Free Deadfall by Anna Carey Page A

tell he doesn’t want to cry.
    “It’s okay,” you say. “I believe you.”
    He lets out a long, slow breath, his forehead meeting yours. Then he leans in, his lips touching down, his hand reaching for the end of your braid. He slips the tie from it and undoes your wavy black hair. He twists his fingers through it, one hand resting on the base of your neck.
    “I love you,” he whispers into your cheek. “You know that; you do.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS is a lot of money. More money than you’ve ever seen in one place, more money than you could ever imagine spending. You don’t have a bank account. To you, cash is the thirty dollars you get for babysitting the Martinez kids two houses down. It’s the wrinkled ten that comes every year on your birthday, in some princess card meant for five-year-olds, from a great-aunt in Tempe, Arizona.
    You spread the money out on the dingy comforter. One thousand now, four thousand more after you leave. That’s what they promised. It’s all in fifties, which makes it even harder to spend. You’ve never used a fifty before. It would feel weird now to break it at the 7-Eleven to buy a soda. You count them again—all twenty of them—when there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
    You fold them into your pocket. “What?”
    A woman with short black hair peeks in. She’s wearing a blue collared shirt with a Kmart logo on the front. “What are you up to?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Want to help me with dinner?”
    She is smiling. She is trying so hard.
    “I have homework. . . .”
    “I hope you’ll stay this time.”
    You won’t. You’ve already decided that this is temporary. There’s only two days left until you meet your contact and leave. You’ll be eighteen soon, and five thousand will get an apartment for you and Chris. No more relying on your aunt and her shitty boyfriend. You’re tired of listening to them fighting behind their bedroom door, him complaining about money. “My money,” he always calls it. “My house.” He hates having both of you here.
    You smile, mirroring her. You rest your hand on the cash in your pocket. One round-trip flight on a private plane. The first run of many. They haven’t told you what’s in the packages, but you don’t need to know. You don’t ask questions.
    “Thanks, Aunt Jess,” you say. “For having me.”
    You’ve left the lights on. You rub your eyes, taking in the hotel room. Ben is asleep beside you on the bed. A fresh towel is pressed to his side, and his jeans are still on. The clock on the nightstand reads 1:38 A . M .
    You think about the dream, trying to remember the woman, your aunt. The money. The deal you made withsomeone. There are more targets out there. How many others took the money like you did? How many died on the island, lured by the promise of more jobs, more cash? How many are left?
    You ease off the bed, careful not to wake Ben. You riffle through the back pockets of your pants, finding the notepad you got from the train. You flip to a new page, to write down everything you’ve remembered from your dream, when you notice the page before it. The graffiti . . .
    WBD + WY . The letters in red spray paint by Morningside Park. It had been a code, just like the one by the basketball courts. One person wrote them both—it was the same style and color. FK’LIN was the graffiti by the first meeting place.
    You hear Ben shift awake. He pushes up to his elbows, wincing at the pain in his side. “What are you doing?”
    “W-B-D-W-Y? What does that mean to you?”
    “I don’t know. . . .” Ben rubs his eyes, still half in sleep.
    The table by the window has a binder on it. It’s stuffed with sightseeing brochures, Hop-On, Hop-Off bus tours, a guide to visiting the Statue of Liberty. The map is folded up on the bottom. You trace your finger from the bottom of Central Park all the way down to the tip of the island, checking and rechecking each cross street. Finally you recognize