Ella.”

“Of course.” There's an awkward pause. I hear dishes clang in the background. Ella's high-pitched chatter.

“I'm going to be late tonight,” I say.

“That's fine,” she says. “Take your time. Your dad and I can get them into bed.”

I nod and blink quickly, willing the wall of emotion inside to stay put, just a little while longer. I glance over at the bag on the seat next to me, the one that holds the gun. “Tell them I love them, okay?”

Then I angle the rearview mirror down, sink down in my seat, set my eyes back on the blue door, and wait.

It's a few minutes before ten o'clock in the morning when the blue door finally opens. I've already talked to my parents, apologized for being out all night, made sure the kids are okay. I sit up straighter in my seat and watch as Yury steps outside. He's wearing a new hat—a black one this time—and track pants and a dark T-shirt. He turns and locks the door, then walks down the steps, head lowered. He presses a button on one of the keys in his hand, and a car across the street flashes and beeps. Another sedan, this one white. He slides into the driver's seat and pulls away from the curb.

My mind goes immediately to the kids. But he'd given me time after our talk, time to do what he wanted. They're safe, for now.

I take the gun from my bag, tuck it into the waistband of my pants. It's cool against my skin, and hard. Then I reach for the credit card that I laid on the console last night, and the bobby pin lying next to it—one I dug up from the bottom of my bag, another stray from Ella's ballet buns. It's bent now, the way Marta taught me. I hold them tight in my fist as I slip out of the car, then walk quickly toward the house, my own head down, too, like Yury's.

At the blue door, I pause, and I listen. I don't hear anything from inside. I rap my knuckles against the door, once, twice. Hold my breath and listen. No sound. A vision floats through my mind again. Matt, tied up in a chair, duct tape over his mouth.

I take the bobby pin, slide it into the lock, move it around until it makes contact. With my other hand I wedge the credit card into the space between door and frame, apply pressure. My hands are shaking so hard I nearly drop the card. I'm afraid to look around, just praying no one's watching, that my body shields what I'm doing from any passersby.

The lock disengages. Dizzy with relief, I turn the knob and open the door a crack, half-cringing, half-expecting an alarm, something to happen, but nothing does. I open it farther and look inside: a living room, sparsely furnished, just a couch and a big TV. A kitchen beyond that. A carpeted staircase leading up; another, down.

I step inside and close the door behind me. No Matt. But maybe somewhere deeper in the house? And if not, can I at least find the evidence? That file, the one Yury's using to blackmail me?

Suddenly I'm filled with doubt. What if Matt's not here, and I can't find the evidence? Worse, what if Yury comes back? What would he do if he found me?

But I need to try. I force myself to take a step forward, then another.

And then I hear something.

Upstairs. Footsteps.

Oh my God.

I freeze. I pull the gun from my waistband, swing it out in front of me, aim at the stairs. This can't be happening, can it?

But it is. Footsteps, coming down the stairs now. I'm absolutely frozen in fear. I see feet come into view—bare feet, men's feet. I watch through the sights. Now legs come into view, muscular. Athletic shorts that are too big, too baggy. White undershirt. I keep my gun trained on him, wait for his chest to appear, so I can line up the sights.

“That was quick” comes his voice.

Matt's voice.

That fact registers at the same time he comes fully into view. Matt. I take my eyes off the sights, look over the gun, into his face. Impossible. But it's true. It's Matt.

He sees me and freezes, pales like he's seen a ghost. His hair is damp, the way it is when he's just gotten out of the shower. He looks…like he belongs here. I keep the gun pointed at him. A storm of confusion is brewing inside me.

“Oh my God, Viv, what are you doing here?” he says, and then he's rushing down the last steps toward me, his face open now, full of relief. I wish he would stop, slow down, give me time to process this, because this isn't right. None of this is right. I had visions of him tied up somewhere. A captive. Not alone, unrestrained, showering in Yury's townhouse.

He's almost to me now, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him, smiling at me like he couldn't be happier to see me. And I lower the gun, because this is my husband I'm looking at, pointing a
weapon
at, but it's almost hard to do, almost like my arms are protesting, or my brain, or something. He wraps me in an embrace, but my body stays stiff.

“How did you find me?” he asks, incredulous.

I still haven't moved my arms, haven't returned his embrace. I don't understand. I don't understand any of this. He pulls away, holds me at arm's length, looks at me intently, his eyes searching mine. “Viv, I'm so sorry. He came to Luke's school. He talked to Luke. I couldn't wait. I had to go….”

I stare at him, his face so open, so honest. The confusion feels like it's starting to melt at the edges, the smallest bit. It's what I thought, isn't it? He left us to protect Luke, to tell Yury to stay away from our kids. So why is my mind still screaming that this is wrong?

Because he's here, alone. He wasn't a prisoner, bound to a chair somewhere in the house; that image that was haunting me wasn't the truth. I look him up and down, the damp hair, the clothes. There's a sick feeling in my stomach.
Why are you still here? Why didn't you leave?

“He said if I left, he'd kill Luke.”

The words send a chill through me.

“Maybe I should have tried…I didn't know if I could take him….” He looks ashamed when he says it, and I feel a pull in my chest. “I didn't leave you, Viv. I swear.” He looks like he's about to cry.

“I know,” I say, as much to convince myself as anything else.

“I wouldn't do that.”

“I know. I know.” Do I, though?

His eyes search mine, and then something crosses his face, a brief flash of panic. “Yury's going to be back soon. He just ran out for coffee. You need to go, Viv.”

“What?”

His voice is urgent. “You need to go. You need to get out of here.”

A jumble of emotions swirls inside me. Panic, confusion, desperation. “I need that file. What they're using to blackmail me.”

He gives me a long look, one I can't read. “This is dangerous. The kids—”

“Where is it?” I watch him, unblinking.
You've had time to search
.

His eyes are boring into me. Then they soften. “Upstairs.”

He did look. He found it. Relief surges through me. “Can you—”

I stop midsentence, pivot toward the door. There's a key in the lock, scraping, turning. I raise my gun and aim at the closed door, the edge that's going to open, any second now. He's back. Yury's back.

I watch the edge of the door through the sights. It opens, and I see him, head down, a disposable tray in his hand, two cups of coffee. He hasn't seen me yet. I keep the sights on him. He takes a step in, starts to close the door.

And then sees me.

“Don't move,” I say.

He goes still.

“Close the door.” I make sure the sights are in the dead center of his chest. If he makes even the slightest move to leave, I'll shoot him. I swear to God I will. This is the guy who frightened my son.

He slowly, carefully closes the door.

“Hands in the air,” I say. I'm surprised by how calm my voice sounds. How commanding, how confident, when I feel none of those things. What I feel is utter terror.

He complies, sort of. Holds his hands in front of him, the tray extended toward me in one hand, the other open to show me his palm.

“Try anything, and I
will
shoot.” My voice sounds deadly serious. A dizzying sensation creeps over me, like I'm watching myself in a movie.

He looks at me, impassive, then his eyes shift to Matt. They stay expressionless.

I need to look like I know what to do. I need to stay in control. I try to force my mind to work, to come up with a solution.

“Tie him up,” I say to Matt. Yury shifts his gaze back to me. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't make a move.

I don't look over at Matt, but I hear him leave the room. Yury and I stare at each other. There's that hint of a smirk on his face, one that ratchets up my unease. His goal, probably.

Matt comes back moments later. I glance over, and he's carrying a straight-backed wooden chair and a roll of duct tape. Yury shifts his gaze to Matt, looks at him in a way I can't read. I wish he'd talk. I wish he'd say something. It would be better than this silence. My hands tighten on the gun.

Matt sets the chair down and Yury sits, without prompting, gingerly, slowly. He sets his gaze on me and puts his arms behind the chair. No resisting, no fighting back. Matt starts wrapping his wrists with duct tape. Then his ankles. Then his body—first around chest and chair, then lap and chair. Yury keeps his eyes on me. There's a confidence in them, one that shouldn't be there, not when he's helpless like this, not when I have a gun trained on his heart.

When Matt's done, he sets down the duct tape and turns to me, his expression blank. No fear, no anger, nothing. I lower the gun, but I keep it at my side. “Can you get the file?” I say to him, and he nods, heads up the stairs. I watch him go, and I have a strange sensation that I shouldn't have let him out of my sight.

Yury watches him go, too, then turns back to me. Another smirk flickers across his lips. “You think that's going to make this all go away?”

The question makes my chest tighten. “Yeah, I think it will.”

He gives his head a shake. Doubt creeps over me. But if the evidence is gone, then at least I won't be in jail. He won't be able to blackmail me. The rest I can figure out later.

I hear Matt's steps on the stairs and glance up. My fingers tighten around the gun at my side, my muscles tense, ready to move. All I can picture is him coming down these stairs moments earlier, apparently at ease. He comes into view, fully dressed now, and my eyes go straight to his hands. There's nothing in them but a slim stack of papers. My legs feel suddenly weak.

What am I thinking? This is Matt. I loosen my grip on the gun, watch as he comes closer, wordlessly extends the papers. I take them from him with my free hand, look down at the first page, a screenshot that I recognize. It's the exact same set of printouts Yury left in our mailbox. But this isn't right. This isn't all they'd hold on to.

“Where's the rest?” I say, looking up.

“The rest?”

“The digital copy.”

Matt gives me a blank look. “That's all I found.”

There's a sinking feeling in my chest. I fold the papers in half, stick them into the waistband of my pants, against my back. Then I turn to Yury. “I know you have another copy. Where is it?” I try to keep my voice hard, but I can hear the panic creeping into it.

He's still staring at me with that hint of a smirk. “Of course there's another copy.”

I'll find it. I don't care how I have to threaten him, what I have to do to him. I take a step closer, and he tilts his head to watch me. “But it's not here. I don't have it.”

I go cold.

“Oh, Vivian. You thought you outsmarted me.” It's a full-blown smirk now. Patronizing. “Someone got us these search results, remember? Someone with access to Athena, to all your sensitive information. Someone on the inside.”

Nausea ripples through me.

“My friend has a copy. And if anything happens to me, those papers go straight to the FBI.”

THE ROOM FEELS LIKE
it's spinning. “Who?” I say, and my voice sounds foreign, like it belongs to someone else. “Who has the copy?”

Yury smiles, a content smile, one that breeds fury inside me. Destroying that evidence was my last hope. I had actually started to believe that it might work.

“It could be a bluff,” Matt says, and I don't turn around. It's not. I can tell by the look on Yury's face that it's not.

“Who?” I say again, and I take a step closer, raise my gun. Yury's face shows no fear.

I feel a touch, one that sets all of my nerves on fire. I swing the gun around, and it's Matt, behind me. His hand's on my forearm. He lets go, raises both palms in the air. “It's just me, Viv,” he says calmly.

I keep the gun trained on him. He looks down at it, then back at my face. “It's okay, Viv. I just want you to think. Don't be impulsive.”

My brain feels broken, like it can't process what's happening.
Don't be impulsive
. “He threatened Luke,” I say. I turn to Yury, aim the gun back in his direction. “I'll kill him.”

Yury's expression doesn't change.

“What good would it do?” Matt asks. I stare at him. He doesn't want me to shoot Yury. Because he's on Yury's side? “You won't learn anything if you do that.”

Why is he so calm? But I try to process the thought. It's true, what he says. If I shoot Yury, I'll never know who has that other copy. Maybe there's still a sliver of hope, a chance that I can find that evidence.

Matt gives me a sympathetic look, then puts a hand on my arm, pushing the gun down gently. “Viv, we have him,” he says quietly. “He can't hurt the kids.”