“Exactly. Now’s the time to break in.”
“And do what?”
“Cheeto, I’m outta time!” she snapped. “Can’t you read the numbers on the fucking clock? Sundown’s coming fast.”
“Ash, sunrise hasn’t even hit yet.” Cheeto held his hands out as if to placate a growling mutt. “We’ll figure something out.”
“If we don’t, I won’t get my hand back.”
“That’s okay.”
“That’s okay?” Something in her brain popped. He could’ve told her to cut her other hand off and she’d have been less appalled. “Are you fucking mental? It’s anything but okay. We have the biggest show of our lives coming up!”
“It’s just a show.”
“It’s way bigger than that.”
“Look, I know how you feel—”
“You don’t know shit. I’m garbage without my hand.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Fucking garbage.”
“Why, because you spent a few minutes in a dumpster?”
The comment hit her like a punch to the nose. At first she couldn’t breathe. Then the world around her shook like a morbid daydream. She grabbed the steering wheel, clutching tight, trying to steady herself. At some point she realized she was hyperventilating. Her lungs shriveled to raisins. She fumbled for the door handle and opened it. Cold air swept in. She stumbled outside, dropping to her knees in the middle of the wet street.
“Ashes, wait!” Cheeto left the van and hurried over. He looked at her with concern. With pity. She couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that he knew. “Don’t beat yourself up. What your parents did to you—that wasn’t your fault.”
Not her fault. Like that made it better. Try telling a stabbing victim that the knife in their gut wasn’t their fault. See if that helps.
“Ash?” he crept closer. Reached out to her. “I’m trying to help.”
“You want to help?” She swatted his hand away. “Get in the van and help me get my hand back.”
“But—”
“Get back inside!” She stood and shoved him onto his ass. Seeing him land hard made her feel both better and worse. It was a strange feeling. He didn’t deserve it, but at least she wasn’t the only one getting knocked around anymore. “Go, Cheeto! Now!”
Bouncing to his feet, he drew his hair back. The look in his eyes was wet, wounded. Whatever pride she took in shoving him instantly faded. Regret flooded her heart as tears flooded his eyes. In the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him cry. It seemed as though he never stopped smiling.
Until now.
“This isn’t you,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t you.”
43
Judging by the fire in his knees, they were eight miles out. Maybe more. Karl growled through taped-up lips, but Candace didn’t respond. That crushed him. He needed to hear her voice. That could get him through this. He needed her to tell him things would be fine. That she was only doing this to protect the Traders. That it pained her to stash him in the trunk of her Jeep and take him north.
But all she did was drive. Her own traded part had to be killing her. He could tell by her shaky steering. The vehicle hitched and slid until she slammed the brake, which flung him forward against the backseat.
They seemed to be off the highway now and slowing down. Sadly, the heat in his knees got no cooler. He tried breathing. Deep breaths. Inhale on one, exhale on two. Count to ten. Repeat.
They came to a complete stop. He thought they’d reached a traffic light, but the motor cut silent. The driver’s door popped open. Candace climbed out, her shoes scratching gravel. She greeted someone with a grunt.
Karl tried shouting for help, but he couldn’t loosen the duct tape around his mouth. Best he could do was roll around, knocking into things.
The trunk opened with a click. He found himself staring up at Candace. Her eyes bulged. Her face was pink and wrinkled with strain. One hand rubbed—no, scratched—at her abdomen. Her other arm twitched at her side, a pistol in her grasp.
“Out,” she said. “Move it.”
He mumbled behind the duct tape.
“Now, Karl.”
Again he mumbled.
Instead of peeling it off, she slammed her gun against his knee. He roared against the tape. It felt like a volcano had blown beneath his thigh.
“Out. Not saying it again.”
Twisting and shrugging, he moved toward the tailgate. Once he reached the edge, he swung his feet out and pressed them to the wet blacktop. His knees crackled. It was dark out, but orange floodlights shone. Short buildings stood nearby in a straight line. No, not buildings—storage units. The kind where you stashed old junk or new cars if you didn’t have garage space.
Under the gun, he staggered ahead on shaky knees. Candace raised the door on a storage unit. Inside were stacked cardboard boxes and plastic crates. Toward the back stood a sturdy table with more boxes stacked upon it.
No way was he going in. He couldn’t spend the night here. Not eight miles out. Not in a cramped space like this. In the past they disciplined Traders by stashing them in a house near Dickson City, barely six miles out. Six was brutal. Eight was torture.
The gun’s barrel nipped into his back. “Get in.”
When he shook his head, she shoved him forward.
He stumbled and hit the floor, knees-first. The impact hurt so bad he momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he tasted blood. Must’ve bitten his tongue. He tried moving his legs and discovered his ankles were bound with an extension cord.
“Sorry, Karl,” she said, yanking the cord tight. “Can’t have you kicking the door down while I’m gone.”
Unbelievable. To think for years this same woman had invited him into her home. Into her arms. Into herself. Now she tied him down like a hostage.
The moment he was rolled onto his back, the overhead lighting beamed down on him. He panicked. It was just like Pittsburgh. Like the warehouse. It sent him back in time thirty-two years to his worst moment. Two bullets. One in each knee. Even now he could smell the blood pumping out of him, could feel his body going cold.
Tears leaked from his eyes, rolling hot along his ears. He twisted and shook. Moaned through the tape.
Something icy poked against his chin. Cold steel. Her gun.
“I’m taking off the duct tape,” she said. “When I do, don’t yell or raise your voice. Do I make myself clear?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” Her fingernail scratched his cheek and caught a tape corner. One quick rip took it off. Some of his mustache went with it. “Here, drink some water.”
She poked a sports bottle between his lips. His dry throat welcomed the cold water. After giving him a few gulps, she sealed the lid. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Candace, my knees… Don’t leave me here.”
“I have to. It’s the only surefire way to keep Ash in check till sundown.”
“Please. Not like this. All these boxes. It’s like Pittsburgh. The warehouse.”
“Christ above,” she said. “That was thirty-two years ago.”