The Disappearance of Sloane Sullivan, page 32
She places a cold hand over the one I have resting on the counter. “Hold on to your brother now that your parents are gone.”
I nod, because I’m not sure I could say anything with the way my throat is closing up.
“Meet me by the door in the back and I’ll be there in a minute.”
Exactly as promised, a minute later she opens the door from the inside and leads me into a musty-smelling room lined on three sides with rows of shiny metal doors. The top few rows are tiny boxes, about two inches by five inches, all numbered in the three hundreds. Then two rows of medium-sized boxes, numbered in the six hundreds. And on the bottom is a single row of large boxes, about ten inches square, all with numbers in the nine hundreds.
The woman inches around the small metal table and chair in the center of the room and kneels in front of box 911, inserting the two keys she pulls from her pocket. She turns each key slowly, like it’s a sacred act, a ritual to release the secrets of the box. My head feels light with the possibilities of what I’m about to see when she opens the door, but she removes each key and stands, holding one out to me. “You can keep this now that you’re back.”
I shake my head. No matter what’s in the box, I can’t come back here again. “I’m not going to need it anymore. But thank you.”
She looks like she wants to say more. Instead, she nods once and leaves, closing the door behind her.
My eyes land on box 911 and suddenly the room feels too tight, too quiet. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I can hear it in my ears as I bend down and place my hand flat on the cool metal. I don’t know if it’s anticipation or dread that’s making my whole body buzz. I try to swallow down the feeling, to stay focused, and pull the door open slowly.
All I see is black.
I reach into the space and my fingers brush against a rough, canvasy material. I grab a handful of it and pull. Whatever it is, it’s heavier than I was expecting. After a few good yanks, it finally breaks free.
It’s a small black duffel bag.
I examine the outside. No tags or labels or markings of any kind. I frown and glance around the room. No cameras either. So I place the bag on the metal table and unzip it. And all the air leaves my lungs at once.
It’s not the stacks and stacks of $100 bills that have made my body forget that breathing is something it actually needs to do. It’s the piece of paper on top of the money, neatly folded in half, with the words Read me scribbled in very familiar cramped, slanted letters.
All the blood feels like it leaves my head as I open the paper.
Hey Sasha,
If you’ve made it this far, you just talked your way into a safe deposit box without a key. I would say I’m impressed, but I knew you could do it.
So let’s get the obvious out of the way. No, you’re not hallucinating this letter. And no, I’m not dead.
I force a shaky breath into my lungs. How is this possible?
Remember how I told you no one in my family understood me except for one cousin I didn’t get to see very often? He’s six months younger than me, and growing up he was more of a brother than any of my real brothers were. And like all of us, he was given a traditional Italian name by my uncle Gino: Antonio.
As soon as he turned eighteen, he left home and never looked back, just like I’d always wanted to do. He changed his last name from Rosetti to his mother’s maiden name: Dixon.
My legs buckle and I plop down hard in the metal chair. Holy shit.
You have no way of knowing this, but I used to call Tony “Dixon” when we were younger, and he called me by my mother’s maiden name. It was our way of distancing ourselves from the family. I’m glad you’ve kept up the tradition. And don’t worry—Dixon’s not a double agent or anything. He’s truly one of the good guys. He’d always talked about us joining the Marshals one day so we could help people trying to stop families like ours. He learned everything he could about them and taught it all to me. That’s how I got the idea to pretend to be a Marshal when I was trying to protect you and your dad. Only Dixon actually did it. He became a real Marshal, just one with a little built-in knowledge about the Rosettis.
I never had any contact with Dixon after we went into hiding. The family disowned him when he left, and I didn’t know what had happened to him until that night in Avalon. Needless to say, I was shocked when I heard his voice. And even more shocked when he told you I was dead after just asking me whether I was okay.
That moment Dixon had leaned over Mark’s body seemed to last forever. But I thought it was because Dixon was checking Mark’s pulse or listening for a heartbeat and wasn’t finding anything, not because he was talking to Mark.
After you passed out and I made sure you were okay, Dixon gave me the quick version of everything that happened. How they’d sent him to North Carolina when they thought they were closing in on us because, if it came down to it, he would’ve had the best chance of talking me into returning you peacefully. How they found you. How they told you about me. He said you stood up for me with the Marshals, didn’t automatically think the worst. Thanks for that. But he knew you needed answers and that you’d try to find me. So he intentionally left things you might’ve wanted to see unguarded several times throughout the day, didn’t bother to put away the car key, and tracked the car once you took it. And then he gave me a choice: join WITSEC and testify against my family or disappear for good.
I wasn’t as brave as you. We’d found the voice recorder in your back pocket, so I knew that would be almost as good as my testimony. I saw my chance and I took it. I couldn’t stand up to my family, not after I’d killed
Lorenzo. And, after shooting Jason, I didn’t think you’d want to see me again. I just wanted out. I’m sorry.
Tears prick at my eyes. I want to tell him he is brave. He’s the one who protected me from his family, who taught me how to protect myself, who helped me make my own choices and become Sasha again, even though it meant I might choose to leave him behind. And who’s risking his secret just so I don’t feel guilty anymore.
I was long gone by the time the ambulance and backup arrived in Avalon. Dixon told the other Marshals that I knocked him out and got away. They stayed with you and Jason while Dixon allegedly left to chase me. Really, he helped me stage a fiery car crash. By the time Dixon supposedly found me and reported the accident to the local cops, there wasn’t really anything left of my body to return to my family. At least that’s what everyone was told after a rather large bribe to a rather corrupt coroner. And a crash was an easy lie for the Marshals to believe when they thought I’d been driving while suffering from a gunshot wound. My family, the Marshals, everyone thought I was dead. Including you.
My mind reels as everything clicks into place. How Dixon said it didn’t take him long to “get up to speed” on the Rosettis. How his eyes reminded me of Mark’s. How he told me the recording stopped when I collapsed, before he said Mark was dead. How quickly he’d dismissed what I’d done as self-defense. How he didn’t come with me to the trials, where his family would’ve been. How he said I’d be doing him a favor if I never talked about what happened that night again. How no one ever asked me during my testimony about how Mark died. All this time I thought Dixon was a slightly careless young agent when really, he’s the most devious one of us all.
I’m sorry you had to think I was dead for so long. I wanted you to be able to testify truthfully, without having to lie to cover for me. I didn’t want to put you in that position. But now that you’re done testifying, I had to contact you one last time to tell you the truth. I promised no more lies. And I wanted to give you your share of the money. I saved it for both of us, for our futures, so it’s yours. Well, some of it is rightfully Jason’s too.
I blink at that last line.
When we first started planning Mark and Sloane
Sullivan—when I knew we were getting out for good—I sent Scott Thomas an anonymous letter. I’m not proud of letting someone else take the fall for my mistake, but, like I’ve always told you, I wanted to protect you. I let Scott be framed so I could stay with you. Didn’t mean I didn’t feel guilty though. So in the letter I said I was someone familiar with the Rosettis who wanted to help him, any way I could. I gave him a PO box as a return address (totally untraceable, of course) and waited. I wasn’t sure he’d trust an anonymous letter enough to reply, but he did. With a single handwritten sentence, “Take care of my family,” and an address. That’s why we moved to North Carolina.
A long, slow breath escapes me.
I wanted to see Scott’s family and figure out the best way to secretly give them some money. Not that money would make up for what they lost; it was just the best I could do under the circumstances. But the address he gave me was for a real estate agent named Jill who lived with her husband and no kids. When Scott said “family,” I pictured more than a possible ex-wife who’d remarried. I didn’t know whether I had the wrong house entirely or what. I was so focused on figuring out how Jill fit into the picture—she’s Scott’s sister-in-law, as you probably already know—that I didn’t even think to research where Scott’s family lived in New Jersey. Or, more specifically, who they lived next to.
I wonder whether Jason’s dad didn’t know Jason’s address after he and his mom moved out of his aunt’s house, or whether his dad didn’t trust an anonymous letter as much as it seemed he did.
You’re not the only one who broke the rules. I didn’t know Scott was your next-door neighbor, I didn’t know he had a son your age and I definitely didn’t know you knew that son so well. But I knew we were moving to a town where someone from our hometown lived. I guess I figured if anything suspicious happened, you’d let me know. That’s why I rented the house in Avalon; just in case you recognized someone and we needed to move quickly. We’d never had a backup house before and because I didn’t want to tell you why we had one this time, I kept it a secret. I didn’t put everything together until Jason showed up at the Avalon house. And, well, you know how that turned out. I suppose there’s some irony to the fact I’m the reason you and Jason found each other again. But thinking like that hurts my head. The what-ifs are the worst, you know?
The corner of my mouth twitches.
Don’t worry—I’m not a what-if you have to worry about. I don’t know who you are now. Dixon told me I could use a bank in this town, but I have no idea why. I’m not trying to be part of your life again. Not unless you want me to be, on your terms. There’s a number on the back of this letter. If you ever need me for any reason, please use it. I’ll keep the phone on 24/7, just in case. Maybe our paths will cross again someday. Until then, know you’ll always be in my heart. You’ll always be my family.
Mark
A half amazed, half disbelieving sound leaves my mouth and I shake my head slowly, holding the letter up to my face as if feeling it with some other body part besides my fingers will help convince me it’s real. And as soon as I take my first breath, I’m convinced. Because after being trapped in the airtight safe deposit box, the paper still smells, just a hint, like the spicy cologne Mark always wore.
So many emotions flow through me I don’t know what to do. Wherever Mark is, I want to yell at him for keeping me in the dark and hug him because he’s alive and smack him for shooting Jason. But mostly I want to thank him for giving me a way out. Because the money will definitely come in handy. Because now I know Dixon won’t try to find us. And because, for the first time in eight months, I feel like I can finally breathe. I’m not a murderer.
My body’s buzzing again, but this time it’s a good feeling, an I-need-to-tell-someone-about-this feeling. And suddenly I can’t be in this tiny room a moment longer.
I stuff Mark’s letter back in the bag, toss the bag over one shoulder and across my body to distribute the weight so it won’t look so heavy and slip out the door.
Everyone—the tellers, the bank manager, even the woman by the counter with the fussy baby squirming in her arms—looks first at me, then at the bag. I pull the baseball cap a little lower over my eyes.
“All set?” the manager asks from behind one of the wooden desks.
I nod and flash her a quick smile as I cross the room. “Thanks again.”
Before she can come up with any more questions, I’m through the first set of double doors. I force myself to stand perfectly still while I wait for the second set to unlock. Come on, come on, come on. Then there’s a buzz and I’m free.
I’m finally free.
Jason’s whole body sighs in relief when he spots me coming his way. He’s sitting on the hood of his car, still parked in the restaurant parking lot I left him in, with a milkshake in one hand and another sweating in a plastic cup on the hood next to him. His eyes never leave mine until I’m standing right in front of him, setting the bag on the ground.
He holds out the extra milkshake. “I figured they might get suspicious if I didn’t go in and order something.”
It’s cool and minty and chocolatey going down my throat and I vow to have one of these every single day on our road trip. I smile and lock eyes with the boy I’ve loved since I was little. The boy who knows to buy milkshakes to keep up appearances. Who knows the real me. Who thinks I killed someone and still wants to be with me. “You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What?”
I pick up the duffel bag and shove it in the backseat. “I’ll tell you all about it in the car.” Holding a hand out to him, I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Are you ready to disappear forever?”
Jason’s smile is dazzling. “Absolutely.”
“Then let’s go.”
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
It takes a lot of people to make a book, more than I can thank here, but to everyone who helped turn Sloane from an idea in my head into an actual book, I’m eternally grateful. And super special thanks to:
My agent, Steven Salpeter, for pulling me from the slush, reading my manuscript at the speed of light and making me an offer that changed everything. Your enthusiasm for this book has never let up, and I wouldn’t want anyone else guiding me through the publishing world. Thank you for finding Sloane such a wonderful home. And thanks for taking a chance on me!
My editor, Lauren Smulski, whose hard work and amazing insight helped strengthen Sloane. Thank you for jumping in headfirst and making this a better book! And big thanks to the rest of the Harlequin TEEN team for working tirelessly on my behalf: Natashya Wilson, Bryn Collier, Evan Brown, Krista Mitchell, Siena Koncsol, Linette Kim, Sean Kapitain and Mary Luna for your editorial, marketing and publicity genius; an amazing cover; and all the things I don’t even know about but am still grateful for. Thank you all for helping make my dream come true!
The wonderful team at Curtis Brown, for everything you’ve done to help me on this amazing journey: Tim Knowlton, Holly Frederick, Maddie Tavis, Jonathan Lyons, Sarah Perillo and Laura Blake Peterson. And special thanks to Holly for the time and thought you’ve given to Sloane. I’m so honored to have you all in my corner!
Michael Strother, for loving Sloane first and for the feedback that helped me start revising this book into what I wanted it to be. And to the stranger who sat next to Michael on the subway, read my submission over his shoulder and told him you liked it, thank you too. Speaking of strangers, big thanks to Gaby Salpeter, for taking the time to do a super quick read of a portion of Sloane even though you didn’t know me or that Steven was my agent yet. I appreciate your time and hope you get a chance to read the whole book now!
All of the people involved in the online writing contests I entered this book in during various stages of drafting and revising. Your tips and feedback helped both me and this story along the way, and for that I will always be grateful.
Jennifer Spina, who read the very first thing I wrote—which was bad—and still sent me the loveliest words of encouragement. I pull out your note and read it sometimes when I’m positive I have no idea how to write. Your words inspire mine, so thank you. And stop living so far away.
My family—you know who you are—for encouraging me in countless ways, being my biggest cheerleaders and knowing that books always make the best presents. Thanks to my brother, Marc, for letting me borrow your name for one of my favorite characters in the book. And to my mom for letting nine-year-old me go into that bookstore and pick out any book I wanted. You probably didn’t know what you were starting, but I loved it. And I love you all.
My husband, Erik, for the millions of things you’ve done to support me and this whole writing thing, like cooking dinners when I’m lost in a fictional world, reading every word I’ve ever written, making me Sloane swag before it was even a completed manuscript and not batting an eye the day I said, out of the blue, “I think I’m going to write a book.” There aren’t enough words to say how much your support means to me. You’re the best husband a girl could ask for and I’m so glad you’re mine. I love you.
My daughters, for sharing me with the characters living in my head, talking about them like they’re real people and being just as excited as I am whenever I get good book news. I may always be creating new characters for new stories, but you two are the best things I’ve ever made. I wrote this book for you, knowing that even if it never got published, I could give it to you as proof that you can’t be afraid to chase your dreams. I hope you like it. And I love you both to pieces.
Last, but certainly not least, thank you to my readers for picking up Sloane and giving it a chance. I’m so excited to be able to share it with you.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
