You Won't Know I'm Gone Page 3

  Blue Scarf leans forward, breaking our connection, snapping back into her role of senior leader. She looks down at her notes and then back up at me. “Do you consider your actions reckless?”

  My lips purse and push to one side as I think about my answer. I knew this would be a question they would ask me. You’d think I’d have a clear idea about what I want to say. I don’t. So I try the truth again.

  “Well, I only wanted to do good,” I answer. “I know my actions might look out of control or reckless. But I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t care if I died that night. I only cared about them living. So if I was reckless, then I am sorry. I just wanted to save my father. Save my mother. And I failed.”

  The last words ripple as they hit the air. My aching throat burns with unwelcomed tears. My fingers search for the double heart pendant on my wrist, Mom’s bracelet hidden beneath my shirt. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  Blue Scarf’s face has changed again. Her eyes flick up at me, sorrowful. She takes off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. She asks her question with a tentative voice. “One last thing. Do you think your actions contributed to the death of Agent Hillis?”

  “What?” my thin voice squeezes out before her question steals the rest of my breath. A shiver stabs at my skin and I struggle for new air. It enters my lungs in panicked gulps and I’m back in Torres’s basement. I see his manic eyes. The way her body fell, almost in slow motion, onto the dirty mattress. I feel her blood on my hands, sticky and still warm.

  Did you kill her? Did you kill her? Did you kill her?

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says, looking down at the table and breaking our stare. “It’s a question we’ve had to ask every person that has testified.”

  “And have people actually said I did? Have they said my actions got my mother killed?”

  “The truth?” Blue Scarf asks, her eyebrows rising like two question marks over her glasses. I nod. “Some said absolutely not. But a few others believe had it not been for your conduct, your mother would still be alive today.”

  My lips release a quivering breath. My throat convulses, choking down tears. The grays and blacks and whites in this room swirl until I can’t distinguish one contrasting color from the next. That question follows my every waking moment. But it’s the first time someone said out loud what my heart already knew.

  “Can I ask one thing?” My thin voice rattles, trying to swallow back the sobs threatening at the base of my throat. “What did my father say? Did he say yes? Did he say I got my mother killed?”

  Blue Scarf turns toward Stony Face, pressing her slender lips together until they all but disappear. The look my father gave me in the hallway is the only answer I should need. But their loaded silence puts a period at the end of that painful declaration.

  Finally, Blue Scarf turns back to face me. “You know we cannot reveal the answers to top secret testimony, Miss Hillis,” she answers, cocking her head to one side. “I’m sorry, but I still need an answer. Do you think your actions contributed to the death of your mother?”

  Your mother. Not Agent Hillis. Not Elizabeth. Perhaps Blue Scarf meant the term to be less harsh. But the question pierces, the word mother thrusting the knife deeper. And that hollow spot begins to shriek. I scan their faces. Ten anxious eyes stare back at me, awaiting my answer.

  “I ask myself that question pretty much once every sixty seconds.” I bite my lip, push my hand into the flesh of my stomach, trying to redirect the agony so I can get through this. “And still, I can’t give you a straight answer. Maybe. Maybe if I hadn’t gone after her alone, we could have freed her. Maybe if I’d done just one thing differently, she’d be alive. Even after this investigation, after you make your decision, I’ll still be asking myself that question. Perhaps not every sixty seconds, but at least every day.”

  I pause, trying to imagine a life where that question doesn’t slip into my thoughts every minute, every hour. I wonder if that will ever happen. Or if I’m just kidding myself.

  “I do know one thing,” I continue, my hands digging deeper into my stomach, fingering organs and stealing my breath. “If I hadn’t run into that field, if I hadn’t disobeyed orders and gone down to Colombia, she’d still be dead. And my father would be dead too. I ran toward the gunfire when everyone else was ready to run away. And it wasn’t just because those were my parents tied up in that barn. It’s because I was taught you don’t leave people behind. I jumped out of that truck, I ran into that house, even though I knew I could die. So if that doesn’t make me Black Angel material, I don’t really know what you’re looking for. A perfect person who makes no mistakes but also takes no risks? Who cares more about Directives and procedures than the lives of their targets? If those are the type of people you want in this agency, then you’re right. Maybe I don’t belong here after all.”

  Blue Scarf holds my eyes for a few silent seconds, then nods dismissively. My signal to leave.

  “We’ll have a decision for you later today,” she says as I stand up. “Good day, Miss Hillis.”

  As I walk toward the door, all I can see is my father’s face, standing in this exact spot after his own damaging testimony. I should have seen his betrayal then. I may be his daughter. But I killed his wife. Didn’t I?

  Before I can reach the door, the quiver starts at my breath, then my lips, spreading until every part of me is pulsing and shaking. I want Luke. I want Sam. But most of all, I want my mother.

  Don’t do this here. Don’t do this here.

  My body carries me out the door to the hallway. I get about ten steps before my shaking legs give out and I collapse onto the steel bench outside the chamber.

  How could he? How could he?

  Pain radiates through every part of me. My hands ball into tight fists and curl into my heaving stomach. And for the first time in months, I feel the crushing weight of my mother’s death. With one more breath, that hollow spot inside me rattles, then explodes, its black poison spreading, its tormenting burn searing me from the inside out, until all I want is to follow her into the darkness.

  “Reagan,” a voice says, my hands suddenly enveloped into a pair of warm palms. I look up and Cam is seated at my side, my own face reflected back in his concerned eyes. And what he must see cannot be good. “Are you okay? What can I do? Who should I call?”

  “No one,” I reply quickly, shaking out my head and sucking down the emotions I so foolishly let out of their little box. I sniff back the tears that scratch against my throat and stand up quickly, pulling my hands from his grasp. “There’s no one to call.”

  No one. I have no one.

  As I turn down the hall, I can feel my chance of making the Qualifiers slipping away, and with it, Torres’s heartbeat grows stronger in my ear. I can see his face. Laughing, drinking, killing. Living, as my mother’s body grays with decay. I close my eyes, take in an unsteady breath, and embrace that black cloud of dread, that whisper of certain doom.

  FOUR

  Steam rises from my coffee cup, licking my face. I lean closer, trying to feel its heat, but my nerves have shut down. My entire body, numb. Feeling nothing is the only way I can survive.

  I stare into the black and blow, rippling the liquid, before adding my milk. The white hits the dark center, exploding into a delicate, creamy cloud. CORE doesn’t have my beloved Splendas. Just sugar. I drop in three cubes. They enter the scalding drink with a trio of plops.

  A hand touches my right shoulder and I immediately tense. I’ve been waiting for a member of the Tribunal to come and get me for hours. Summon me to the chamber to hear their final decision.

  “Why so jumpy?” a rich, honeyed voice asks. I turn around. Laz.

  “I thought you were Thomas or one of the senior leaders,” I reply and my tense shoulders fall. Laz has such a calming presence. On the mission in Colombia, he was the only one who believed I belonged there. The only one who put my worried and racing mind at ease.

  “I was hoping I’d see you b
efore I left,” he says, his eyes smiling even though his lips do not.

  “You’re leaving?” I reply, and reach up to touch his large hand, his long fingers straddling my collarbone and shoulder blade. “But I haven’t gotten to see you at all.”

  “I know,” he says with a nod. “Duty calls. Taking one of the agency’s jets back down to Colombia. I just wanted to say good-bye. I hope they let you in, Reagan. I fought hard for you. You deserve to be here. Don’t let them make you think anything less.”

  “I don’t know, Laz,” I say and shake my head. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I was reckless. Maybe I did get my mother killed.”

  “Niña,” Laz answers with a gasp. “No. How can you believe that?”

  “My own father said I did,” I reply, my tongue growing thick with the heavy truth.

  “I don’t believe it,” Laz says. “You are one of the most fearless people I know. You are a Black Angel. And if they don’t let you in, they are fools.”

  The corners of my mouth involuntarily curl. I stand, rise on my tippy toes, and wrap my arms around his thick neck.

  “Thank you for fighting for me,” I say into his shoulder as his arms tighten around my rib cage.

  “You’re someone worth fighting for.” He pulls out of our hug and pats my cheek. Fatherly. Way more fatherly than my own has been. “I spoke nothing but the truth.”

  “I hope they let me in so I get to see you again,” I say and grab at his wrist. “I don’t want this to be good-bye.”

  “It would be an honor to serve with you,” Laz says and slides his hand into mine. “You’re a strong, special girl. You’ll be okay. I’ll continue to pray for you.”

  He leans in and presses his warm lips to the apple of my cold cheek, leaving behind a kiss.

  “I’ll take all the prayers I can get right now,” I reply as he pulls away.

  “Dios te escucha,” Laz says, his index finger pointing up toward the heavens, then back down to his ear. And the déjà vu of that moment knocks me backward. Laz tightens his grip on me as my body momentarily bows.

  “You said that to me in Colombia,” I reply, regaining my balance. Three Spanish words burned on my brain. He said them just moments before the team jumped from the back of the truck and into the Colombian night. He was whispering, praying. Inviting me to pray with him.

  “I know. And it’s still true,” he answers. He looks me up and down, making sure I’m steady, before letting go of my hand to pick up the black bag at his feet. “It’s okay to pray, Reagan. God hears you.”

  I wanted to believe him then. And I want to believe him now. But I don’t. God didn’t hear my prayers in Colombia. He didn’t save my mother. He didn’t take me with her. I doubt he’ll hear me now.

  Laz walks toward the exit, weaving his way through the tightly packed round Formica tables of the cafeteria. There’s only two other agents in the cafeteria, lingering over an early dinner together. They’re young, maybe mid-twenties. I’ve seen the woman before. Once in the hallway and once in the bathroom. She’s given me a polite smile, an awkward nod, but that’s been the extent of it. People don’t know what to say to me. So they don’t say anything at all.

  When he reaches the door, Laz turns and looks back at me, his hand raised in a silent good-bye. I take him in. His weathered skin. The slick braid that swings between his shoulder blades. The wrinkles that explode like fireworks around the corners of his dark eyes when he smiles. I file those pieces of him away in case this really is good-bye. I hold up my hand one second too late. His head is already down. He slips through the door and is gone.

  I stand, my hand frozen in the air, waving to no one. I’m finally around people and they’re leaving me one by one. Laz, soon Sam. She’ll be shipped out on a mission before week’s end. Life keeps moving while mine feels like it’s been permanently stamped with a red and blotchy TBA. Undetermined and undefined.

  The uneasy knot pulls tighter in my stomach as I sit back down. I bring my coffee to my lips. It’s barely lukewarm. I gulp the tepid liquid, anxious for another hot cup. As I stare back down into the swirls of caramel, I think of Luke, wishing he was sitting next to me. When I’m alone at the farmhouse, sometimes I pretend he’s there. I’ll hear the creak of the old wood floors and tell myself it’s him in the other room. When I can’t sleep, I imagine the weight of his arms around my body. And when I’m feeling particularly lonely, I set out an extra coffee cup at breakfast. I pretend I see him out of my peripheral vision eating toast at the kitchen counter while I watch the morning news.

  The watchers had rushed Luke off the plane in Virginia with such aggression, my body seized with dread. I jumped out of my seat, trying to follow them, but Laz held my arm, forcing me still. “Where are you taking him?” I yelled, my eyes filling with fresh tears. But no one answered me. The jet fell silent. Luke looked over his shoulder as he reached the doorway and my heart pounded as I took in his final fragments, memorized his whole. As my eyes traced the long lashes that surrounded his pools of cornflower blue, all I could think about was the golden hour; those fleeting minutes before a summer sunset, when the world is warm and everything the light touches turns to magic. That’s the way Luke always made me feel. And as he was led by the arm out that jet door, they took away my spot of golden sun, my trace of magic. And the world never felt so cold.

  I ask, but they won’t tell me where he is or what’s happened to him. His whereabouts are classified. I wonder if he’s still in New Albany with his family or if they’ve all been moved to a safe house, hidden away from Torres and his army of assassins. I wonder if he’s lonely. If he misses me. If he’s safe.

  “Reagan.” I hear my name from behind me. I turn to see Thomas standing a few feet away. “They’re ready for you.”

  The tiny trace of warmth the thought of Luke brings to my body disappears. I try to jump up, but that agonizing knot in my stomach loops and loops and loops until it’s so large, it crushes my lungs, anchors me down.

  “Okay,” I finally reply, my voice thin from lack of oxygen.

  Move, Reagan. Move. My nerves fire and my body finally reacts. I stand and follow Thomas. My legs add ten pounds with every step, wobbling my limbs as we walk around the high-security intel center at the heart of the compound and turn down the East Hall. I try to keep up with Thomas’s brisk pace, but my feet feel like they’re melting into sticky puddles on the concrete. As we get to the steel, soundproofed doors, the thick barrier doesn’t even matter. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears, I can’t even hear Thomas say, “Go on in.” I only know because I can read his lips.

  My hand reaches for the icy handle. I pull down and walk inside.

  “Good evening, Miss Hillis,” Blue Scarf says as soon as I enter the room. Her eyes dart toward my horrible wood chair. “Please take a seat.”

  The word please comes out gravelly. A command rather than an invitation. I quickly pull out the chair and settle in. As she rifles through her papers, my fingers grab at Mom’s double heart charm beneath my shirt, my hurried heart beating a staccato prayer. Please God. Please God. Please God.

  “Miss Hillis, we’ve had a very long, very heated debate about your conduct. Both before your parents’ kidnapping and your questionable actions in Colombia,” Blue Scarf begins. “Now, we are not happy with what you’ve done. Nor will we ever fully understand your actions. But we can sympathize with them. We think … well, some of us think … that you were acting on the instincts taught to you by your parents and that, with proper training, you could become the agent we had all hoped for. That being said, this Tribunal has accepted you into the Black Angel Qualifiers.”

  My hands involuntarily rise to my face and cover my smiling mouth; a rush of heat streaks across my chilled cheeks and my cramping shoulders sink with relief. Oh my God. I’m in.

  “We need you to understand, this was a very close vote. We have reaccepted you but with some very big caveats,” Blue Scarf continues and my hands and smile fall. “Once you enter the Qualifier
s in June, you will have to try out just like everyone else. And the senior leaders will be watching your every move.”

  Great. I bite down on my lip to stop my chest from ballooning with a sigh.

  “You’ll be admitted into the Qualifiers on probation,” Blue Scarf continues, fiddling with the fabric tied in a loose bow around her neck. “Most trainees get two warnings and a term of probation before being kicked out. But not you. This is your second chance. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply with a robotic nod, my body already flinching back into old Reagan mode: obedient, respectful—a rule follower, not breaker. If I want to make it through my year in the Qualifiers and gain access to the intel I’ll need to hunt down Torres, a life of numbness, of feeling half dead, is the price I’ll gladly pay for revenge.

  “We need you to move into CORE immediately,” she says, looking me up and down the way Sam does during her monthly visits to the safe house, her eyes far more judgmental than Sam’s. I’ve caught flashes of my reflection in passing mirrors but haven’t wanted to study myself. I’ve seen enough to know I don’t look good. My skin is gray. My cheeks are gaunt. You could create a birdbath out of my hollowed collarbones. I haven’t weighed myself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve lost at least fifteen pounds. I’m a waify shell of my former self.

  “You haven’t trained properly in months,” Stony Face asserts, his eyes studying me. “We know this has been a difficult time for you with the loss of your mother, but you are in no shape to be a Black Angel. You’ve clearly lost muscle mass. You’ve lost significant strength. If you even want to compete, you better get your butt in gear and fast. Everyone who comes into Qualifiers is in peak condition. And the way you look now, you wouldn’t even make it through a day.”

  He’s right. I don’t even know if I’d make it through a workout. I’ve been so consumed with just getting through each day, I haven’t thought about actually making it through Qualifiers. The competition will be fierce. And if I don’t get in shape, I’ll be laughed out the door before lunch.