Nothing. Just the sound of the zipper that echoes from my temporary temple, soon to be gone.
The boards of the tree stand wiggle under my legs like loose baby teeth as I adjust myself to a more comfortable position. I open the largest pocket of the backpack and turn it upside down.
The contents clatter onto the loose boards.
A small snub-nosed .25-caliber pistol. A ten-inch Sheffield hunting knife. Two bottles of water. I spin the cap off of one and gulp.
A box of Swiss cake rolls. I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from crying out. My favorite store-bought treat—not Papa’s.
These are for me.
Two throwing knives. A box of bullets. A fire starter, a long-sleeved shirt and a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills.
I pull the shirt on over my tank top immediately. I don’t want to start a fire without knowing where those men are, so I finish one of the bottles of water and have two packs of Swiss cake rolls as I turn the four-inch thick stack of hundreds over in my hand.
Why would I need this much money and where did Papa get so much? I set it down and stuff my hand into the outermost pocket and pull out an envelope. It’s sealed, and I don’t want to open it. I don’t want any more upsets for one day. I want to cry and mourn Papa, but I’m scared to make too much noise. I’m scared to be still for too long.
I’m wired, twitchy, leaking tears and random noises. I try breathing my calm-down sigh, the one that signals my body to be peaceful, but it doesn’t work.
I tuck my chin, hug my chest, and fight off waves of shivers and sobs. My toes are wet, numb stubs jammed into my sneakers.
The temperature has dropped, as it does on the mountain, and I know, in another hour, I’ll be freezing.
I have to move.
Now.
13
Present
Idon’t go back to the reception.
I can’t.
The air outside the warehouse still clings to my skin—coppery, thick with blood. My dress is clean, but I feel stained.
Leo hasn’t called.
That bothers me.
I pull out my phone and text him:It’s taken care of.
I don’t wait for a reply. I slide into the car I had waiting and tell the driver to head to the airport. A flight to Atlanta is easy enough to arrange. Being a Testa opens doors that aren’t available to regular people.
The flight is a blur. I don’t drink, don’t speak to anyone. Just sit there, staring out at the clouds, replaying the last few hours in my head. The way the man’s body slumped in the end.
It’s past ten when I land. Atlanta is quieter than Miami, cooler, the air crisp with the promise of a storm. I take a cab straight to Truman’s house.
I shouldn’t be here. I’ve given him no notice.
I know that.
But I don’tcare.
He is the only part of my life that still feels real. The only person I have who isn’t tangled in duty and blood and the Testa name.
I let myself in, locking the door behind me. The house is dark, but his familiar scent wraps around me. My chest tightens.
