You Won't Know I'm Gone Read online

  “Okay. I’ll pack my gear and be back here tomorrow. Thank you for this opportunity,” I continue with a small, respectful smile. “I will not disappoint you. I promise.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Blue Scarf replies flippantly, her body settling into a deep, vexing sigh.

  Yes. Here’s hoping.

  FIVE

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The sound of tree branches scratching at my bedroom window pulls my body away from the neatly folded stacks of T-shirts, yoga pants, and workout bras on my bed. I wander over to the pane of glass that separates me from the swirling wind and impending spring storm. I instinctively pull the open flaps of my zip-up hoodie tighter around my body as lightning brightens the dreary night sky.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

  The thunder rumbles, three seconds and three miles away. Or at least that’s what my father taught me when I was little. I always find myself counting the seconds between that crack of light and boom of thrashing clouds.

  Lightning flashes in the distance again, illuminating the acres of farmland behind the safe house as rain begins to fall. The temperature has fallen nearly twenty degrees since I left DC after the Tribunal. I guess that’s April weather for you.

  When I arrived back, I built my last fire in the wood-burning fireplace. I’ve never lived in a house with a real fireplace before. I know I’ll find it difficult now to return to the hiss of gas and frozen, fake logs. I’ve grown to love the crack and pop of the wood. The sparks. Even the smell. I’ll miss that fireplace most of all when I leave home.

  Home, my mind repeats as I pull myself away from the window. I trace the corners of my impeccably decorated room. Mercury glass nightstands bookend my queen-sized bed. A small, gray linen chair with silver studs sits beneath a wide-framed window; a tiny metal table, artfully stacked with books I’ve never read at its side. It’s a beautiful room. A stunning house. But it’s constantly cold. Unfailingly impersonal. I’ve touched everything with care. Like I’m a permanent guest in someone else’s home, someone else’s life. I’ve moved around so much, I’ve never attached the idea of “home” to a residence. But it never felt quite like this before. As I sit down on my bedspread, I look over at the sterling silver picture frame of my mother and me on my nightstand and realize that she was more than a person. She was a place. A feeling. She was home.

  I tear my eyes away from her wide smile, that hollow spot inside me pounding back to life. I dig my fingers into my jagged hip bones, redirecting the pain. Lightning pulses outside, but before I can count the seconds for the thunder, I hear the front door open downstairs. My body flinches into a standing position, my eyes quickly scan the room, making mental notes of all my weapon hiding places. Gun beneath the wardrobe. Knife behind the headboard. Even with two watchers guarding the house 24/7, I can’t stop my muscles from tensing with every new sound, never knowing who is on the other side of the disturbance in this constantly silent space. I hear the sound of keys being thrown in the bowl at the center foyer table, which means it’s one of two people: Sam. Or my father.

  Shit.

  “Sam?” I call out my bedroom door, my fingers crossed behind my back with childlike delusion. As if that could change the fate of who is really in the hallway.

  “No, it’s me.” My father’s gruff voice carries up the stairs.

  “Double shit,” I say under my breath, anxiety piercing my lungs. The delicate lining of my throat swells as I think about his face from earlier today, the anger in his eyes. The furious accusations on his lips inside that chamber. He’s about the last person in the world I want to see.

  “Will you come downstairs, please?” he calls.

  “Just a minute,” I yell back and turn toward my transparent reflection against the darkened window. Lightning flashes against the dark sky.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

  Thunder rattles the window frame. The storm is getting closer.

  As I tiptoe toward the door, I can hear Dad opening and closing plastic bins in the living room. By the time I returned after the Tribunal, the safe house was in the midst of being packed up. I can hear the clanking of glass and porcelain, like he’s looking for something.

  Just go. Just go, my mind encourages me as I force my body to move.

  My legs carry me out of my room, down the creaky, steep staircase and into the cozy foyer. I cross the front hall and poke my head through the threshold that leads into the tastefully decorated living room. Dad is sitting on the royal blue sofa, still dressed in his CORE leadership attire (a button-down shirt and tie), rummaging through a bin marked “kitchen.” It’s packed with much-too-fancy stemware and flamboyant polka-dotted coffee cups. Mom would have hated this collection of dishes. She’d have declared their splashes of color “tacky.” She’d have them sent back. The ornate crystal wine and champagne glasses too. Mom liked understated. Classic. Timeless.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask coolly as I step into the room. A log shifts in the fireplace and a cluster of sparks float toward the chimney.

  “Just looking for my college coffee mug,” Dad replies without bothering to turn around. “These things belong to CORE. I don’t want it shipped off to the next safe house.”

  I cross the room and delicately lower myself onto a white driftwood wingback chair near the fireplace as Dad pushes aside clumps of beige wrapping paper and colorful mugs. Finally, he pulls out his Air Force Academy mug and holds it up with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Got it,” he announces, placing it on the marble coffee table in front of him.

  “They certainly don’t waste any time getting everything packed up,” I declare as I peer into an open box marked “holiday,” filled with colorful bulbs. CORE decorated the house for Christmas with fresh greenery, bowls of cinnamon-scented pinecones, and an eight-foot tree artfully decorated with gold ribbons and glittering bulbs. Our family decorations never made it on the branches. I never asked what happened to my favorite ballerina ornament or the sequined Styrofoam cup I made in first grade. I was too afraid of the answer. Even without our family decorations, someone at CORE went to a lot of trouble to make the safe house feel homey. They even hung stockings on the mantel. But this year, they only hung two. A needless reminder of who was missing. I took them down and threw them in the back of the hall closet, wishing they hadn’t hung them at all.

  “So, did you come all this way for a thirty-year-old mug?” I ask as Dad busies himself with refastening the bin lids at his feet. He has yet to look at me. Which is nothing new. He probably thinks he earns fatherly points by checking in on me, but most of the time, it’s like we’re not even in the same room. His body language, bullshit excuse for father-daughter chats (always surface-level topics like school and the weather), and the way he rarely looks at me, let alone touches me, shows me in no uncertain terms “I’d rather be anywhere but here.” Sometimes, I wish he’d do us both a favor and just stay away.

  “It’s a nice mug,” Dad replies, finally glancing up at me, his eyes a bit kinder than this morning. “But I didn’t drive two hours for a mug. I’m leaving in the morning to head up a Black Angel terrorism task force in Europe.”

  “Do you know how long you’ll be gone this time?”

  Dad shrugs and scans the coffee table’s choice of magazines. “Three months? Six months? I’m not really sure. That’s why I came out. I wanted to say good-bye. And, well … and I guess wish you good luck at Qualifiers.”

  Dad settles into his spot on the couch, mindlessly thumbing through a month-old copy of Time magazine. One I know he’s already read. Fury eats away at my center. How could he? How could he? My mind repeats today’s broken record. My lungs swell, heavy and tender with thin air. It’s hard to breathe near him. It’s hard to be near him.

  “So is this the way we’re going to do this?” I finally ask after what feels like hours of sitting across from each other, and worlds apart.

  Dad clears his throat and loudly turns the page
of his magazine before grumbling, “Is this the way we’re going to do what?”

  “I don’t know, live,” I answer quickly, my voice teetering on annoyance.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answers, his voice almost sleepy, his continued indifference singeing my flesh.

  My heart pumps my blood faster and faster, angry and hot. Of course he’d say that. Act confused despite his Mensa genius level IQ. Sit on the couch like everything is fine. That’s the Hillis way.

  “How can we just sit here and pretend like today never happened?”

  “I’m not pretending anything, Reagan,” he replies, shaking his head and pulling his magazine closer to his face.

  “Bullshit,” I declare, and before I can stop myself, I’ve leapt off the chair and pulled the magazine out of his hands, ripping it at each corner. Dad doesn’t move; his eyes stare down, stunned. And as I throw the magazine back on the coffee table, I’m a little stunned myself.

  “Jesus Christ, Reagan,” Dad finally replies, his hands smoothing the wrinkled pages, handling last month’s news with more care than me. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” I reply, anger bubbling up my throat, altering my voice. “Are we seriously going to sit here and pretend like what you said in the Tribunal today didn’t happen?”

  “What exactly do you want from me?” Dad asks, closing the magazine, still not looking at me. “It’s over. You’re in. What more is there to talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that you almost damned me to a life outside the Black Angels? Or that you didn’t defend me when they asked if I got Mom killed?”

  “I did defend you,” he starts and I cut him off.

  “Not according to the Tribunal,” I reply. “They told me some people testified that they believed my actions got Mom killed. And when I asked them if one of the people was you, they didn’t deny it. And it was written all over their faces. You said yes. How could you say that about me?”

  “I didn’t say that you got your mother killed.” My father’s voice rises.

  “Then what did you say?”

  “I said I didn’t know.”

  “A passive-aggressive, noncommittal answer like that is just as bad as you saying yes. In fact, I’d rather you had just said yes. Then at least I’d know for sure where you stood.”

  “How can you be so selfish?” Dad’s voice soars as he stands up from the couch and begins gathering up his coat. “How dare you fight with me? You know I’m still grieving your mother.”

  “Well, so am I!” I yell and point to the center of my chest. “This didn’t just happen to you, you know.”

  “Reagan, what is your problem?” Dad is now screaming back at me.

  “Are you serious, Dad?” I yell again, my hands shaking and thrown over my head. “Mom is dead and the last person I have left can’t even look at me. You can barely stand to be around me. So what was the plan? Get me kicked out of the Black Angels and shipped off to some foreign college where you’ll only have to see me once or twice a year? Is that why you betrayed me? To get rid of me?”

  “Don’t you dare use that tone with me, young lady,” he yells, his trembling index finger pointed at me. “I am still your father. And more importantly, now I’m your superior. I’m your boss.”

  “Fine. That’s how I’ll think of you from now on,” I reply, my voice settling into an indifferent calmness. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be at CORE? Boss?”

  “I thought my daughter would like to say good-bye to me before I leave for God knows how long,” he replies, throwing his jacket over his wrinkled button-down shirt and loose tie. “Look, you want the truth? You want to know what I really said in there?”

  “Yes,” I answer, my arms crossing over my chest as I settle back down in my chair.

  “When they asked me if I thought your actions killed Mom, I didn’t know what to say,” Dad says, his hands held out in the air. “I know you loved your mother. I know you were only trying to help her. But I don’t know because I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it happen. I gave a nonanswer. Sue me. But when they asked me if you should still be allowed to try out for the Black Angels, you know what I said to them? I said no. Because truthfully, Reagan, I don’t know if you’re the right fit for the team anymore. I don’t know if you belong there. You defied orders. You were combative and reckless and went against everything we taught you. I didn’t betray you by saying you got your mother killed. I would never say that. But I did testify that I no longer believed you deserved the right to call yourself a Black Angel. So if that’s betrayal, then I betrayed you. But you’re right about one thing. Sometimes, I can’t stand to look at you. You remind me of her. And that hurts too much.”

  My breath catches in my chest as the truth slides from his body, foul and obese with despair. My eyes sting as I tear myself away from his broken face.

  I swallow hard at the rigid, thickening lump in my throat; sobs rattle the center of my chest. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “It may not even matter,” Dad says, pushing aside the boxes at his feet as he clears a path toward the door. “From the looks of you these days, I don’t even know if you’ll make it past the first round. The Tribunal may be playing politics right now. Letting you in to save face even though they know … you’ll be cut before the first week is over. So good luck. You just might need it.”

  Screw you, my mind screams, and it takes every ounce of energy not to shove him out of the room or burst into tears. My lower jaw trembles as he grabs his coffee mug and heads for the door. My teeth sink into my quivering lip as I hear him walk across the foyer, grab his keys, and open the front door. He slams the heavy wood door behind him, its crack echoing throughout the empty house.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

  It’s only when I hear his key turn and lock me inside that the tears start to fall. They come fast and hot, my lungs gasping for new air that won’t come quickly enough. My stomach throbs; my body doubles over and falls to the floor. I want to be as low to the ground as possible. I fear if I stand up, I’ll fall farther and farther toward the center of the earth.

  My sweatshirt has opened up and these old wood floors are freezing. I army-crawl closer to the fireplace, my tears turning into loud, full-body sobs. The kind of heaving cries you have as a little kid when you fall and hurt yourself and nothing can make you feel better. My lips and chest convulse. I cannot breathe. And all I want is my mother.

  She dies over and over again. Every hour of every day. And I just want this torment to stop, this grief, this life to be over. I feel like I’m walking around, grasping at the fractured pieces of myself that keep falling from my body. I try to put myself back together, but I can’t. Nothing seems to fit or wants to stay. So I just keep picking up the slivers, hugging them to my chest, the splinters of my former self glittering in my hands. But my father cannot see them. He doesn’t see that I’m falling apart. On the outside, I look whole. And I just want him to see me. I want him to understand how messed up I am. Just care. Just give a shit.

  My shaking fingers reach for a gold bulb inside the holiday box. I pluck it from its pile and hold it in my hands, staring at my mutated reflection in the painted glass. And before my overanalytical brain can stop me, I hurl it into the fireplace. It shatters into a million pieces, the glass popping and sputtering in the heat. I pick up a green bulb and throw. Then a red bulb, a purple bulb, a blue bulb, a silver bulb. I throw and throw and throw. They shatter against the painted brick inside the fireplace; the broken pieces ignite and scatter like New Year’s Eve confetti. I cry and scream and throw until I cannot reach any more bulbs from my crumpled spot on the ground. When there are no more bulbs, I look down at my body. Tiny, colorful shards of glass prick at my legs. But I don’t feel them. All I feel is the searing ache at the hollow spot inside me, tripling in size.

  Lightning flashes outside. I take in a breath with each new count.

  One Mis
sissippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi … Four … Five.

  The thunder never answers. The storm, swift and fierce, is gone.

  SIX

  My shoulders scream with equal parts pain and desperation as I drag my feet through CORE’s labyrinth they call a compound and toward the girls’ dormitory. Two Black Angel–sanctioned duffel bags pull at my collarbones, each shoved full of clothing. The zipper’s teeth strain against the bulge of jeans, yoga pants, T-shirts, sports bras, and underwear. The over-packing is not due to vanity. I think I have one cute outfit in my whole trainee wardrobe, rolled up into a ball somewhere at the bottom. But when I don’t know what to expect, my type-A side plans for every scenario. Will I need a bathing suit at Qualifiers? A baseball cap? A pair of running spikes? I don’t know. But they’re in there just in case.

  I make my way around the intel center and turn down the South Hall, home to over twenty-five permanent residents and dozens of visiting or displaced agents. CORE’s underground acres are divided up into four very long hallways with the highly guarded and top secret intel mission control room at its center. Just being an agent won’t get you inside. You must have the highest level security clearance. I imagine it’s wall-to-wall screens with satellite images, video surveillance teams, and intercepted messages, each screen picked apart and analyzed by a talented, diverse team of agents whose median IQ has to be over 170.

  The East Hall is lined with a situation rooms, boardrooms, lecture halls, and the Tribunal chamber. The North Hall is where they house all the training facilities: several martial arts rooms, a state-of-the-art gym, a twenty-person shooting range, a weapons room stacked with thousands of weapons (from M4 carbines and Beretta M9 pistols to MK19 grenade machine guns and XM2010 sniper rifles. Not to mention enough ammunition for a small army), and an enormous panic room with steel-and-concrete walls ten feet deep (as if this bunker wasn’t enough). Down the West Hall are tiny pockets that make CORE feel a little bit like home. A hundred-seat cafeteria where a small team of chefs prepare high-protein meals, a library full of books and magazines, a tiny bar with low lighting and high-end liquor, and a rec room with plush couches, a large-screen TV, Ping-Pong, and pool table.