Four Seconds to Lose (6 page)

And I release the smallest breath of relief. That was the easy part.

If I let myself think about it for one second, what I’m walking into is downright terrifying. So I don’t think about it. I blank my mind and pretend I’m about to go onstage as I wheel the bag into the elevator and hit the seventeenth-floor button. In a way, I am. I’m certainly playing a role.

Leaning against the cool wall, I watch the buttons light up, sure to keep my face angled down, away from the security cameras. And I wonder, for the thousandth time, how I got myself into this mess. How could I have done things differently? What is it about
me
that made this arrangement a wise bet for Sam? Was this what I was always meant to be? Or was it meant to be my mother? Some people might wonder what drew a smart, wealthy New York businessman to a twenty-one-year-old stripper with a child. Aside from her stunning beauty, of course. But, had she not died, would
she
be standing in this elevator right now, instead of me? Am I merely a delayed substitute?

And did she know what kind of world she was bringing her daughter into?

Twelve years ago, I stepped into a fairy tale. My new stepdad had taken my tiny hand and led me into a room doused in purple and brimming with toys, books, and clothes. Everything needed to win a six-year-old’s love and devotion. And win it, he did. Sam showered me with more affection, more gifts, and more attention than I could ever possibly imagine. Everything I could want and things I could never dream of.

Like the day Becky Taylor said her daddy loved her more than mine loved me because he bought her a pony. The fact that I never even met my real dad made that sting so much more than it should have. I’m not the type of kid to cry, but that day I came home crying.

A few weeks later, for my ninth birthday, I found a black stallion with a yellow bow around his neck tied to a tree in our backyard. It was the best birthday present I’d ever received, and it solidified how much more Sam loved me because he didn’t buy me a measly pony. He bought me a racehorse.

I named him Black Jack. Not very original as far as racehorse names go, but Sam said it was perfect. On the day that Black Jack won at the Belmont, Sam was the one hoisting me up onto the horse’s back. A photo of that still sits framed on Sam’s desk at home, making him appear the proud, doting father.

An illusion. For outsiders, for me. Maybe even for himself.

I didn’t notice for a long time that Sam might be “different.” I mean, he was my dad and the only person I had. And besides, I was “different” too. Exceptionally intelligent, according to all of the aptitude tests. But with those results came reports that I was unusually inexpressive. “Morose,” some jackass teacher called me in a parent-teacher interview, because I didn’t gallop around, hooting and hollering and giggling, like every other kid around me. “Weird,” I heard some kids whisper not so discreetly behind my back.

Sam said they were a bunch of idiots and I was perfect the way I was. But he also decided I should learn how to hoot and holler and giggle. So he signed me up for acting classes. He told me that sometimes you need to pretend to be something you’re not. Turns out I’m a terrific actress. When I’m concentrating, I can mold myself into just about anything.

Maybe
that’s
why Sam thought this would be a good fit.

I was ten the first time I witnessed something one might call “shady.” Sam and I took a father-daughter trip down to Nicoll Bay one evening. On the way, we played a fun game of do-you-see-any-strange-cars-following-us, where I watched out the back window for any vehicle that kept making the same turns as we did. When we arrived, it was dark and quiet down by the water. We went for a walk, and he held my hand as I devoured a strawberry ice-cream cone. I remember us stopping at one point, him reaching into his coat pocket. A second later, he swung his arm back and launched something into the deep waters.

He took my hand again, winked at me, and we continued walking.

I didn’t ask what he had thrown in. In fact, I didn’t say a word. I just squeezed his hand and we continued walking.

I was twelve the time that I passed by the cellar in the middle of the night—on my way to grab a new box of bagel bites from the basement freezer—and heard the angry voices. I had to press my ear to the door. Sam and Dominic were in there arguing, something about the police and fingerprints and Dominic wanting “out” and Sam telling him there is no “out,” that they were in this together. In a harsh tone that Sam never used on me, he accused his best friend of being fucking sloppy. Sam never swore. The stairs creaked loudly as I scurried back to the kitchen, where I pretended to heat up a glass of milk.

That’s where Sam found me.

“What did you hear?” he had asked in that cool, even tone of his, his gray eyes severe. I never lied to Sam and my instincts told me not to start then. “You and Dominic talking about the police and fingerprints.”

With a deep inhale, his hand lifted to his mouth to cover it with a rub, smothering a curse. “Sometimes you might hear things that you shouldn’t hear.”

I nodded slowly.

“It’s important that you never repeat those things. Ever. Or everything that we have here—you, me, this house, your life—it’s gone. You’ll be taken away. You’ll live in an orphanage, where people won’t appreciate you for who you are. You’ll have no one to love you. You won’t be in gymnastics or acting. Do you want that?”

Pursing my lips tightly, I shook my head.

“
Never
talk about things you may hear or think, okay?” Sam warned.

I nodded again. “Just like that night at Nicoll Bay.”

I remember his eyes widening, as if startled. As if he was surprised I noticed or remembered, or both. “Yes. Just like that. People will use information to hurt us. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No.” I leaned in to wrap my arms around him in a hug. Sam was the only dad I knew. He loved me, even though I didn’t see him very much on account of his busy schedule. But he made sure to attend every gymnastics competition and every school play. He always sat in the front row and he was
always
the first one on his feet—his arms loaded with flowers—to tell me what an incredible little actor I was going to be. The idea of losing him pained me. I would do anything
not
to lose him.

When Dominic’s wife came to our door a week later in hysterics, looking for her husband who’d been missing for days, I stood beside Sam and watched quietly as he hugged her and wiped her tears, as he shook his head, his face full of concern, telling her that we hadn’t seen him since the Fourth of July party, three weeks earlier. When she hazarded a glance at me, I bobbed my head up and down in concurrence.

That was the first flat-out lie I’d ever told for Sam.

After she left, Sam patted me on the back and whispered, “That’s my little mouse. Quiet as can be.”

I beamed. Making Sam proud always made me feel warm inside back then.

A hiker found Dominic’s body at a national park in Maine, months later. His gun lay next to him. The news report cited a suicide. All Sam said was, “It’s a shame.” No shock in his eyes, no tears down his cheeks. Not until the funeral, that is. That’s where he let loose. Apparently, Sam has his own acting abilities.

Me? I said absolutely nothing.

And now I’m here.

The elevator dings as it reaches the seventeenth floor, and I need to clench my muscles to stop from peeing as I roll the suitcase out.
You can do this
.
The last time was fine.

Yet something about this delivery feels different. The guys I delivered to before were different. That hotel wasn’t as classy. And this bag is just too damn big. If it’s completely full, then . . .

I try not to think about it, zoning in on the door numbers and the exit signs and camera at the end of the hall. By the time I reach 1754, my pep talk has lost all it’s worth and I’m back to clenching my muscles.

Two quick knocks followed by a long pause and a third knock, per Sam’s directions. My stomach leaps into my throat as I see something pass behind the peephole. I’d had to take my sunglasses off in the lobby because walking through a hotel with them on is just plain suspicious. Thankfully, with heavy makeup and the hair, most people wouldn’t recognize me if they passed me on the street.

The door opens to a tall, balding man in a tan golf shirt who matches the picture I found in the draft email. He goes by Bob. A very basic, very fake name. He doesn’t even bother to conceal the Beretta strapped to his hip.

This is where I leverage the acting skills that got me into Tisch in the first place.

With a friendly smile, I offer, “It’s so good to see you again!” That’s the scripted line, and I’d made sure I memorized it to a tee. Big Sam relies on various forms of safeguards. That’s why, even with burner phones, we never talk openly. That’s why even his draft emails, never transmitted, are worded carefully. That’s why there are several very specific stages to these exchanges.

That’s why he continues doing what he does, smoothly defying the law.

Based on their appearances, these guys are the type to take precautions as well. I hold my head up as the man leads me through the spacious suite, past two little boys distracted with a boxing game on their Wii, and into a bedroom where a blond man in his mid-thirties lays on his king-sized bed, one arm resting behind his head while he surfs the channels.

Unremarkable green eyes finally peel themselves from the screen to take my face in and roll over my body. I want to shudder, but I smile instead and say, “Hello, Eddie.” That’s the name that went with the other picture. Not his real name either, of course.

“Hello, Jane. You a cop?” he asks.

“Isn’t that a made-for-television line?” I shoot back smoothly. It’s kind of disturbing, how easily I can fall into this role when I’m finally in it. I think it’s my strength with improvisation-style acting, coupled with an instinctive need for self-preservation. Whatever it is, I come off as confident and experienced. The two things Sam said I must exude. The two things I am most definitely not. “But if it makes you feel any better . . . no, I’m not a cop. You know who my boss is, Eddie.” Well, he knows who my boss is, but he doesn’t know that my boss is also my stepdad. Under no circumstances does that kind of information
ever
get revealed, a rule Sam drilled into my head long ago.

Without preamble, Bob seizes my purse and begins his search, flipping through my wallet, past the cheap, dummy driver’s license with the name, “Jane,” that I use for these occasions. A third identity. Another safeguard à la Sam. He doesn’t bother reading the information because he knows as well as I do that it’s a fake. Once done with my wallet, he empties the few other contents within my bag—a pack of gum, a pen, the Glock that Uncle Jimmy armed me with.
Just for show. It’s expected,
he told me. All the same, Eddie’s brow arches as Bob lays that on a side table. “You know how to use that?”

“What do you think?” Yes, I know how to use a gun. I’ve known since I was sixteen, when Sam casually suggested bringing me with him to the shooting range. As an avid hunter, he likes to keep up with his target practice and he goes every Saturday. I jumped at the chance to spend more time with him, likening it to a father-daughter bonding moment.

I’m an okay shot.

Sam is a killer shot.

Eddie doesn’t answer me. Instead, he offers with a lazy smile, “If it makes you feel any better, we aren’t cops either.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve settled that,” I mutter dryly. “I hope you’re enjoying your family vacation. It’s quite lovely here. Hot though, this time of year.”

A family vacation. I guess that’s part of the big ruse. Take your family on a vacation. Send the innocent young woman in to deliver the goods. No one pays any attention.

That’s Sam for you. Clever.

I’m wondering how many hotel rooms these poor kids see.

A crooked smirk curls Eddie’s lip. “Yes, the wife is out spending my hard-earned money.”

Satisfied that my purse isn’t bugged, Bob now steps toward me and demands, “Arms up,” in a firm voice. I comply swiftly, my stomach tightening in knots. I focus on a painting that hangs over the bed’s headboard, on the woman dancing in the rain with a red umbrella lying on the sidewalk next to her. Thinking about how much nicer my life would be if
I
could be dancing in the rain right now.

That thought reminds me that only seven hours from now, I’ll be using my pole-dancing lessons for the greater good of Miami horn dogs.

And for that strange club owner.

I wonder if that will churn my stomach worse than this.

I welcome the distraction that comes with those thoughts as Bob’s hands take their time, working their way up and down my legs, making me take my shoes off. When his fingers start prodding my crotch area, I clench my teeth together tightly, wishing I were allowed to wear jeans. If I had, though, they’d make me take them right off.

I breathe.

Deep, long breaths.

I breathe through the rising discomfort, the panic, the nausea.

The harsh memory.

Sam promised me that that these buyers aren’t lowlifes. They’re smart businessmen—just like him. Interested in nothing more than making money.

That nothing like
that
would ever happen again.

“Come on, hurry it up,” Eddie barks. Bob’s rough hands squeeze my ass on their way up to my shirt, then under my shirt, where they linger.

Deep breaths.

I am not really here.

This will be over soon.

Though I don’t enjoy this any more than the attention to my lower region, it doesn’t jog the same horrific memories. Still, when a fingertip digs under my bra and starts sliding back and forth over my nipple—the lascivious flicker of a smile touching Bob’s lips—I decide I’ve had enough.

“Sal Pal liked doing that too,” I say in a low, calm voice, fighting the shiver that name still elicits as I level Bob with a meaningful stare.