It wasn’t the DNA or the sinister dad with his boxes of bullets, or the mother who sat there while he trained me to “think,” or the orders of my sociopath shit brother, that brought me here. It was my decision after my decision after my decision.
I’m tracking blood down the hall, tracking Mendes’s and his goon’s blood all along his carpet to the front door of Nicolette’s house. The cop protects my head, pushes me into the back of the black-and-white, and we drive away past a line of cars with government plates and, where the driveway meets the street, a red Camaro.
I say, “My name is Jackson Manx, and I want to make a statement.”
81
Nicolette
When all else fails, I pitch a fit. When I finish breathing into a paper bag, it’s one in the morning and they take me to see Steve.
There are tubes running in and out of him. A heart monitor beeping a rhythm just behind him. And his skin’s still the wrong color.
I am so sorry.
A security guard with a vintage crew cut and a Men in Black suit stands rigid just inside the doorway.
Steve opens his eyes. “What? Are you protecting me from my daughter? Go.”
Steve tells me, “Sit.” As if I were a dog. Or a girl who likes to be ordered around. The security guy looks back over his shoulder, checking to make sure I heel.
I sit in an olive-green plastic chair that squeaks whenever I move.
Very softly, Steve says, “Tell me what you did.”
Not the first time I’ve heard this particular instruction.
“I’m really, really, really sorry!” I bend over the hospital bed to hug him. He smells medicinal and unfamiliar. “This was not supposed to happen to you. Please believe me.”
“Tell me what you did. I can’t make it go away if I don’t know what it is.”
I sit back down in the chair. I fold my hands in my lap. “Starting when?”
“That girl in the woods.”
“That was totally Alex Yeager!”
“Nicky, come here.” He holds out his functional arm.
It’s like God is making me stand and look at my own evil handiwork. “I’m so sorry! You weren’t supposed to get shot! I swear!”
Steve says, “How could you think I would harm you?”
“You said I wasn’t even your kid. And you were going to get rid of me. And I was nothing but trouble to you.”
Which, given that I got him shot, might not have been that far off base.
“Sweet girl, I would have lied on my mother’s soul to get those boys away from you. I would have said anything.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said! They bring me a corpse to bury . . . this young girl. They’re in my shed, looking for shovels. I go downstairs to see what’s going on, and they think I work for Karl so that means I’m going to help them.” He starts to shake his head, but winces. “I crunch numbers for Karl. Then you show up on the trail out of nowhere.”
“I’m sorry.”
“When they came back, and you were gone . . . My God. I didn’t know if I would get you back.”
“I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t cry.” He’s patting my shoulder, squeezing my hand, calling me mi’ja. I am so the daughter from hell. “Nicolette, what were that Yeager boy and his lackey doing at my house again?”
Truly, I’m waiting for lightning and the wrath of God to strike me as I sit there and lie. “I don’t know! I’m so sorry!”
“And that Manx boy who found you? What were you doing with that one?”
“Nothing! He was trying to protect me. His mother was going to get killed if he didn’t find me. Don’t do anything to him!”
“Don’t you believe a word he says. Not one word.”
“But, Papa—”
“He stays out of my way, he stays out of your way. Do you understand me?”
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’ Nicolette. No maybe, no nothing, no anything but you being a good girl who stays in the house until this is over.”
“But it is over, right? They found that girl’s body; they know who did it; they know why I ran away; they know Jack was trying to protect me. What’s left?”
“If it’s over, it’s because I’m Karl Yeager’s accountant,” Steve whispers as if someone was manning a stethoscope on the other side of the wall. “I know where Karl Yeager’s money goes. Because Karl doesn’t think like a normal person.” He looks straight into my eyes. “Karl might think you set up his kid.”
All of a sudden, I understand what Jack meant when he said that thing about me making his blood run cold. Only this time it’s my blood. The sensation of ice chips in my veins. My heart trying to beat with an icicle through it.
“Please, you have to make him think it was an accident! Can’t you make him see that?”
Steve shifts position so his face is inches from my face. “An accident? Two people are dead. This isn’t like giggling too loud during assembly. I can’t write you a note. And now it’s a Manx?”
“He didn’t mean it! He’s nice! It was totally my fault! I’m sorry. Can’t you please, please make this go away?”
He sighs and squeezes my hand so hard, it almost hurts.