Authors: Michelle Gagnon
Amanda shook her head, trying to concentrate. These all-nighters were killing her. She should’ve stayed in yesterday to finish this paper, but Peter had wanted to go to the movies.
It was funny. Last fall, Amanda had felt saddled with Peter, like he was a final vestige of high school that she couldn’t shake. Now, he sometimes seemed older than she was. What made it even worse was that he clearly didn’t feel the same way about her anymore. So she found herself resenting a girl she’d never even met, this Noa person he was so fixated on. A girl, ironically, just like the ones she volunteered her time to help at the shelter.
Only Noa didn’t sound like the kind of kid who would have taken advantage of the Runaway Coalition. She was running around the country fighting a powerful corporation, while Amanda was stuck in an office filing papers. It made her feel like all the protests she’d gone to over the years, the petitions she’d marched from door to door, everything she’d done in the name of making the world a better place was pitiful in comparison.
Amanda shook off the ruminations and tried to concentrate on the blank computer screen in front of her. This paper on the repression of Victorian women was due tomorrow, and she’d barely done any work on it. Which was unlike her; she never procrastinated, in fact she usually turned work in early. But lately, she’d found it hard to focus.
With effort, she typed a sentence, then another.
Good
, she thought with relief. The coffee was working. Now if she could just write the final few pages, she’d be able to get some sleep. . . .
“Amanda? Are you okay?”
Amanda blinked. She was still sitting at the computer, her hands on the keyboard. Her roommate, Diem, was looking down at her with concern while she towel-dried her long dark hair.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Must’ve just drifted off for a minute,” Amanda mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “What time is it?”
“Nearly nine o’clock,” Diem said.
Amanda jolted upright and checked the clock in the corner of her computer screen. “What?” Her heart leapt into her throat. Class started in five minutes, and she hadn’t finished the paper. Frantically, she scrolled through the Word doc, and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Diem asked. She was a tiny Vietnamese-American girl whose enormous eyes always reminded Amanda of an anime character. She bent over to study the screen. “Wow, what’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Amanda said, her panic increasing. There were words on the screen, but they were a nonsensical jumble: bird, hat, tree, car . . . on and on, a string of basic words that made no sense.
“Your professor is going to love that.” Diem laughed, but not unkindly. “Maybe you should just skip class.”
“I can’t,” Amanda mumbled. “I’ve already missed too many this semester.”
“Well, just tell her your computer crashed. That got me an extension on my poli-sci midterm.”
“Right,” Amanda said faintly, still staring at the words. They went on for page after page, ten of them total. Yet she had no memory of writing them. Maybe she’d done it in her sleep? Was that even possible?
“Hey.” Diem laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a paper.”
“I know, it’s just . . .” Amanda unexpectedly burst into tears, astonishing herself. What was happening to her?
Diem pulled her into a hug. Amanda leaned against her and wept while Diem stroked her hair. They weren’t particularly close roommates; they were friendly enough, but Diem spent a lot of time at her boyfriend’s dorm, and they basically just shared the space. After a minute Amanda drew back, feeling awkward. “Thanks,” she muttered, wiping away tears.
“Listen, maybe you should go to the infirmary.”
“Why? I’m not sick.” Amanda looked up. Diem was eyeing her with concern.
“Well, you just seem . . . different lately,” Diem said hesitantly. “Out of it. Maybe they can help.”
“I’m fine,” Amanda snapped. “I better get to class.”
“Me too—I’ve got an inorganic chem midterm today, and I barely studied.” As she walked over to her dresser, Diem called over her shoulder, “Good luck!”
Amanda pushed the chair back and stood, trying to organize her thoughts. No time to change; she’d just wear the same outfit to class. She tugged on her jacket and grabbed her keys, stuffing them into her pocket as she tore out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, she heard her roommate say, “She is definitely not okay.”
P
eter blew on his fingers to warm them, wishing he’d thought to bring a pair of gloves. It was a cold morning—despite staying up late the night before, he’d forced himself out of bed right after dawn so that he could beat the rush hour traffic into Boston.
He was quickly developing an appreciation for cops on stakeouts. On TV they complained a lot, but usually seemed to be having a pretty good time hanging out and snacking.
So far, he’d found it to be a miserable experience. He was parked in front of an apartment building on Newbury Street, in one of the toniest neighborhoods in Boston. Finding a parking space close to the entrance had been a challenge; he’d circled the block for nearly an hour before someone finally pulled out a dozen feet away from the door on the opposite side of the street. After hurriedly parking, Peter shut off the engine and waited.
The real hassle was that because he was sitting in the driver’s seat, people kept assuming he was on the verge of vacating the spot. He’d hear an angry honk and find a car pulled up behind him with its blinkers on, waiting for the space. After that happened a couple of times, he slid into the passenger seat, hoping that would stop them. But every so often a driver would still pull up, motion for him to roll down his window, and ask if he and his buddy were leaving soon.
They never show that sort of thing on TV
, Peter thought ruefully. He got why they brought snacks now, too. He was starving, but terrified that if he left the car he’d miss something. And of course he also really had to pee, since the only thing he’d had the foresight to bring was water.
This would be a terrible cop show
, he thought.
The irony was that when he’d found this address last night, Peter had been pretty proud of his detective work. He’d filtered through the initial IRS results for Pike & Dolan’s independent contractors and found fifty likely candidates. Skimming that list, he quickly realized that he hadn’t needed an algorithm after all; a single corporation received a huge amount of money from P&D every year, millions of dollars marked simply as “consultant’s fees.”
And the name of the corporation clinched it: Maurer Consulting. Maurer, according to a quick Google search, was the German word for Mason.
The address for the company was a PO Box; he felt a pang when he saw that, thinking of Noa, and how she’d used a similar address to get paid for her IT work.
Peter dug deeper, finding out everything he could about Maurer Consulting. And while sifting through property tax records, he’d stumbled across this address. The penthouse apartment wasn’t an office, though; the building was zoned residential.
And he had a pretty good idea who lived there. Peter glanced at his watch: It was nearly noon. He’d been parked here for over four hours, and so far the only people to leave the building had been a nanny with a stroller and an elderly man walking a basset hound. Of course, there was a chance that he’d missed Mason entirely while looking for a parking space. Which would really suck, because even though he could get away with skipping school today, if it happened two days in a row his parents would freak. His prep school had a strict policy about missing school in the spring term; they’d already threatened to alert the colleges he’d applied to if he kept playing hooky.
All of which would draw unwanted attention. And Peter knew that his parents were still monitoring him. Returning to his room after school, he’d discover things shifted around slightly, like someone had been riffling through his stuff. As a safeguard, Peter kept his computer with him at all times and scanned it periodically for spyware.
On the face of it, he and his parents were getting along better than they had in years. But in truth it was like living in a really friendly prison, where during dinner everyone chatted while covertly sharpening knives under the table.
Peter sighed and cracked his knuckles. He couldn’t wait any longer—the pressure on his bladder was starting to get serious. There was a Starbucks on the far corner. He could be in and out in less than five minutes.
Deciding, he got out of the car.
And froze with his hand on the door handle. Mason was strolling out of the building. He wore a dove gray wool coat and a Burberry scarf. At the sight of him, Peter’s insides turned to ice. He looked exactly the same: slightly taller than average, with cropped black hair, a square jaw, and thin lips. Nothing about him would really stick out in a crowd, unless he looked at you. Mason had shark eyes, unusually large black pupils surrounded by pale irises. Peter found them creepy as hell.
Fortunately, Mason didn’t appear to have spotted Peter. He turned right out the door and started up the block.
Peter locked his Prius and hurried to stay half a block back, keeping as many people as possible between them. He needn’t have bothered. Mason maintained a brisk pace, clearly intent on a specific destination. He brushed past slower pedestrians, lengthening his stride to catch lights before they turned.
Peter nearly had to break into a trot to keep up. He prayed that Mason wouldn’t stop suddenly, or turn around. He was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he was an amateur at this, going up against a trained professional. He felt terribly exposed, despite the people between them.
For a second, he lost sight of the gray coat and nearly panicked. Peter hustled forward, then stopped dead. Mason had paused at a newsstand to buy a newspaper. Tucking it under his arm, he turned and hurried down the steps into the Copley T station.
Without pausing to consider, Peter followed him. Funny, Mason hadn’t struck him as a public transportation type.
Luckily, he still had credits on his CharlieCard. He slid it through the turnstile and rushed toward the stopped train, getting on one car down from Mason.
Something else you rarely see in cop shows
, he thought as the doors slid closed. He couldn’t see into the next car, and would have to get out at every stop to see if Mason dismounted, which seriously increased the likelihood of being recognized.
Peter did that for three stations; each time his heart throttled his rib cage as he stepped off the train. At the fourth stop, Mason got off and headed for the exit. Peter tugged his baseball cap down farther and followed.
They emerged at the Park Street station, in the thick of downtown. Peter kept an eye on Mason’s back as he wove confidently through the crowd. Leaving the station, he turned right and strode into a large building. Peter continued past the entrance, then crossed the street to survey it. It was a glass and steel skyscraper. He noted the address, then returned to the front doors. By now, Mason should have left the lobby.
Entering, he saw a security guard stationed behind a large, imposing white desk. No building directory in sight. Peter hesitated, glancing toward the security camera mounted by the elevators.
“Help you?” the guard called.
Deciding, Peter replied, “Sorry, wrong building,” and rushed out. Last thing he wanted was to have to present photo ID to a rent-a-cop. He could search who the tenants were online, and might even be able to puzzle out which office Mason had visited.
Besides, Peter realized, he had all the information he really needed. Now he knew for certain where Mason lived.
Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, making him feel lighter as he practically skipped down the stairs to the T.
Teo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It had been a while since he’d slept in a house, and it was a refreshing change. Unlike camping on the streets, here he didn’t have to sleep with one eye open, jolted awake every few hours by noise or the fear that someone was sneaking up on him. He’d slept better in the past two days than he had in years.
The rest of the room was filled with kids who were still zonked out. His heart swelled at the sight of them. At his last camp, he’d felt tolerated. He’d never really counted any of the other runaways as friends; they stuck together out of necessity, knowing they were easy prey on the streets.
Here, though, pretty much everyone seemed to genuinely like him. Especially Daisy. Teo watched her sleep. She looked tough when she was awake, with her spiked blue hair and piercings. But asleep, you could really see how pretty she was. They’d hung out yesterday, talking about the stuff she’d been doing with Noa and Zeke since they picked her up outside Vegas. It all sounded amazing, but the whole time, Teo found it difficult to focus; all he could think was that her hair was dyed nearly the same shade as her eyes.
Carefully, Teo picked his way across the room, trying not to step on anyone. Despite the fact that they were all sleeping on the floor, no one had complained. He guessed they all felt that having a roof over their heads made up for it. And they were an army, after all, he thought with a swell of pride.
It was still light outside—Daisy had explained that they usually slept days, since their work required them to be up all night sometimes. He wondered what time it was—morning? Midafternoon? It was hard to tell without clocks.
He was starving, though—he hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before.
Maybe there’s still some leftover chili
, he thought, shuffling into the kitchen and opening the fridge.
“Hey.”
Teo whirled reflexively, all his instincts immediately snapping into flight mode. But it was just Turk, staring at him from a dark corner by the sliding glass door. He looked rough, like he hadn’t slept; his eyes were red rimmed, and he had a weird expression on his face.
“Hey,” Teo said, fighting to sound like his heart hadn’t just leapt into his throat. “Just looking for something to eat.”
Turk grunted, “Chili’s gone.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, Teo closed the fridge. Turk was still watching him, hands jammed into his pockets as he bounced on the balls of his feet. Belatedly, Teo took in his pupils—they were huge, much larger than normal.
He’s high
, he realized.
“Noa ran out for some food,” Turk said, speaking fast. “And Zeke crashed. He was up keeping watch on the asshole last night.”
“Okay.” Teo eyed the door, mentally willing someone else to come in.
“Hey, you want to see something cool?” Turk said, lowering his voice.
Teo shrugged noncommittally. Turk jerked his head toward the living room. “In here.”
Despite the bad vibe he was getting, Teo followed, mainly because Turk hadn’t made it sound like a choice. The guy who’d tried to kidnap him was still lying on the ground. Even though his hands and feet were bound, Teo experienced a surge of fear. If Noa hadn’t shown up . . . Daisy had told him stories last night about kids being sliced open, kept alive while people poked around inside them. At the thought, Teo repressed a shudder.
“Don’t worry,” Turk said, noticing. “He can’t hurt you.” He issued a low chuckle and added, “Hell, he won’t be hurting anyone anymore. Check it out.” Turk nudged the guy with his toe. He rolled forward an inch, then back.
Teo stepped closer. Weird, that the guy wasn’t reacting at all. Had he passed out again?
“Watch,” Turk ordered, a manic gleam in his eyes as he drew his foot all the way back. Teo let out an involuntary yelp as Turk’s foot snapped forward, connecting hard with the guy’s back.
The guy didn’t make a sound.
“You want to mess with him?” Turk hissed.
“No, I’m . . . Is he . . .”
They were interrupted by the sound of the garage door opening and closing. Turk’s head snapped up and the gleam in his eyes faded, replaced instantly by a look of concern. “Listen,” he said urgently. “I need you to back me on something.”
“I don’t . . . What?”
“Say he came after us.” Turk’s words tumbled out in a rush. “Say we didn’t have a choice, all right?” His eyes darted around the room, like he was looking for a way out.
He killed him
, Teo realized with horror.
Noa stepped into the living room and paused warily at the sight of them. Again, Teo was reminded of a cat. She carried herself with a sort of grace that was rare in someone their age, especially a street kid. She also gave off a sense of authority, like you wouldn’t want to mess with her. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Turk cast a desperate look at Teo, and stuttered out, “Uh, he was going after the kid, so I—”
“Why isn’t he moving?” Noa interrupted, crossing the room in a few long strides. She crouched down beside the still figure on the floor and rolled him onto his back, then cursed. Looking up, her eyes narrowed as she asked, “What happened?”
“It was the kid,” Turk said.
Teo realized with horror that Turk was pointing at him. “What? Wait, no, I never—”
“Bullshit,” Noa snapped, straightening up and backing Turk against the wall. Even though he outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, he cowered. “What the hell did you do, Turk?”
“What’s going on?” Zeke appeared in the doorway.
“Turk killed the guy,” Noa said, without taking her eyes off Turk.
“Oh, crap,” Zeke said. His eyes flicked to the still form on the floor. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. And he’s high.”
“Great.” Zeke scowled. “What the hell, Turk?”
Turk’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “Sorry, man. I just . . . The guy wouldn’t shut up, you know? He was saying all this crap about my sister, and I just . . .” His head dropped down.
“I told you to wake me if you couldn’t handle it,” Zeke said pointedly.
“We couldn’t have let him go anyway.” Turk was still staring at the floor, but there was a set to his jaw now. “He would’ve told them everything about us.”
Noa and Zeke exchanged a glance. Teo sensed some sort of silent communication taking place between them. Zeke crossed the room in a few strides until he was right in front of Turk. Getting in his face, he snarled, “Where’d you score?”
“What?” Turk seemed puzzled by the question.
“Where. Did. You. Score?” Zeke repeated slowly.
Turk shrugged. “I dunno, man. Just . . . when we were out following him . . .”
“You know the rules,” Noa said, a thick undercurrent of rage beneath her voice. It was hard to say how much was because Turk had murdered a guy, and how much was due to the fact that he’d gotten high. “No drugs.”