“No,” I whisper and close my eyes. “Please, no.”
I breathe in once, twice, then attack the dummy. Punch after punch after punch the dummy bounces back to me, mocking my strength, unmoved by my rage.
You’re leaving him, you’re leaving him, my mind hisses with every violent punch.
The tears crawling up my throat finally break free, rolling hot and thick down my face. I don’t swallow them or fight them or even brush them off my face. For the first time in years, I let them fall.
Through glassy eyes, I hit the dummy again and again until I cannot take it coming back to me one more time. “Goddammit!” I scream and shove the dummy with so much strength, it falls with a deafening crash to the floor.
Pain shoots sharp and searing through my muscles, sending me to my knees.
“Please don’t,” I whisper as the tears fall faster and turn into full-body sobs.
Please don’t take me away from him. I pull my legs up to my chest and bury my face in my knees. The pain I’ve been dreading the most finally breaks free from its box, poisoning my blood. The bodyguards and passcodes and guns are just the beginning. If Torres isn’t found immediately, there will be a significant increase in our threat level and there’s just no fighting it. We’ll be forced to disappear.
I hug my knees and rock my body back and forth on the icy concrete floor. I cry for Anna Taylor and Alejandro and Luke and my parents and me. My ribs begin their slow ache and my dark hair becomes matted to my cheeks. I pull at the wet strands and open my eyes, catching my distorted reflection in the glass gun case. My eyes are swollen and mascara runs down both cheeks.
“I cannot do this,” I whisper as I force my tears to slow. My cheeks are hot from sobbing, but the tears that cling to the skin around my eyes are growing cold.
I will myself to get up. My hands push down on the smooth concrete, forcing my body to rise. I cannot stay here. I have to take care of this. Before it’s too late.
THIRTEEN
As Harper and I walk arm in arm toward Mark Ricardi’s house, my senses are heightened. The sound of pebbles scraping against the sidewalk seems louder, the smell of Harper’s sugar-and-citrus perfume is stronger, and the October air feels cooler. My training has taken over, forcing me to focus on my next move.
Just do it, Reagan. Do it for him.
“My giirrrllllsss,” someone yells from an open window. I look up. Malika is waving wildly at us from a second-story window. “Get your butts in here immediately.”
“We’re coming,” Harper yells back.
“She’s drunk already,” I say, snapping pretender Reagan to attention. Act normal. Act normal, I repeat until I’m able to force a smile. “I call not babysitting her tonight.” I rush to touch my nose before Harper does, a little game of “not it” we both play. Harper touches her index finger to her own nose, but it’s too late.
“Ugh! You suck, you know that?” she says and bumps her hip into mine. “You’re so watching her at the next party.”
“Fine, fine,” I say as we climb the brick steps that lead up to Mark’s ginormous house. We’re still several feet away, but I can feel the beat of the hip-hop flavor of the month coming from inside. The music intensifies as I push open the heavy front door.
“Well, this doesn’t look like one of Mark’s intimate affairs,” Harper says as she surveys the scene. “I think the entire senior and junior class is here.”
“And half the sophomore class too,” I reply as we weave our way through the packed foyer. I scan the crowd, surprised by the number of young faces, and lock eyes with someone I didn’t expect to see. Tess. Claire’s bully. Her hair is straightened and she’s wearing a little makeup. She looks pretty. I raise my eyebrows at her and she immediately bolts down the stairs that lead to the basement. As she should.
Our boots clack against the white marble floors. There are elements of old money in this house. Antique furniture, sterling silver frames, and expensive-looking art. But there are signs of new money too. Enormous plasma-screen TVs, embarrassingly large portraits of Mark and his family, and the biggest chandelier I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Very look-at-us.
I pull Harper across the great room and head straight for the kitchen. If I’m going to do this, I need more than my training. I need liquid courage.
The white-and-gray marble island is littered with half-empty beer cups, lip-gloss-stained wineglasses, and empty liquor bottles. I take two red cups off the counter, inspecting their questionable cleanliness, ready to down a beer.
“Shot, ladies?” a guy I recognize from the soccer team asks, carrying a tray of shot glasses with pale pink liquid.