ringing.
“Hello?”
“All good?”
I open my mouth but hesitate. Should I tell Sam what happened in there? No . . . Bob is a douchebag, but that was nothing compared to Sal. Plus, I don’t want to be the reason for another brutal dismemberment and murder. I think I have Bob under control now and if he’s the worst that I have to deal with, I can manage.
“All good. Everything went as planned.”
“Good. You’ll be dealing with them a lot more going forward. Eddie has big connections. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The phone goes dead.
A lot more going forward. “How could you do this to me, Sam!” I whisper into the silence. How could he? Even I know that you don’t knowingly put people you love in danger.
It’s in the parking lot outside my apartment that I finally start to shake, my nerves reacting to the mountain of tension that my willpower managed to suppress for far too long. I stopped counting the number of drops a year ago. They were all so small, so easy. But then they started getting bigger, and the thing with Sal happened . . . and now I’m dealing with major deliveries. I know in my gut that they’ll only get harder, more risky.
There was a break from deliveries after the “incident,” during which Sam showered me with Louboutins and pretty dresses and diamond earrings. I thought that was his way of saying he was sorry, that he acknowledged that involving me in his “business” was a bad idea.
I let myself believe that it was over.
Then a man cornered me coming out of the gym one night in May, just after finishing the last of my high school exams, asking all kinds of questions about Sal and Sam. I kept my cool, playing the clueless, normal eighteen-year-old girl to award-winning perfection.
I told Sam the second I got home and the next day, he handed me a manila envelope full of new documents and identification—birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, credit cards. Everything needed to be twenty-two-year-old Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. The package came with a one-way ticket to Miami leaving that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it. With a heavy hand on my shoulder and a slow, even voice, Sam said that his little mouse needed to disappear for a little while. “This will keep you safe and hidden from guys like that. Just relax, lay low, and wait until all this blows over. We don’t want anything pinned to us for Sal.”
To us.
“But what about Tisch?” I had asked.
I got a regretful smile in return. “You’re going to have to delay for a year. Too risky, otherwise. I’ll take care of it.” I remember the disappointment that flooded through me at that news.
Instructing me to hand over all of my real identification, right down to my bank card, Sam murmured, “You’re not you anymore. You’re Charlie Rourke and only Charlie Rourke. Be who you want to be but stay in character, my little actor. As long as you do that, no one will find you. No one will hurt you. Everything in this envelope is legit. It’s a genuine ID.” Muttering more to himself, “For a hundred G’s, you should have no issues at all.”
I remember my jaw dropping—a rare but unplanned reaction.
This wasn’t a half-assed get-you-past-the-bouncer type of ID that you pick out from a bag of stolen driver’s licenses. Sam would have had to start making these arrangements for me long before yesterday, before anyone ever approached me.
That was my first clue that Sam wasn’t telling me the truth.
And when the first drop request came a month after moving to Miami, I knew with certainty that this move had less to do with my safety and more to do with business.
Sam was looking to expand his enterprise into Miami.
And he’d decided to use me to do it.
That’s when I started wondering if that guy who approached me outside the gym that day was ever a real threat. It was all too well timed to be a fluke. Perhaps he was a friend. Perhaps Sam hired him to give him an
“Hello?”
“All good?”
I open my mouth but hesitate. Should I tell Sam what happened in there? No . . . Bob is a douchebag, but that was nothing compared to Sal. Plus, I don’t want to be the reason for another brutal dismemberment and murder. I think I have Bob under control now and if he’s the worst that I have to deal with, I can manage.
“All good. Everything went as planned.”
“Good. You’ll be dealing with them a lot more going forward. Eddie has big connections. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The phone goes dead.
A lot more going forward. “How could you do this to me, Sam!” I whisper into the silence. How could he? Even I know that you don’t knowingly put people you love in danger.
It’s in the parking lot outside my apartment that I finally start to shake, my nerves reacting to the mountain of tension that my willpower managed to suppress for far too long. I stopped counting the number of drops a year ago. They were all so small, so easy. But then they started getting bigger, and the thing with Sal happened . . . and now I’m dealing with major deliveries. I know in my gut that they’ll only get harder, more risky.
There was a break from deliveries after the “incident,” during which Sam showered me with Louboutins and pretty dresses and diamond earrings. I thought that was his way of saying he was sorry, that he acknowledged that involving me in his “business” was a bad idea.
I let myself believe that it was over.
Then a man cornered me coming out of the gym one night in May, just after finishing the last of my high school exams, asking all kinds of questions about Sal and Sam. I kept my cool, playing the clueless, normal eighteen-year-old girl to award-winning perfection.
I told Sam the second I got home and the next day, he handed me a manila envelope full of new documents and identification—birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, credit cards. Everything needed to be twenty-two-year-old Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. The package came with a one-way ticket to Miami leaving that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it. With a heavy hand on my shoulder and a slow, even voice, Sam said that his little mouse needed to disappear for a little while. “This will keep you safe and hidden from guys like that. Just relax, lay low, and wait until all this blows over. We don’t want anything pinned to us for Sal.”
To us.
“But what about Tisch?” I had asked.
I got a regretful smile in return. “You’re going to have to delay for a year. Too risky, otherwise. I’ll take care of it.” I remember the disappointment that flooded through me at that news.
Instructing me to hand over all of my real identification, right down to my bank card, Sam murmured, “You’re not you anymore. You’re Charlie Rourke and only Charlie Rourke. Be who you want to be but stay in character, my little actor. As long as you do that, no one will find you. No one will hurt you. Everything in this envelope is legit. It’s a genuine ID.” Muttering more to himself, “For a hundred G’s, you should have no issues at all.”
I remember my jaw dropping—a rare but unplanned reaction.
This wasn’t a half-assed get-you-past-the-bouncer type of ID that you pick out from a bag of stolen driver’s licenses. Sam would have had to start making these arrangements for me long before yesterday, before anyone ever approached me.
That was my first clue that Sam wasn’t telling me the truth.
And when the first drop request came a month after moving to Miami, I knew with certainty that this move had less to do with my safety and more to do with business.
Sam was looking to expand his enterprise into Miami.
And he’d decided to use me to do it.
That’s when I started wondering if that guy who approached me outside the gym that day was ever a real threat. It was all too well timed to be a fluke. Perhaps he was a friend. Perhaps Sam hired him to give him an
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