I step out into the light as the woman straightens from the back seat, her arms full of paper bags laden with groceries, a Birkin worth as much as her car hanging from one elbow. "Hello, ma'am," I say, keeping my tone level and conversational, the rifle slung across my front, my hands gripping the strap rather than the grip and handle. "I'm afraid I'm going to need to borrow your vehicle."
She blinks at me, her gaze flicking over my shoulder. “Is this man bothering you, dear?"
Brys appears beside me. "No, ma'am. He's actually doing the exact opposite."
"When you say borrow, I assume if I get it back at all, it won’t be in one piece?"
Brys steps forward, putting herself between the woman and me. "Ma'am, I live in this building myself. And you have my word that no matter what happens, I'll see that either your car is returned in the same condition or replaced."
She sighs. "It was an anniversary gift from my husband," she says. "But it's far too big for me. If you could find a way to replace it with something smaller and easier to park than that behemoth, then we have a deal."
Brys laughs. "That can be arranged, I believe."
The older woman sets her paper bags on her trunk, rummages in her purse, and withdraws a key fob, which she hands to Brys. "If anyone asks, you stole it."
Brys tosses the fob to me. "If anyone asks,hestole it."
The sound of a crashbar and the slight squeal of hinges echo through the underground garage.
"That's our cue," I say, taking the fob. "Ma'am, if I were you, I'd take the elevator straight up to your house, lock the door, and don't open it for anyone."
Without a backward glance, the woman scoops up her groceries and hustles for the elevator. By the time she reaches it, I'm behind the wheel, Brys is beside me, and we're backing out of the parking space.
I glance in the rearview mirror as we angle up and out of the garage, the door opening automatically; a cluster of men swarm out of the stairwell.
The last thing I see is muzzle flash as they fire at us; their rounds thunk low into the trunk, and then I'm skidding out into traffic, horns blaring and brights blinking and voices cursing from open windows.
Beside me, Brys is twisted in the seat, watching out the rear window as her condo building falls away. When I turn, and her view of it vanishes, she slumps back around, sighing. "Now what?"
I shrug. "I don't know, Brys. That's the honest truth. I don't know. I guess we get out of the city."
"And go where? Where can we go that these goons won't find us?"
"That's a good question. For now, we just get off the island of Manhattan and ultimately out of New York—it’s the most heavily surveilled city in the world. I'm hoping once we're out of the city, it'll be harder for Poo—” I cut myself off before I say his name."For my enemy's computer nerds to find us, and thus hopefully harder for him to send his goon squads after us."
“Your enemy is poo?"
I sigh. "No, Brys. I'm keeping the details from you. Hopefully, the less you know, the safer you are."
She snorts derisively. "The shit is out of that elephant, Jakob. You may as well spill the whole sad truth."
For a moment, I actually consider it. What would that be like? To tell someone the whole sad, strange, toxic, sordid truth of my life?
Now that Thomas has passed on, there is not one person on this earth who knows all of me.Herknowledge of me stops at the day she saw me die. Inez knows who I am now and likely suspects who I used to be, but I've neither confirmed nor denied anything.
I am unknown.
But am I unknowable?
I can't claim to be proud of who I've been, or of some of the things I've done. But not being proud of your past isn't the same as telling someone all your secrets.
"Wow," Brys says, jarring me out of my thoughts. "You really have to consider that one, huh?"
I brake to a stop at a red light, still mulling over the notion of unburdening myself of my many awful secrets. My gaze, naturally enough, wanders from the left corner of the intersection to the right.
Black hair, glossy and raven-dark, razor-bobbed at her sharp chin. Bug-eye Chanel sunglasses cover dark eyes. Black leggings hug strong, curvaceous legs. Shopping bags hang from an elbow. A cell phone is pressed to one ear.
You smile, nod. Laugh. Turn with an absent-minded glance, look over your shoulder—they're ten, now. One with hair the color of the sun, the other with hair the color of the night. Tall.Attractive. Well-dressed, well-groomed. Calm. Full of poise and elegance, of course; they're your children, after all. Beside you? Him. And he's aged damnably well. Lean and muscular, flat of stomach and with all his hair, nary a trace of silver in the golden strands.
