The Takedown, page 25
Another spike of pain in my throat.
“Change,” I finish, dropping the phone.
* * *
—
By the time I return home, it’s dark, just after 4 p.m., the sky a purple bruise. No one has plugged in the window reindeer, so there’s no slightly risqué jig to greet me. Even the reindeer doesn’t feel like dancing. One of the strings of Christmas lights has fallen, dangling off the roof like a villain at the end of the movie. Once again, the Escalade isn’t in the driveway. Inside, it’s even quieter. No Christmas music. No Squirrel Nut Zippers holiday album blaring from the record player.
Where’s Grandma Ruby? Nick?
Johnny answers my unspoken questions. He’s perched on the kitchen countertop, by the fridge, his legs swinging down. “They went to pick up some lobster,” he says, and I half jump out of my skin. Only the kitchen island lights are on, the rest of the house plunged into darkness. Has he been waiting for me? That’s my first thought. Johnny has been waiting for me to come home. That’s why he’s hung back.
In the laundry room, I slowly unzip my parka, clunking the snow off my boots—then tiptoe forward, closer. “And Sweetie Pie?”
“Went along for the ride,” Johnny says, his voice totally light. So airy and smooth. “Thought I’d stay here and see if you came back with Calla . . . but it looks like she isn’t with you?”
Breathe, Sydney. Breathe normally. “No, she actually said something about going to the spa. Before the wedding. To unwind. Get a massage.”
“The spa,” Johnny says, unblinking, neutral. Why is he sitting on the countertop? He looks like a twelve-year-old boy playing at being a crime lord.
“I was encouraging her,” I roll on, hanging my parka over the breakfast table chair. Wetness drips to the tile floor, and I un-puddle it with my sock, a quick swipe of my foot. Casual. “There’s a really good one just over the state line. Wentworth by the Sea? Facials, manicures, everything bridal. You said she should get her nails done.”
“And you didn’t go with her?”
Keep lying. Dig in. “I’m not really a manicure type of person.”
Johnny curls his fingertips over the edge of the countertop, gripping. “Any idea when she’ll be back? Because I’ve been calling her. She isn’t answering her phone.”
“They make you turn your phone off. Phones aren’t relaxing.” Speaking of not relaxing, the vibe between us has immeasurably soured. Some might call it downright menacing. In fact, if I wasn’t a trained CIA officer—just a sister, home for Christmas—I would be heart-poundingly afraid of him. A darkness has cascaded over his face, pupils blacking out his eyes. The smart thing would be to make another excuse and shuffle right out of the house. Wait for my grandma in the driveway. Tell her to run. But my wheels are turning. Nick said he’s bugged my room. If I can get Johnny to threaten me on tape, if I can get him to admit that he’s threatened people, like FBI officers, for his “business” before . . .
Split-second decision.
I take off in the direction of the stairs. A full-out, suspicious sprint.
“What the—?” I hear Johnny mutter as he slides down from the countertop, bootsteps pounding after me. My hand barely trails over the garland-wrapped banister, flecks of blood-red glitter rubbing off on my fingertips, my other arm pumping. “Sydney!”
To my room. My old bedroom. Closed-off space. Let him corner me. Let him think I’m powerless. Whipping inside, nearly slipping on the hallway rug, I jam the door shut, pretending to fiddle with the handle, as if it won’t lock, dammit! Right on schedule, Johnny’s shoulder slams against the door, thrusting it open, and I stagger back. Baiting him. Breathing hard.
“I don’t think we were finished with that conversation,” Johnny grunts, chest close to heaving. “Do you?” One hand behind him, he clicks the door shut, locks it. So that’s how you lock a door! Takes a man to do it. “I just think it’s really funny how, moments after I see you and Calla having an argument where I’m reading your lips and see the word Johnny, she just . . . disappears!” He laughs dryly at this, advancing, his fingers running over the back of one of my ceramic dog figurines; he picks up the Doberman with the broken paw, examining it, as if he’s about to smash it against the dresser.
“I told you,” I say, backing up even farther, until my spine is flat against the bookshelves. A miniature elf rests somewhere near my ear, one of his eyes replaced with the tiniest recording device, and it doesn’t take much acting to sound nervous. I am. Not nervous that he’ll hurt me. If he tries anything, I think that’ll turn out very badly for him. But I’m trying to lead us down exactly the right conversational path. “She’s a little stressed about the wedding, and as her maid of honor, I thought—”
Another laugh from Johnny. “You thought it’d be better if she spent some time away from me, is that it? Haven’t exactly warmed to me, have you, Sydney?” Harmlessly, he sets the Doberman back on the dresser, other paws intact—but he still takes another few steps closer to me, the muted sound of his boots stamping across the hardwood. “I thought we had an understanding, you and I.”
“An understanding?” That actually confuses me.
“First night. Over drinks,” Johnny clarifies. “When Calla was telling the story of how we met. Funky Pete’s. Throwing clay. And you—” He wags his finger at me. “You didn’t say it was a good story. You just . . . sat there. I’m a very perceptive person. I thought, if she stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of hers. Even got Nick to keep an eye on you to make sure you didn’t fuck this up.”
I stop the gulp in my throat. It’s painful. It burns. “You told Nick to watch me?”
Johnny smirks, and it is not the smirk of a man who sings Mariah Carey Christmas karaoke, or a man who gleefully admits how much he loves mashed potatoes. He flips like a switch. Or, I guess, like a switchblade. “Why do you think he’s been following you around like a sentimental asshole? That’s not Nick.”
I bite out words. “Are you sure?”
“You’ve known him for how long? Three days?”
Johnny’s enjoying this, toying with me. As I wanted him to. But I didn’t think we’d go in this direction. I didn’t think we’d be here. Nick. Sentimental asshole. Following me around. Maybe my grandmother didn’t tell Nick to keep an eye on me, like he said that first night; maybe it was always Johnny. That doesn’t really matter, though. We’re past that.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, underlining the words in my head.
A sharp little laugh from Johnny. “Doesn’t it? Because that’s Nick to a T. Picks out some girl at a bar, tells her she’s special, tells her he’s special.” A tendon ticks in his jaw, like he’s about to reach out and bite me. Go in for the kill. “Did Nick feed you that line about CSIS?”
Panic wooshes past my ears. Suddenly, the ocean’s in there. Humming. Crashing against me. What did he just say?
Johnny licks the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, it always works. ‘I’ll protect you like I protect my country.’ All that bullshit. Takes out his badge and women lap it up.”
What the . . . What in the . . . ?
I shake my head, not processing, swimming, drowning—but still gripping on to my cover. “Wait, I don’t . . . what’s CSIS?”
Johnny gives me a slapable smirk. “Oh, so Nick didn’t use that line on you? That’s too bad. Guess he only pulls that one out when he wants to close the deal. Maybe you were easy.”
Scorching heat travels through my belly, a sloshing feeling invades my brain, and I . . . I don’t . . . I don’t want to believe it, but . . .
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
Betrayal feels like this. It feels like being sixteen years old and waiting in a driveway; it feels like standing alone but barely standing. At The Farm, you learn how to crash through a barrier at one hundred miles an hour, vehicle smashing through concrete. You pick the weakest spot. You pick the middle, the heart, the point where the concrete bows, the space that’s already cracked. And you drive right there, strike there. That’s what Nick’s done, hasn’t he?
He has, hasn’t he.
Because there are only two possibilities here. Either Nick isn’t affiliated with the Canadian Secret Intelligence Service—and, oh god, never has been—or he’s Johnny’s man on the inside. That’s a double cross, no matter how you spin it. And I . . . how could I have been so fucking stupid? My mouth dries as I think about all the questions I never asked. All the assumptions I made. Things like . . . Nick’s badge. Christ, the badge. Why the fuck would he carry that on an undercover mission? How was that even remotely believable? And he . . . he said he took the GPS tracker off Johnny’s car. I thought that was to protect me, to avoid suspicion, but what if it was to avoid tracking? He literally got himself stabbed for the man! And the wire. Nick didn’t want me to wear a wire to the bachelorette party. Of course he didn’t. Of course he didn’t!
Gail’s words come back and pierce my skin: Don’t fall for the target. The target could lie to you. The target could manipulate you. The target could fuck you against a dresser, and say, You’re not unknowable, Sydney, and you would be so far gone, so—
Johnny sniffs. “Nick is more loyal to me than anyone. If I asked him to shoot someone in the middle of the street, he would.”
“You do that often?” I manage to grit out, jaw clamping. I feel like if I clench myself together enough, I won’t completely fall apart—but I’m the concrete barrier. I’m the concrete. And Nick has found my weakest spot.
I told him. I told him about my dad. I told him about everything, and I let him in.
At my words, Johnny quirks his head to the side, moonlight streaming through my window blinds. A shard of it slashes over his five o’clock shadow, the whitish-blond bristles along the edge of his face. Coming one last step closer to me, he pauses, raising a hand above my head and placing it on the bookshelf. It’s a stomach-churning movement. A power pose. I stand my ground as he breathes into my face. Cinnamon chewing gum lolls around his mouth. “Now why would you ask a thing like that?”
My response is immediate, cold, even though I’m thinking Nick, Nick, Sidekick Nick. Everything he told me. Everything. All the lies. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
Johnny’s eyes flit over my face, probably deliberating. “You should know,” he says, acid in his voice. “This is a mutually assured destruction type deal. You take me out of the picture, and I take you down harder. I grind you into the floor.”
It’s so quiet, you could hear a snowflake drop between us, but just then, bells jingle downstairs—Grandma Ruby traipsing inside. Nick, chuckling.
God. Nick. The sound of his voice is a sledgehammer.
“Sydney?” my grandma calls up the stairs, her tone merry and bright. “You here? Come help us unpack! We bought more charcuterie!”
Johnny drops his hand with a gruff, humorless laugh. “That’s your cue, Sydney Bean. Let me know if your sister calls, yeah?”
17
Iunpack the sausages. I unpack the cheese. I unpack the tiny special grapes and the hard little apples, and all the while my blood is coursing, raging, and I . . . I let myself be vulnerable with a new person. I didn’t dole out tiny, calculated pieces of myself; I gave Nick the whole me, the hard parts, the messy, soft underlayer. The first person I’ve done that with in a long, long time. Almost a decade. He crashed through the barrier with his sweet talk and his stupid fucking honesty game, and I’m picturing him, dark-haired, lusty-eyed, capturing my bottom lip with his teeth, and—
Lies.
Liar.
I don’t know Nick. I never knew him. And I don’t know what he’s planning now.
A cold trickle of fear snakes into my abdomen. If I’m completely uncovered, if I’ve been burned, what are the chances that Nick will let me get away? Is he just biding his time, waiting for the successful completion of the next attack before he disposes of me? Those moments at the Moose Lodge, maybe he was deciding what to do with me: get me on board with him, or get me completely off board. Overboard. Duct tape. Into the sea. If Nick is capable of this, what else will he try?
I clack my tongue, tasting fury, tasting shame—and unpack all the groceries in a smooth, efficient manner. I barely manage to keep up appearances—but do convince my grandmother that Calla has actually gone to the spa. Grandma Ruby looks almost relieved. “Good,” she says, popping one of the unwashed grapes into her mouth. “That girl deserves a break. She works so hard.”
Nick’s there, too, burning a hole into my side, loading crackers into the pantry. So nonchalantly. Offering me a smile whenever he catches my glance, but I can’t force myself to return it. How dare he. How dare you. Every time I look at him, I’m back at the inn, his fingertips trailing down my skin, his breath in the crook of my neck, and then my mind snaps to Johnny—to the information he’s so graciously shared.
I fell for it. Fell for Nick. I was seduced. Exactly like Nick said he was planning.
Charcuterie safely in the fridge, I announce that I’m going to nap before I pass out. My voice doesn’t quiver; it’s as hard as concrete. I’m good. I’m acting. We’re back to this. Still, a line forms on Nick’s forehead, and he follows me into the hallway, catching my arm, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Hey, did something else happen?”
I wiggle my arm away, as unsuspiciously but firmly as I can. His touch is light but still wounds my skin; I feel like I’m going to bruise. “No, I’m fine.”
“That’s not what your face is saying.”
My tongue runs along my teeth, a searing pain rushing over the bridge of my nose. “What are my tells, then?”
Slowly, Nick raises a finger and traces the divot in my left cheek. “One of them is right there.”
Don’t touch me ever again, I think. Don’t you fucking dare. “Well, thank you for sharing that. Have a good night.”
“Wait, Sydney—”
“I’m just really tired, okay?” It’s all I can do not to break cover again. Break down. Tell him what Johnny said. Tell him that I know, and that he’s scum; if I never saw him again, it would be too soon.
Nick takes a step back, like he’s been stung. Not like he’s the wasp. “Yeah, okay. I hope you . . . get a lot of rest, then.”
“Thank you,” I say again, teeth half-gritted, texting my sister as soon as I lock my bedroom door: I’ve told Johnny that you’re at the spa. Wentworth by the Sea. Please, please just answer me.
Of course, I do not sleep. Falling asleep right now feels like a very dangerous idea. Unfortunately, staying awake any longer also seems like a terrible option. I twitch when, hours later, something scratches my door. It’s just Sweetie Pie. I open up for her, and she tippity-taps past my dresser, visiting me for a nightly checkup. “You want to join me, little noodle?” I whisper, anxious, broken, patting my bedsheets. “Come on, up! Up!”
Sweetie Pie obliges, heaving her weight onto the mattress in a magnificent arc. With a thud, she plops herself directly onto my pillow, curling into the perfect doggie donut.
At least I have her. At least there’s that.
Seems like I’ve lost everything and everyone else.
Around two in the morning, I fall asleep in front of my computer, and I dream about a snowball fight. A good old-fashioned snowball fight under the streetlights, Sweetie Pie rising onto her hind legs to catch the soft-packed powder. All of us humans have slipped into our winter hats and mittens, making our way into the biting cold, and I imagine myself with Nick, faux-tackling him into a snowbank. A cute peck on the tip of my cold nose. It’s an old-timey montage set to the soundtrack of Nat King Cole. Somewhere in the distance, chestnuts are roasting on an open fire. But then, everything changes: I’m packing snowballs with all the seriousness of a munitions factory worker. When my arm whips forward, I let loose a primal scream. The ball tears through the air with such velocity that I know—when it hits—this will feel a little less like a super-friendly game. With an echoing pop, the ball smacks Nick in the left shoulder, exploding in a spray of snow shrapnel, and he stumbles backward a few inches, and Calla, where’s Calla, where is my sister?
Not in her bed.
Still not in the house.
And now it’s 8 a.m. on Christmas Eve.
Closing the door to the guest room, I spin around on the upstairs landing, wiping a hand down my face. Yesterday’s clothes cling to my body. And I watch as a stream of strangers tramples in and out of our front door, Johnny directing them with enough hand movements to land a plane. This “small family get-together”—this little, laid-back wedding—has transformed into something that would better fit a holiday remake of Father of the Bride. First comes the furniture delivery. Dozens and dozens of white, seemingly hand-whittled chairs, stuffed in our living room, almost one on top of the other. All of our furniture’s being shunted to the side; movers are carrying our couch up to the attic. There goes Grandma Ruby’s reading chair, out to the garage. Sweetie Pie, for her part, is also staring down at the chaos from the landing, jowls quivering in disapproval.
“I know,” I tell her, throat tight. “I know, girl.”
She glances up at me like, Should I stop it? Should I woof?
I don’t know what to tell her. I really don’t. Grandma Ruby doesn’t, either. Apparently, all the deliveries are news to her as well. Three cakes arrive with tiers of white-frosted flowers. A team assembles to tack additional garlands to our ceiling. Literally tack them. With nails hammering, hooks hooking. A monumental wooden altar is shoved through our garage door, then stuffed between the Christmas trees in the living room. Then there’s the tinsel. So much tinsel. I have never seen this much tinsel in my life. It snakes around all the surfaces, around the candles on our dining room table. By the afternoon, we are rivaling Santa’s workshop—and nothing feels like ours. Even Grandma Ruby’s miniature snow village is given a back seat, shoved atop the corner bookshelf.
