You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 2

  “Are you at risk of not making the Black Angel Qualifiers too?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Cam answers, nodding. After a moment, his eyes brighten with recognition. “Wait. Are you?”

  My head slowly bobs up and down as my teeth dig into my sore bottom lip.

  “Holy … wow,” Cam replies, placing his hands on top of his head. “Reagan Hillis out of the academy and maybe out of Qualifiers. That’s hard to believe. So seriously, what did you do?”

  A knot of inconsolable sorrow, burrowed beneath my sternum, breaks free and rises up my throat. I expect my mind to float back to that night, but it flips through its mental scrapbook instead, stopping on a page of Mom.

  I see her, a shadowy lump on my bed as she tapped, tapped, tapped my favorite doll’s arm on my stomach, begging in her silly, high-pitched Mimi voice for breakfast or cartoons. Our special morning ritual when I was particularly grumpy. When I wouldn’t move, she’d up her game, cry out, “Mommy, wake up, I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Mommy, I’ve really got to go! Mom … hurry!” When I still wouldn’t stir, she’d plop Mimi’s bottom down on my nightgown, make a fake pee sound, and say, “Too late. Sorry, Mom.” It never failed to make me giggle. The thought of it now makes me want to smile. And cry. And scream.

  Stop, stop, stop. I slam my mental memory box shut and my face goes numb. Stupid, stupid, girl, my mind scolds. My hands cling to the cool surface of the cinder block wall as my entire body inflames. Every inch of me knows. She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone; my skin pulses with the truth. But my mind refuses to listen. Those words whisper past its edges, never settling, never staying. They can’t. Especially not now. I welcome the armor around my brain. I swallow the key to my memory box. Because if I don’t, I’ll wade into the black until it reaches my knees, my torso, my neck. I’ve refused to be pulled in by the undertow of grief because I know I’ll dive in search of the bottom. I’ll want to touch its deepest parts, an ocean under an ocean, and never, ever come back.

  “Reagan?” Cam says, his voice soft. I turn my face back toward him and his eyes shift from curious to concern. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe you did something careless like me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I did something careless too,” I reply, the words ragged as they leave my tongue. “And it cost me a lot.”

  Cam opens his mouth, but before the words can tumble out, the chamber door opens and I can hear my father’s angry voice echoing inside. Goose bumps prick and prick and prick. The heat of my blood, the chill of my skin crash and tangle. If my body was a storm front, I’d be a tornado.

  He turns and his brown eyes meet mine. The dark, purple bruises that covered his face after Colombia are gone, but the deep cut on his cheek, sewn together in a crisscross of black stitches our first day here, has left a thick, pink scar.

  My furious heart still throbs when I see the evidence of his Torres-induced beatings. The corners of my mouth rise with love and concern. I wait for my father to return even the smallest of smiles. He doesn’t. His eyes don’t warm, his mouth stays frozen in a perfectly straight line, unmoved by my presence.

  Those first couple of weeks, I collected about three dozen words between us. A few partial sentences. A couple “I’m sorrys.” One mumbled “We’ll be okay.” He was a mess. He barely spoke to anyone in the safe house in Ecuador. Those first forty-eight hours after Mom died, he sat in the corner, his back against the wall, head in his hands. Cried. Then stared. He left me to be comforted by Luke and Sam and Laz.

  These last few months, I’ve only seen him a handful of times. Too broken to go back on Rescue/Take-down missions without Mom, he’s become a senior director at CORE, overseeing special ops missions in the field, traveling God knows where for weeks at a time. When he comes back to DC, he’ll show up at the farmhouse unannounced to check on me. He brings me treats I devoured as a kid like Hostess Zingers and Swedish Fish. Sometimes he’ll leave magazines on my bed that are a few years too old or a few years too young for me. He asks how I’m doing without really asking because he doesn’t want to hear the real answer. And he refuses to talk about Mom.

  I thought his coldness, his distance, was because he was shattered. Torn apart without his wife. But looking at his face through the chamber doors, he doesn’t look lost or hurt or sad. He looks livid.

  At me.

  THREE

  My throat is dry. I try to swallow but almost choke, the pain knife-sharp. Saliva won’t come quickly enough. I could reach across my table for the pitcher of cold water, its condensation clinging to the curve of the glass. But my hands stay at my sides. I’m afraid they’ll pick up on my nerves. Pull at my exposed threads. Unravel me.

  The white wooden chair I’m seated in is not meant to hold a body longer than five minutes. I’ve been inside the Tribunal chamber for half that time and already my tailbone and spine are radiating. The five Tribunal members seated at the long white table in front of me, elevated two imposing steps up, have much softer seats. Modern and sleek, but cushioned and comfortable with high backs and padded armrests. I look around the stark white room and realize I’m the only one in a wooden chair. I wonder if that’s part of their strategy. Make her as uncomfortable as possible so she’ll give up. Ask to go home. Wherever the hell home is.

  “Miss Hillis, as one of the elites, we know you had an invitation to skip Qualifiers and join the training academy right out of high school, but in light of your conduct this past fall, the Tribunal and several senior leaders are questioning whether you are a right fit for the Black Angels after all,” says a man with muddy brown eyes and a full head of jet-black hair. His face is chiseled, dimensions perfect, like they were carved out of stone. Stony Face leans forward in his chair, the jacket of his crisp dark suit flapping open. Beneath his tailored shirt is the body of a twenty-five-year-old, but the deep lines around his mouth and the sporadic sparks of gray in his hair give him away. He’s in his late forties. Maybe even early fifties. His imposing stature reads Rescue/Take-down team. A seasoned Black Angel. All of them are vets. I’d expect nothing less from something called a “Tribunal.”

  Two men in suits flank his left, two women to his right. The women are in dresses, one black, one gray, each with matching blazers. The brunette with large gray eyes, one shade lighter than her dress, has a colorful scarf draped around her neck. As my eyes scan the small, cinder-block-enclosed space, I realize that cerulean-blue scarf is the only hue in this room that’s not some shade of black, white, or gray.

  “There are very serious allegations against you, Miss Hillis,” says the woman with the scarf. “Allegations of deceit, of blind insubordination. During our days of testimony, several people said your conduct jeopardized the entire mission—”

  “Yes, but if I hadn’t been involved—” I begin to speak, to the surprise of the entire Tribunal. A quick rise of Blue Scarf’s hand tells me I’m only hurting myself, confirming the damning testimony. Defiant. Rebellious. Rule breaker.

  “You will have your turn to plead your case, Miss Hillis,” she continues, her voice rising with annoyance. “Now, under normal circumstances, if these allegations were made against a trainee, much less someone who is not even in the program yet, they’d be grounds for immediate dismissal. But you … you are Reagan Hillis. I’d be lying if I said that we haven’t been watching your progress for years. You’ve shown immense promise. But talent without respect for authority is fruitless. You’ve gravely disappointed this Tribunal and all Black Angel agents. We expected much more from you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. Irritation flashes in her icy eyes and silences me again. I lower my head, press my raw lips together, and that hollow cave inside me begins to throb. The moment Torres put a bullet through my mother’s skull, it’s like I was cut open, a vital organ ripped from my body. My flesh carelessly stitched back together with rusted staples. Now that empty space involuntarily screams with pain. I suck in a full breath, trying to fill the ache with new air, but it
whistles through.

  “Miss Hillis, the testimony against you has been quite mixed,” Blue Scarf says, her hands neatly folded with self-satisfied authority on her table. “We’ve had to ask a series of tough questions to all of those involved in the mission, including your father. Some say you defied every order given to you and behaved recklessly. Some have defended you and said you were able to see things others couldn’t. That if it hadn’t been for your actions, others would have died in that field in Colombia. You’ve had several months to think about your actions. Do you still believe we should consider you for the Black Angel Qualifiers?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” I reply, my voice controlled, strong. “I had a long-standing invitation into the academy. This is where I belong.”

  “Do you understand why that invitation has been revoked?” Blue Scarf asks, pushing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses farther up her nose.

  My teeth chew at the inside of my lip as I scold myself for not coming up with a stronger strategy before walking into the chamber.

  “Yes and no,” I finally answer. “I went against Black Angel Directives. I knew it then and I know it now. But I broke those rules to save lives. My intention was not to be combative. After what I saw with the blown mission in Kentucky, my instincts just took over. I thought my parents would die without me there to fight for them. So, I did what I thought needed to be done to bring them home alive. My thought process didn’t go any further than that.”

  “See, that’s part of your problem,” Blue Scarf interjects, her bony finger cutting back and forth through the air, pointing at me. “You don’t consider beyond the ‘right now.’ From the testimony I’ve heard this week, it seems you only think about yourself.”

  Selfish girl, my mind whispers. Those words and their synonyms have been used to describe me so many times over the last several months that I have to wonder if they’re true. First by my mother back in New Albany. Then on the mission. During my debriefings. Now the Tribunal. Maybe I am selfish. For wanting a different life. For fighting so viciously with my parents. For breaking every rule to save them. After the kidnapping, the muscles in my body, primed from years of practice, just took over. I didn’t think. Didn’t analyze or try to stop myself. Not once. But was it all instincts? Out of love? Or selfishness? To loosen the heavy chains of guilt that would paralyze me if I never got to say I was sorry?

  Blue Scarf and the other woman share a glance, pulling me back from my daze.

  “I don’t really see it that way,” I reply and push away the toxic thoughts gnawing at my resolve. “I was thinking about the potential victims in this mission: my parents. I knew my actions could put my status at this agency at risk. But I also knew that I had the skills and the strategic mind to be out there. I knew they needed me. So I went.”

  “You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” Blue Scarf says, her gray eyes narrowing. “You’ve been treated for years like you’re God’s gift so I guess it’s only natural.”

  Sweat pricks once again at the glands underneath my arms, my black shirt clinging tighter to my moist skin. I dig my fingers into my hip bones to stop from exploding. I know that’s what she wants. Give them one more reason to throw me out of the Black Angels for good.

  “I certainly do not,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m not going to lie. I was told growing up that I was born to do this. But I also worked tirelessly to learn every skill. I am a product of the two best trainers in the world. But I still have a lot to learn. I’ve always felt that way. I’m not God’s gift. I’d rather be in the Qualifiers than have that automatic invitation into the academy, if you must know. I want to prove that I deserve to be here.”

  Blue Scarf looks down at the papers in front of her, scanning through debriefings, testimony notes, her own scribbles. She strikes me as the type of woman who doodles. I can picture her on the phone or in a meeting, clouds and stick figures filling the margins of her notebooks.

  “Your combative behavior really started the Saturday your parents got home from their hostage rescue mission in Colombia,” she says, looking up at me. “According to your father’s testimony, you left the house without the guard and gun they demanded you have, got drunk, stayed out until four in the morning. Came home and got into a screaming fight with them. That doesn’t sound like Black Angel material to me. That sounds like the lashing out of a temper-tantrum-prone child.”

  “Is there a question in there?” I ask, my mouth speaking before my brain can stop it.

  “Miss Hillis,” Stony Face interjects before Blue Scarf can speak, assault missiles ready to fire behind her sullen lips. He gently touches her arm, a signal to stand down. “We need to understand your mind-set leading up to the mission. We feel that your actions that night were out of character. I think we just want to know why there was a shift?”

  My mind circles around that night. Little pieces flicker. The foul taste of Mad Dog. My panic over leaving. My mother’s angry eyes. Their disappointment. My disgust.

  “I was tired of being kept in the dark. I was sick of my life not being my own. I was done being perfect, because what did I have to show for it? A go-bag full of half memories and places I can never return to. Of friends who don’t really know me. I was just pissed off.”

  The anger. It was always there, silently waiting. I never showed it. I had muzzled it, even when it was pounding at my door. The bitterness ate away at me, like a slow-burning acid. So that night, when the anger knocked for what felt like the thousandth time, I opened the door. I welcomed it in.

  “I was foolish. I was defiant,” I continue. “I got drunk for the first and last time in my life. I said terrible, terrible things. And I’ll have to live with that now.”

  The back of my skull radiates pain, like being struck from behind by a two-by-four, as I think about some of the last words I said to my mother, so thick with hate. Her eyes, polished emeralds, slick with tears. Her voice whispering guilt and regret. And me, refusing her apology.

  “Is that why you want to be a Black Angel now?” Blue Scarf asks, her voice softer, manipulatively leading. “That fight was about you not wanting to do this. So do you want to earn back a spot in the academy to pay your penance?”

  “Of course not,” I reply quickly, even though I wonder if there are several grains, maybe bushelfuls, of truth in her words. “That mission opened my eyes. It made me realize this is the life I’m meant to lead. I had my doubts. I had anger because it never felt like my choice. But now it is, and I see things so clearly. I don’t want to do this to right wrongs or for my mother. I want to be a part of this agency for the thousands of people I know I could help or save. The world will never stop being a dark and horrible place. But maybe I can help provide that sliver of light. Of good.”

  The words slip out of my mouth with such ease, I cannot separate the truth from the pretender; the calculating liar they’ve trained me to be. I’ve been able to talk my way into and out of any situation for years. So how much of what I say is real? And how much is just to get to Torres?

  For the next two hours, they grill me about my actions in the Ohio safe house, in Colombia. And I tell the truth. I defied my superiors. I manipulated my way across the border. I let my emotions carry me out of that truck and across that field.

  “Why did you put down your gun in the storage room?” Blue Scarf asks, her eyes heavy, as if she’s having difficulty computing what I’ve done.

  The energy it takes for me to not think about Torres’s cold, damp basement could power CORE’s entire compound. If I didn’t tether my mind, those moments would play on repeat forever. But with each question, the shattered pieces rise, sliding back into place.

  “They were so close together, I couldn’t get a clean shot on him,” I reply and clear my stinging throat. “There was no way he was going to let her go. But I thought perhaps he’d be willing to trade. He wanted me. He came for me first. His revenge killing. He wanted to see them suffer so I gave him what he wante
d. I put down my gun and offered myself up in exchange for her life.”

  My mother, with all her bravery and talent and kindness, could do so much more in the world than I ever could. She should have lived. I should have died. The world is a much scarier place without her here to protect it. Protect me.

  “But he killed her anyway,” Blue Scarf says, as if I didn’t know.

  “Yes. He did.”

  My nose wrinkles, filling with a rancid sense memory. I take in another breath, but there it is again, gunpowder and wet metal. Blood. The scent will hit me out of nowhere. Making coffee. Brushing my teeth. The smell even wakes me, from one nightmare and into another. It’s like those molecules burrowed themselves deep into my nasal passage that night.

  I can’t stand this pain in my throat any longer. I reach across the table, trying to steady my hand as it pours a glass of water. I wonder if Blue Scarf can see my controlled tremble. I bring the liquid to my lips, open my throat, and down it in one gulp.

  When I look up, Blue Scarf is leaning back in her chair. Her arms are crossed, examining me.

  “I am sorry, you know,” she says and my body freezes. She registers the shock on my face, the right side of her mouth rising with a sympathy I had yet to see. “We have to ask you tough questions here, Reagan. But I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I reply, my voice even scratchier than before. Her gray eyes hold mine, a sudden sadness passing between us. And I wonder how well she knew my mother. If they were friends. If they talked about me. If she knew my chubby five-year-old face from the crinkled photo my mother always carried with her.