My mouth whispers, “This is my fault.”
“No. Don’t say that,” Sam says, shaking her head. Luke tightens his grip around my arm.
“No, it’s my fault. I didn’t tell them about the janitor and the van. And we got into the biggest fight this weekend, Sam,” I say, my hands balled into stinging fists. “I made Mom feel guilty about all the times they took me away. I clouded her judgment. This is my fault.”
“Stop it, Reagan,” Sam demands and crosses the room. She puts her hand on both shoulders. “Listen to me. We need to get you guys to the safe house immediately. You need to pull yourself together and grab everyone’s go-bags. You probably won’t be coming back here again.”
I stare at the ground, clenching my fists so hard my nails are one tight squeeze away from drawing blood. I knew it was coming. But I certainly didn’t think I’d be forced to slip away from New Albany, my house, my life, like this.
“Okay,” I say with a nod. I clear away the fog and will my body to move. It obeys. I rise and take the first step toward bringing my parents home.
NINETEEN
Bang. Bang. Bang. Hammering echoes through-out the house. Sam and Cooper are cleaning up the glass in the kitchen and nailing a board they found in the garage against the shattered patio door.
“They’re just behind this wall,” I say to Luke as I slide my hand along the smooth surface of the bookshelf in the bonus room. There’s the spot. I push and the bookshelf swings open to reveal our small emergency closet.
“Whoa,” Luke says as we step inside. The closet is wrapped in steel and weapons line nearly every square inch of its walls.
“This is in case we can’t make it to the basement,” I answer, still moderately numb and focused. I spot our three black go-bags in the corner and begin to haul them out of the closet.
“What’s in them?” Luke asks, helping me with the last one.
“Things we can’t live without,” I answer, laying my go-bag down on the ground. I unzip it and begin picking out different items. “My doll, Mimi. I used to drag her around everywhere with me when I was a kid. Letters and cards from my parents. Photographs. Jewelry. Stuff like that. We have to leave so fast most of the time, we don’t really get to pack. We have just enough time to grab our go-bags and get the hell out of here. We leave everything else behind.”
“How many times have you had to do this?” Luke asks, his hands reaching out to touch the fabric of Mimi’s fading yellow flowered dress.
“Too many,” I answer and move to zip up the bag, forcing Luke to pull his hand away from Mimi. He looks up at me and I finally meet his gaze. His eyes are wide, wild with confusion, but the corners of his mouth turn down.
“I just … I can’t believe you’ve had to live like this,” Luke says, shaking his head, scared and sorry for me.
I shrug, my eyes cast down as I finish zipping the bag. “I don’t know any different. This was the life I was born into.”
Flashes of the fight play back, jumpy and distorted, like a 1920s movie reel. Her tear-stung eyes. My fuming words. I shake my head, rattling my brain, trying to clear away the memory and say, “I got in an enormous fight with them about it this weekend. I told them that I couldn’t do this anymore. That I didn’t want to be a Black Angel. I said some terrible—”
“Reagan,” Sam’s voice interrupts from the doorway. “You’ve got five minutes to get the rest of your stuff together. Luke, can you come help me with something?”
“Sure,” Luke says, then glances back at me to make sure I’m okay. I give a small nod, a silent promise that I won’t fall apart in the next five minutes.
I grab the go-bags and run down the hall to my room. My body is still wet with sweat and freezing. I tear off my sweater and pull on a clean, warm sweatshirt. I close my dresser drawer with so much force, my mirror shakes. Jewelry and an envelope slide off the top of my messy dresser and onto the floor.
I lean down and pick up the envelope. My name is written in blue ink in my mother’s beautiful cursive handwriting. Mom is old-fashioned like that. While the rest of the world prints or emails or sends texts or Facebook messages, Mom insists on writing in the cursive she learned in third grade at her all-girls Catholic school. She says she’s afraid Sister Roberta will hunt her down and throw erasers at her head if she starts printing.
Is this letter old or new? Mom sometimes writes me notes about missing me when she’s out on a mission. I find them on my bed or on my dresser when she gets home. I flip the envelope and see the back is still sealed. New. I rip it open and unfold the single sheet of paper inside. Today’s date is written in the top left-hand corner. I sink onto the ground, my back leaning against my dresser, and begin to read.