Free Deadfall by Anna Carey

“We can’t go back.”
    You can’t stop looking at her as you pass. The body is at the bottom of the ravine. It’s been two days at least. She is facedown, half covered by fallen leaves. You see the skin on her legs, swollen and dark, every vein visible. The rain has washed away some of the blood, but the scent is still there. You cover your nose with your shirt.
    As you pass her, you struggle to keep your footing, reaching out for a tree trunk, then a thick tangle of vines. The back of her head is a mess of bloody hair. The stench is overpowering. Keep going, you tell yourself. You focus on the underbrush beneath you, the mud that sucks at the bottom of your shoes.
    “Don’t look,” Rafe calls back.
    The memory is so strong you have to lie down. You think of Rafe and the last glimpse you had of him as he ran into the park. If he’s alive, where is he? And even if he did manage to see your post online, how do you get to him from here? You can’t leave Ben . . . not now.
    Ben pulls the towel away, studying the wound. “It just burns,” he says. “It feels like I’m on fire.”
    “You can’t stay here, Ben. You have to leave the city. I’ll help you get back to the airport, but you have to go as soon as you can.”
    “Go where? Back to LA, to my house? It’s too late.”
    “Into hiding,” you say. “Or try to explain it to them. Lie, whatever.”
    You take the towel from him, using the end to clean the blood from his skin. You trace it over his ribs, moving around to his back. “After you left that day I didn’t know what to do. I thought about calling the police, about reporting everything I knew about AAE. I went through every file in my dad’s office. I drove around for hours hoping to find you, hoping you were still somewhere close by. Then they showed up and said they knew where you were. I was just relieved that you were alive. And I knew that if I found you, I could help you stop this.”
    “Don’t be stupid, Ben.” You push the towel back into his hands. He’s looking at you, but you can’t meet his gaze.
    “Dr. Reynolds.”
    “Who?”
    “Dr. Richard Reynolds. He’s a neurologist at Bellevue Hospital.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    Ben reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. “AAE came looking for my father’s papers after he died, and they took almost everything. But a copyof a check made out to Reynolds had fallen behind one of the drawers—they must’ve missed it. So I looked him up. He ran drug trials for some memory suppressant. AAE funded them; my dad wrote the checks. It was used to treat soldiers with PTSD, to help them forget certain traumatic events. Sound familiar?”
    “That’s what they gave us.”
    “Exactly. This guy—he has to know who the players are. And he’s here, based in New York.”
    “You think he’ll lead us to AAE?”
    “If he’s the one who invented the drug, tested it, he has to be pretty high up. He must know some names.”
    “If we find him, we need him alive.”
    “Which is why we should go to the hospital where he works,” Ben says. “Surprise him there and get what we need.”
    It’s not that simple, you know that from what Celia said. Reynolds is just one part of this.
    But you missed this about Ben: his endless optimism. Even now with his side covered in blood, he’s trying to find a way. You remember what it feels like to be so close to him. The faint smell of soap on his skin. How natural it is when he leans toward you, resting his chin on your forehead. You listen to his breaths.
    You aren’t sure what you want to say, but then the next words escape your lips before you can take them back. “Ben . . . I’m glad you’re here.”
    “I’m glad I am, too,” he says. “I’m going to make this right. I promise.”
    You tilt your chin up to study his face. The curve of his top lip. The dusting of freckles from the LA sun. His eyes are wet. He looks up and away, laughing awkwardly. You can