“The big score?” Sam grins, teasing.

  “Sure,” I say. “The one that you can live on forever. The legendary one. The one that your name becomes synonymous with. I admit that five large isn’t that large, but it’s pretty big for high school. And if she thinks that she’s not going to be making money off him regularly anymore, maybe there’s no reason not to go for it.”

  I throw ten bucks down onto the table. He does the same, and we slide out of the booth.

  “No reason except getting caught,” Sam says.

  I nod. “That’s why the big score is a myth. A fairy tale. Because no one ever quits after a successful job. They get stupid and cocky and think they’re invulnerable. They convince themselves to do just one more, just this last time. And then the time after that, because if a job goes sideways, then you want to do another to get the taste of failure out of your mouth. And if it goes well, you do another to chase that feeling.”

  “Even you?” Sam asks.

  I look over at him, surprised. “Not me,” I say. “I’m already on the hook with the Feds.”

  “My grandfather took me fishing a couple of times,” Sam says as he unlocks the hearse. “I wasn’t very good at it. I always had trouble reeling them in. Maybe it’ll be like that.”

  I want to say something funny back, but the words stick in my throat.

  * * *

  Instead of going to class I head to Lila’s dorm. I have some idea that I’m going to talk to her about Daneca, but it’s become so jumbled up with a sheer, mad desire to see Lila that it doesn’t make any real sense.

  I thought I was getting better at this. I thought I was starting to make peace with being in love with a girl who despises me, but I don’t think I’m so okay with it after all. Somewhere along the line I made a dark bargain with the universe without really being aware of it—a bargain that if I was allowed to see her, even if we never spoke, then I could live with that. And now a week without her has swallowed up all of my rational thinking.

  I feel like a junkie, sick for my next fix and not sure if it will come.

  Maybe she’s eating breakfast in her room, I tell myself. That’s a reasonable thought, a normal one. I can just catch her before she leaves. I won’t let her see how much it matters.

  I race up the stairs of Gilbert House, past a couple of freshmen girls, who giggle.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” one says, mock-scolding. “This is the girls’ dorm.”

  I pause and give her my best smile, my coconspirator smile. The one that I practice in front of the mirror. The one that’s supposed to promise all kinds of evil delights. “Good thing I have you to cover for me.”

  She smiles back, her cheeks going pink.

  At the top of the steps I catch the door to Lila’s hall as Jill Pearson-White comes out. She’s got her backpack thrown over one shoulder and an energy bar in her mouth. She barely pays attention to me, taking the stairs two at a time.

  I cross the corridor, fast, because if Lila’s hall mistress sees me, I am totally screwed. I try Lila’s door, but it’s locked. I don’t have time for anything fancy. I pull out a bank card from my wallet and slide it down the seam. That trick has worked on my own door before, and I’m lucky, because it works now.

  I expect Lila to be sitting on her bed, maybe lacing her shoes. Or pulling on a pair of gloves. Or printing out a paper at the last possible minute. But she’s not.

  For a moment I think I’m in the wrong room.

  There are no posters on the walls. There is no bookcase, no trunk, or vanity or illicit electric kettle. The bed has been stripped down to the mattress, and there’s nothing else there.

  She’s gone.

  The door swings shut behind me as I cross the empty room. Everything feels like it has slowed down, the edges a little dim. The awfulness of it, the loss of her, hits me in the gut. Gone. Gone and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  My eyes are drawn to the window, where light’s streaming in, casting an odd shadow. There on the sill, resting against one of the panes of glass, is a single envelope.

  My name is written on it in her handwriting. I wonder how long it’s been sitting there. I imagine her loading all her stuff into boxes and carrying it down the stairs, Zacharov himself helping her, like all the other dads did. With two goons, guns tucked into their waistbands, helping him.

  The thought should make me smile, but it doesn’t.

  I sink to the floor, the paper clutched to my chest. I rest my head on the bare wood. Somewhere in the distance I hear a bell ring.

  I’ve got no reason to get up, so I don’t.

  10

  WHEN I FINALLY OPEN the letter, it makes me smile, despite everything. And for some reason, that makes it even more awful that she’s gone.

  4/ 86/5/3 9/6/8| 4/ 927// 6|6/ 46/6/3 28 7//2/4|6/6/5/ - 93|5/5/ 4/6 6|6/8 46/6/3 28 7//29/4/6|4 46/6/32|9/3| 3|4/84|3|7/ - 4/ 25/929/7// 5|6|3|9 94|28 4/ 927// 46/4/6|4 86/ 2|3| 94|3|6| 4/ 47/3|9 8|7 - 4/ 25/929/7// 5|6|3|9 94|6/7//3| 7//4|6/3|7// 4/ 4|23 86/ 3/4/5/5/ - 26|3 4/ 6|3|8/3|7/ 7//24/3 4/8 2|8|8 4/ 3|6|8/4/3|3 9/6/8| 3/6/7/ 6|6/8 4|28/4/6|4 3|8/3|7/9/84|4/6|4 25/5/ 75/26|6|3|3 6/8|8 - 4/ 5|6|6/9 4/8 927//6|8 25/929/7// 3|27//9/ - 73|6/75/3| 34/36|8 87/3|28 9/6/8| 5/4/5|3| 9/6/8| 93|7/3| 4/676/7/826|8 2|8|8 9/6/8| 93|7/3| 3/7/3|3|

  9/6/8| 7//84/5/5/ 2/26| 2|3| 2|8|8 9/6/8|7/3| 46/4/6|4 86/ 4|28/3| 86/ 87/9/ 4|27/33|7/ 4/3/ 9/6/8| 926|8 86/ 7//829/ 84|28 929/

  —5/4/5/2

  It’s a code. One I recognize immediately, because Lila and I used it to leave notes for each other when we were kids. It’s a simple one. Nobody with a real secret and any knowledge of cryptography would use this. You just take a phone and copy down the number that goes with each letter. Like L would become “5” and A would become “2.” But since there’s more than one letter for each number on a keypad, the code has a second symbol. A slash or straight line indicates the letter’s position on the phone button, like this: |/. So the final code for L is “5/” because L is to the far right on the key. And A is “2” because A is to the far left. And if it’s one of those numbers with four letters, then you add an extra slash, so that “9/” is Y and “9//” is Z and so on. It’s time consuming to translate back, but easy, especially if there’s a phone in front of you.

  The existence of the letter—that she knew I would come here and find it, that she remembered our old code and believed I’d remember it too—makes my throat hurt. Nobody at Wallingford sees me the way I am, underneath everything. But she did. She does.

  I smooth the paper out on the floor, find the receipt from the diner and a spare pen, and start translating:

  I told you I was no good at school. Well, I’m not good at saying good-bye either. I always knew what I was going to be when I grew up. I always knew whose shoes I had to fill. And I never said it, but I envied you for not having everything all planned out. I know it wasn’t always easy. People didn’t treat you like you were important, but you were free.

  You still can be, but you’re going to have to try harder if you want to stay that way.

  —Lila

  I’m tracing my fingers over the coded paper, thinking about how long it must have taken her, picturing her lying on her bed, making mark after laborious mark, when my phone rings.

  I fumble to answer, startled, suddenly reminded that I shouldn’t be on the girls’ hall—and that if someone hears a sound, they’re going to investigate. The actual students who bunk here are all in class.

  “Hello?” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “Cassel?” It’s Yulikova. “Is that you?”

  I get up and cross the room, lean my arm against the closet door frame. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry.”

  “The operation is moving forward. We’re going to pick you up next Wednesday, okay? I need you not to tell anyone, but it looks like you’re going to be gone for a few days. You’ll need a story. Family member in the hospital, something like that. And pack a bag.”

  “A few days? When is the actual event—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to tell you that, although obviously I wish I could.”

  “Can you at least tell me what the plan is?”

  Yulikova laughs. “We will, Cassel. Of course. We want you to be as involved as possible. But not over the phone.”

  Obviously. Of course.

  The language of someone who’s trying very hard to convince me. Too hard.

  “Okay,” I say. “So next week?”

  “We want you to be safe, so please, just act normal. Spend time with your friends and plan out how you’re going to get away for a while without anyone noticing. Start laying the groundwork for whatever excuse you think would work best. And if you need us to come up with something—”

  “No,” I say, “I’ve got it.”

  They don’t trust me. She needs me, but she doesn’t trust me. Not completely. Not enough. I wonder if Jones said something to her, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

  I’ve got it, but I don’t have to like it.

  * * *

  I make it through my afternoon classes and try not to think about the morning ones I missed. About how close I am to getting chucked out of Wallingford. About how little I care. I try not to think about Lila.

  At track practice I run in circles.

  * * *

  As soon as I can make an excuse, I change into normal clothes and head to my car, skipping dinner. I feel oddly distant, my gloved hands turning the wheel. There is a kind of dark hope in my heart—the kind that I don’t want to examine too carefully. It’s fragile. Just looking at it straight on could crush it dead.

  I drive to Lila’s apartment building. I don’t even bother trying to get into the lot with its closed gates and coded lock. I find a space a couple blocks down, hope I won’t get towed, and walk into the building.

  At the desk a gray-haired man sitting in front of a bunch of monitors asks for my identification. Once I hand over my driver’s license, he buzzes the Zacharov apartment. He picks up a battered gray headset, waits a few moments, and then mispronounces my name into it.

  I hear static and a voice on the other end, so distorted that I don’t recognize it. The front desk guy nods once, then pulls off the headset and hands me back my license.

  “Go right up,” he says with his slight Eastern European accent.

  The elevator is just as shiny and cold as I remember.

  When the doors open, Zacharov is there, pacing the floor in suit pants and a half-buttoned white shirt, staring at the television.

  “I’m going to rip his head off,” he yells. “With my bare hands.”

  “Mr. Zacharov,” I say. My voice echoes. “Sorry—I—the doorman told me I could come up.”

  He turns around. “You know what that prick has done now?”

  “What?” I ask, not sure who we’re talking about.

  “Look.” He points at the flat screen.

  Patton is shaking hands with a gray-haired man that I don’t know. I look at the screen, and underneath the image are the words “Patton Proposes Joint Venture to Test Government Employees at Summit with Governor Grant.”

  “That’s the governor of New York. Do you know how much money I’ve donated to his reelection campaign? And now he’s acting like that lunatic has anything worthwhile to say.”

  Don’t worry about Patton. He’ll be gone soon. That’s what I want to say, but I can’t. “Maybe Grant’s just humoring him.”

  Zacharov turns toward me, seeming to actually be aware of me for the first time. He blinks. “Are you looking for your mother? She’s resting.”

  “I was hoping I could talk to Lila.”

  He frowns at me for a drawn-out moment, then points toward the sweeping staircase that leads to a rounded archway on the second floor. I don’t know if he remembers that I don’t know my way around or if he just doesn’t care.

  I jog up the steps.

  When I’m halfway there, Zacharov calls, “I heard that useless brother of yours is working for the Feds. That’s not true, is it?”

  I turn back, keeping my face carefully blank, a little puzzled. My heart is beating so fast that my chest hurts. “No,” I say, and force a laugh. “Barron’s no good with authority.”

  “Who is, right?” asks Zacharov, and laughs too. “Tell him to keep his nose clean. I’d hate having to break his neck.”

  I lean against the railing. “You promised me—”

  “Some betrayals even I can’t afford, Cassel. He wouldn’t just be turning his back on me. He’d be turning his back on you and your mother. He’d be putting you in danger. And Lila.”

  I nod numbly, but my heart is skipping along, like a stone on the surface of a lake right before it drops under. If he knew what I’d done, if he knew about Yulikova and the Licensed Minority Division, he would shoot me as soon as look at me. He would kill me six times over. But he doesn’t know. At least I don’t think he knows. His expression, the slight lift of one side of his mouth, tells me nothing.

  I resume my walk up the steps, each footfall heavier than it was.

  There’s a hallway.

  “Lila?” I call softly as I pass several glossy wooden doors with heavy metal trim on the hinges and knobs.

  I open a door at random and see a bedroom, an empty one. It’s too tidy to be anything but a guest room, which means that they have enough bedrooms to have my mother in one and at least another spare. The place is even bigger than I realized.

  I knock on the next. No one answers, but down near the end another door opens. Lila steps into the hall.

  “That’s a linen closet,” she says. “There’s a washing machine and dryer in there.”

  “I bet you don’t even need exact change to use them,” I say, thinking of the dorms.

  She grins, leaning against the door frame, looking like she just got out of the shower. She’s got on a white tank and black skinny jeans. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted silver. A few locks of pale wet hair stick to her cheek; a few more stick to her neck where her scar is.

  “You got my letter,” she says, walking closer. Her voice is soft. “Or maybe—”

  I touch the pocket of my jacket self-consciously and give her a lopsided grin. “Took me a while to translate.”

  She pushes the hair out of her face. “You shouldn’t have come. I put everything in the letter, so that we wouldn’t have to—” She stops speaking, as if the rest of the sentence has deserted her. Despite the words, she doesn’t sound angry. She takes another half step toward me. We’re close enough that if she whispered I’d hear it.

  I look at her, and I think of how it felt when I saw her in my bedroom in the old house, before I knew that she’d been cursed, when everything still seemed possible. I see the soft line of her mouth, and the clear brightness of her eyes, and I remember dreaming about those features when it still seemed like she could be mine.

  She was the epic crush of my childhood. She was the tragedy that made me look inside myself and see my corrupt heart. She was my sin and my salvation, come back from the grave to change me forever. Again. Back then, when she sat on my bed and told me she loved me, I wanted her as much as I have ever wanted anything.

  But that was before we’d scammed our way into a high-rise and laughed ourselves sick and talked in the funeral parlor the way I’ve never talked to anyone and might never talk to anyone again. That was before she stopped being a memory and started being the only person who made me feel like myself. That was before she hated me.

  I wanted her then. I wanted her a lot. Now I barely want anything else.

  I sway toward Lila, waiting for her to pull back, but she doesn’t. My hands come up, gloved fingers closing around her upper arms, crushing her to me as my mouth catches hers. I’m braced for her to stop me, but her body folds against mine instead. Her lips are warm and soft, parting in a single sigh.

  That’s all it takes.

  I push her back against the wall, kissing her the way I’ve never let myself. I want to swallow her up. I want her to feel my regret in the slide of my mouth and taste devotion on my tongue. She makes a sound that’s half gasp and half a moan and pulls me closer against her. Her eyes close, and everything is teeth and breath and skin.

  “We’ve got to—,” she says against my mouth, her voice seeming to come from a great distance. “We’ve got to stop. We’ve got to—”

  I stagger back.

  The hallway seems very bright. Lila is still leaning against the wall, one hand against the plaster, like it’s holding her. Her lips are red, her face flushed. She’s looking at me with wide eyes.

  I feel drunk. I am breathing so hard that I feel like I’ve been running.

  “You should probably go,” she says unsteadily.

  I nod, agreeing, even though leaving is the last thing I want. “But I have to talk to you. It’s about Daneca. That’s why I came. I didn’t mean—”

  She gives me a nervous look. “Okay. Talk.”

  “She went out with my brother. She’s been going out with him, I think.”

  “Barron?” She pushes off from the wall, paces the carpet.

  “Remember when I thought that you’d told her about my being a transformation worker? Well, that was him. I don’t know exactly what he told her, but he mixed up enough truth with the lies that I can’t convince her to stay away from him. I can’t convince her of anything.”

  “That’s not possible. He’s not the kind of boy she would like. Daneca’s too smart for that.”

  “You went out with him,” I say before I think better of it.

  She gives me a scorching look. “I never said I was too smart.” Her tone makes it clear that if she were smart, she wouldn’t have just been up against the wall with my tongue in her mouth. “And I was a kid.”

  “Please,” I say, “just talk to her.”