"I do," I whisper to the empty air, "have to do this alone. Because if I mess this up, if I get caught, I’m the only one who goes down."
But as the rain starts to drum a relentless, lonely rhythm against the exposed side of the van, the truth settles in my gut like a stone.
I’m terrified. Not of the heist. Not of Thorne. I’m terrified that if I do go find them, if I go get Skipper... I’ll never want to leave. And everyone I love leaves eventually. Better to stay alone in the van than to be left behind again.
"Happy Valentine's Day to me," I mutter, raising my glass to the darkness. "Let's go catch a whale."
Chapter 4 – Blue (February 8)
The elevator dings, signaling my release from another day in purgatory.
I shuffle out of the Horizon Wellness lobby, my shoulders tight near my ears. My back aches from eight hours of sitting in a non-ergonomic chair, and my brain feels like it’s leaking out of my ears after processing endless spreadsheets of medical debt.
Outside, the San Francisco fog has turned into a miserable, spitting rain. It matches my mood perfectly. I pull the collar of my thrift-store trench coat up, duck my head against the wind, and start the trudge toward the parking structure where Betty is waiting. I need to get back, go over the schematics again, and figure out how the hell I’m going to bypass a biometric lock that requires eyeballs I don't have.
I’m three blocks down the sidewalk when I stop. I don’t stop because of a noise. I stop because the air suddenly feels… charged. Heavy. Electric.
It’s the same feeling I had on Halloween right before my doorbell rang.
I lift my head, rain dripping off the brim of my hood, and scan the street. It’s mostly empty, just a few commuters rushing for the bus. But parked along the curb, right in a 'No Stopping' zone, is a sleek black SUV that looks like it costs more than the entire block. Leaning against it are three men.
They aren't wearing masks. They aren't hiding in the shadows. They’re just standing there, illuminated by the streetlamps, getting soaked by the rain like they don’t even feel it.
Black. Red. Green.
Andre, Damon, Marcus.
My breath hitches, getting stuck in a throat that suddenly feels too tight. Panic flares, hot and bright. My first instinct is to turn and run back into the closest building’s lobby, call security, scream fire… do anything but deal with what I’m not ready to deal with. But my feet don't move when I get a good look at them. They don't look like they did the last time I saw them. They aren't smirking. They aren't posturing. They look… wrecked.
Andre is standing in the middle, arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. He looks tired, the lines around his mouth deeper than I remember. Marcu is on his left, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his usual cocky grin completely absent. And Damon… Damon is looking at me with an expression so open, so full of relief and something that looks painfully like hope, that it makes my knees weak.
They don't move toward me. They don't try to surround me. They just stand there, ten feet away, giving me space. Giving me a choice. I swallow hard, forcing my spine to straighten. I will not let them see me sweat. I will not let them see that my heart is currently trying to beat its way out of my chest, half from fear, half from a traitorous excitement I want to strangle.
"You found me," I say, my voice flat, fighting to keep the tremor out of it. "Took you long enough."
Damon huffs a soft laugh, kicking at a wet leaf on the pavement. "You’re good, Blue. But so are we. We've been watching you for a while."
"I'm not Blue. Not anymore. And if you're here for the money, you're out of luck. I gave it away."
"You know that’s not why we’re here, Demi." Marcus says softly. His voice is a balm to my frayed nerves, even though I hate that it is. "We told you we know about the families in Seattle, that we know about your mom. You know exactly why we’re here, baby. You know it’s none of those things."
The air threatens to leave my lungs but I force a breath past the tightness and squash the stupid butterflies that take flight in my belly. This shit again. They dug deep enough to find the real me, the broken girl beneath the con and decided I was going to fall at their feet? That I would believe in them after one night… or two? That I would swoon and believe the shit they laid at my feet on Christmas? Never mind the fact that the broken girl in me aches for what they offered. That terrifies me more than if they had guns.
"So what?" I cross my arms, mimicking Andre’s stance. "You here to pat me on the back for my good deeds? Or are you here to drag me somewhere and punish me for not falling in line?"
Andre uncrosses his arms. I flinch, stepping back, bracing for him to lunge.
He stops instantly. He holds his hands up, palms open, showing me he’s empty-handed. Showing me he’s harmless. Which is a lie, because a man built like that is never harmless.
"No punishment," Andre says, his voice rough, like he hasn't used it in days. "And no dragging. We aren't here to take anything from you, Demi."
He says my name like a wish and it sends a shiver skittering down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He reaches into his jacket pocket slowly. I tense, ready to bolt. But he pulls out a small, black plastic disc.
Skipper’s tracker.
He steps forward, just one step, and places it on the hood of the SUV. Then he steps back again, returning to the line.
"I’m sorry," Andre says.
