Chapter Three

It started with cookies. Either Keira or I would hit up the local bakery wherever we lived and order offensive Valentine’s Day treats. It began simply—sugar cookies iced with Love Bites and Cupid is Stupid. Then it evolved into feminist slogans like I Heart Me and Singles Unite! But this holiday, given everything Keira had been through, I thought we needed a raw, honest approach. So I ordered a last-minute custom batch of two dozen heart-shaped cookies with black icing and red lettering. In the center of the hideous pink box was one massive cookie that read: “Things I hate more than my exes.” Surrounding that super cookie were smaller sugar hearts with varying slogans of my choosing: internet trolls, group texts, slow walkers, reply all, pap smears, anonymous sources, Like buttons, shapewear, and several other torturous topics until we got to the ultimate cookie that read, “My Parents.”

It was harsh in a way that only a sister could get away with. And the whole thing made Marcus very uncomfortable, especially since his brother was one of the ex-boyfriends who deserved to have his head bitten off like a day-old gingerbread man.

“You’ve really done this before?” he asked as he hung a rosy garland with pastel hearts that read “Can you not” and “Single 4eva.”

“Some years have been more elaborate than others,” I said. “The year Keira was dating a married doctor who spent Valentine’s Day with his wife in Maui, we had a piñata shaped like a penis. It took a lot of hits before it went down.”

“Ouch.” Marcus cringed, moving his hand in front of his crotch.

“White chocolate hearts fell out.”

“That’s gross.”

We laughed, and I remembered Keira whaling at the paper penis with a Wiffle-ball bat until we moved on to a wooden mop handle. Maybe I should’ve gotten another piñata? There was something satisfying about whaling at an object as hard as you could.

“Maybe I should teach Keira karate? Let her hit something. You get this surge…” I glanced at the security guard in the doorway, as if I could feel the adrenaline of a fight coursing through me right now. “Ken, do you box? Do martial arts? Anything?”

His eyes cut my way, but his body didn’t twitch, a perfect soldier. “Rugby.”

“See.” I arched my brows. “Ken gets it.”

“Leave Ken out of it,” Marcus replied, grabbing more streamers. As brave as he was, Marcus wasn’t a fighter. I doubted he liked that I was, but it got my sister rescued, so no one could complain. Unless I tried to do it again, at which time I was sure they’d all complain very loudly. “I don’t think your sister needs any more violence.”

“I don’t think any of us do,” I grumbled, my brain flicking to Marcus’s poisoning, Tyson’s funeral, and Regina’s video. A lump formed in my throat.

I still couldn’t believe that Tyson didn’t exist anymore. The guy who sparred with me at karate was now underneath the ground, life over, after only seventeen years. Because of my family. My eyes welled, and I reached for one of the blood red paper napkins that promoted, “S.A.D. Single Awareness Day.” They were resting next to a collection of rank-smelling snacks, including—Funions, aged cheddar horseradish chips, and mini tuna-fish sandwiches. To wash it down, Charlotte made a vodka and kombucha cocktail. I wasn’t sure if the miracle tea possessed the health benefits celebrities claimed, but I was sure that it smelled like rotten eggs that had been eaten by a farm animal and regurgitated in liquid form. It was a buffet that would repel all romance.

“This is really nice of you,” Marcus said as he fanned out black plastic plates.

“It’s what Keira and I would do if we were home.”

“Aren’t we home now?” Marcus cocked his head, black bangs falling into his dark eyes.

I hadn’t thought of that, but we had been living on Julian’s posh British property for months. Charlotte had an official work visa through Phillip Stone Media, Inc., while the rest of us freeloaded as tourists. Or guests of the CIA. Or persons of interest likely being monitored by satellites circling overhead.

“I don’t know. I don’t have much experience with homes.” I shrugged. “We sold the Brookline brownstone.”

The proceeds of the sale were supposed to allow Keira and me to become anonymous waitresses in France somewhere. Only that never happened. Our whole lives, we shuffled from one place to another. Our three years in Boston marked our longest time anywhere, and those memories seriously lacked smells of roasted chicken in the oven and fleece blankets by the fire.

Marcus dropped the package of black plastic forks he was holding. “When this is done, let’s start over somewhere.”

“That’s the plan.” Though it felt like that plan was set in an alternate universe where commuters flew winged unicorns to work.

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” He sounded serious, and his eyes had the glint of someone picturing thick terrycloth towels on a beach or lattes in a funky cafe. He was picturing us holding hands and happy in a real hometown. Our hometown. Do not crush this moment, I warned myself. But it took all my mental strength to silence the inner cynic that wanted to shout, “That’s not real life! Why waste time picturing things that can’t happen?” Instead, I gave him the truth—the dream sequence I pictured every night when I placed my head on the cool side of the pillow.

“College,” I said. “I don’t care where. I want a backpack and a quad and late-night pizza. I want giant classes in an auditorium and ivy growing up the walls. I never even liked school before, and now I fantasize about midterms. Does that make me a loser?”

“No, it makes you normal.” He looked at me like he shared my fantasy. “I got you something for Valentine’s Day.” His dimples flashed.

“What? We weren’t supposed to get each other anything!” Though I’d also secretly picked him up something during my Anti-Valentine’s Day shopping.

“I got it a while ago, when I was out with Julian.” Marcus pulled a small box from the deep pocket of his wide-leg black jeans, a metal chain clanging as it hung from his wallet. “We passed by this antique store and I saw it in the window. It was like I was destined to be there, to give it to you.”

He handed me the gift, and my heart sprinted—it was a little black jewelry box, like that type of jewelry box. I had never been given so much as a Ring Pop before, not even by my parents. Sure, my ears were pierced, but I rarely wore earrings, and when I did they were fake diamond studs I picked up at a department store for 75 percent off the day after Christmas. Keira was the one who loved jewelry. She had boxes filled with vintage ’80s fashion accessories, which used to include the gold K ring I gave her, until we lost that outside of Luis Basso’s car in Tuscany.

“You bought me jewelry?” I said in a small, uncertain voice. My hands shook as I stared at the black velvet box.

“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly, reading my thoughts as he squeezed my hand. “It’s not like that. It just…made me think of you.”

I held my breath like the roller coaster was about to take the big plunge—equal parts scared and excited. Inside, nestled in a puff of black foam, was a silver Victorian key twisted into a ring. I lifted it out. The key had been melted down and designed to wrap around a finger. The lock tip and decoratively etched oval-shaped handle meeting on top. Its silver surface was a little scratched and imperfect, showing it had clearly been a real skeleton key at some point.

“Try it on,” Marcus instructed.

I slid the ring onto the middle finger of my left hand and it fit snugly, perfectly.

“The saleswoman said it was really old, and she thought it was made in Spain, like me.” His voice was gushing with pride, but I couldn’t look at his face. I was too busy staring at the ring on my finger. “Given everything you said about home, and not having one, I wanted you to know that I’ve been feeling the same lately. Yes, Madrid is my home. But now all my memories there are tainted. But you’re not. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I think Julian’s estate is home now.”

My heart practically exploded like smiley face fireworks. I had spent my whole life dreaming of a home, with a real family and real friends. I always pictured it on a street with a white picket fence, where kids learn to ride bikes and dads mow the lawn. But maybe all those cheesy slogans are true. Maybe home is more about people than a place. Only before I could throw myself at Marcus and kiss him like he’d never been kissed before, he bounced on his toes.

“There’s more!”

“More?” I yelped, my eyes locking on his. “How could there possibly be more than this?”

“Not more, exactly,” he hedged, wagging his head in explanation. “Just matching.”

He lifted the silver chain that hung from his wallet and snapped a tiny vintage padlock into place, the size of a silver dollar. “I bought the lock in the same antique store, and I already threw out the key, in the river. Now it’ll never open. It’ll never come off,” he explained, leaning his face toward me. “As long as you wear the key.”

My jaw dropped as I stepped back. “Aw, Marcus! Why you gotta do stuff like this?” I whined, staring petulantly at the ceiling and tossing my hands in the air.

“You don’t like it?” He sounded wounded.

My gaze shot toward him. “No, I love it! Obviously! How could I not? It’s perfect!”

“Then, I’m confused.” His brow furrowed.

“It’s just, you went out and got me this insanely thoughtful gift. I mean, a key to your lock!” I gestured to him in frustration. “And I got you—”

“You got me something?” His voice was hopeful as his eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t get excited,” I groaned, reaching into one of the plastic drugstore bags on the floor, the one that held the broken candy hearts and the penis straws. I cleared my throat and tried to sound as respectful as I could. “I got you this.”

I pulled out a stuffed lion in zebra-print underwear holding a fuchsia pillow heart that read “You make my heart roar!” Then I tossed it at his head.

Marcus ducked, laughing as he plucked the lion off the marble floor. “Oh, really, you shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were going to go all Romeo, or I would have made an effort!” I griped, though I couldn’t stop looking at the ring.

“Were there no Pez dispensers left? No dying flowers?” he teased, wiping his eyes as he giggled.

“I’ll have you know that Keira and I always bought each other awful gifts like this, so I thought it was appropriate, fitting with the theme of our celebration.” My cheeks flamed.

“It’s perfect.” He grabbed my hands and pulled me toward him, his fingers pinching the ring he’d given me. “I love you.”

That day in Rio, in Marcus’s hospital room, was the first time I’d ever said “I love you” to a guy. In fact, I’d never said it to anyone, not even my family, until Keira was found safe. We were never those type of people, and I didn’t realize it was unusual until after their car exploded, until after it was too late to slather my parents with the words. Now, Marcus said it to me as easily as hello and goodbye, while I still struggled. Not because I didn’t mean it, but because I did. And I was afraid loving him meant losing him. Everything I loved was taken away.

Always.

So I didn’t reply. Instead, I kissed him, my mouth doing the talking my brain couldn’t always do. His hands slipped around my waist.

Then I heard my sister gag as she stepped into the doorway. “I’m so glad I let you talk me into this.”

I pulled back from Marcus, eyes darting toward Keira. “Happy Anti-Valentine’s Day!” I cheered, shifting away from him.

“Yeah, this is gonna be so awesome.” She rolled her eyes, immediately reaching for the alcoholic pitcher.

I held up my hands to apologize, but I caught a glimpse of the ring on my finger.

Marcus was my home.

I was his key.

I was turning into one of those girls, and I was afraid I actually liked it.

“I’m deciding which one I should bite.” Keira swayed a bit as she sat at Julian’s marble breakfast bar, clutching a cookie that read “hipster beards” and another that read “wannabe guitarists.” “I hated Antonio’s beard, so scratchy, but I also hate thinking of him with that freakin’ guitar, acting all sexy…” She squinted at the cookies.

“You think guitar is sexy?” Marcus raised a teasing eyebrow, knowing he and his brother brought down the house not long ago at an Irish pub in London. I could still hear the sounds of them playing, see his fingers flying like they were controlled by magic. I fell in love with him that night. I didn’t know it then, but I did.

“Guitar is sexy?” Keira mocked as she bit into the guitar cookie. “Just don’t turn into your brother.”

Marcus looked down at the counter, seeming offended though he couldn’t say it. Keira, however, would say any thought that popped into her head, especially after a few cocktails. I’d already poured the remainder of the pitcher down the drain.

Keira drank a lot more recently; she said it helped her sleep. We all had nightmares, and I figured a glass of wine before bed was better than an addictive sleeping pill. But lately it felt like it was more than one glass of wine. I was pretty sure Charlotte noticed it, too, since she and Julian stopped drinking wine at dinner. Still, we didn’t say anything, not even behind Keira’s back. I’d judged her so much before she was kidnapped, for every mistake, for every guy she dated; I wasn’t about to do that again.

Besides, I was the one who triggered this emotional train wreck to begin with. I knew we’d be screwing our parents if we went public. I wanted to screw them. They killed a man in front of me, they got Marcus poisoned and Tyson killed, and they thought that I would help them. I was done, but I didn’t consider the consequences of letting Keira become the face of this mess. I didn’t realize what I was asking of her.

“You know, at least once a day, someone calls me a slut, but they never call guys sluts. Why is that? I mean, how many Dresden chicks do you think Antonio slept with while he was here?” Keira asked like it was an honest question. “That French girl, what was her name? Collette? She was hot. And that German girl…”

“I don’t think my brother slept with anyone else,” Marcus cut in softly as he straightened a stack of napkins that didn’t need straightening. Antonio was still his brother, and Keira knew that, which was why she was complaining to Marcus—they looked so much alike. It was the closest she might ever get to attacking Antonio himself, so she pecked again and again, and Marcus couldn’t help but defend his brother, over and over. It was their cycle.

Marcus knew Antonio betrayed us, but he still kept faith in him and in his parents. He thought they were telling the truth, that his mom and dad were not like mine. Marcus believed his parents were engineers who were trying to save themselves from an evil company. He begged us to let Antonio go when we got back from Brazil, and after everything Marcus had been through, we agreed. But that didn’t stop us from bringing the Rey family into Keira’s deposition. If anyone was going to believe us, we had to keep it honest, and his parents were in this. So even though Marcus wanted to find his mom and dad and ask more questions, I held firm to the larger plan—I wanted all of our parents brought to justice.

We chose not to discuss this difference.

“You think Antonio was faithful to me? Ha! I thought I was the stupid one.” Keira pretended to laugh, then she slapped the marble counter like she suddenly had a brilliant idea. “I know how we end this! Send me out, and any guy who hits on me, or finds me remotely attractive, must be trying to kill us! We just follow him.”

“Keira, you’re my sister and you’re awesome, but…” I slowly rose from my stool. “I think it’s time to say good night.”

“What? I thought we were drinking!” She slapped her arms on the cold hard counter, collapsing forward like she might fall asleep right there.

“Sure, how ’bout we start with some water?” I clutched her elbow and helped her off the stool.

Keira stumbled, her hunched body falling to the side and almost smacking her head on the marble edge. Marcus reached out a hand to check her balance, touching her waist, and Keira flailed at him like he’d come at her with a knife.

“Get off!” she screamed.

If Keira hated being touched when we were kids, these days she reacted like a demon to holy water. She didn’t want any man’s hands on her body, not even a handshake with a reporter. Julian told the press she was a germophobe, and they seemed to believe him. It was preferable to them thinking she was damaged.

I thought back to the fish-and-chips restaurant in London, when Keira and I still thought we had a chance to run away to France and become anonymous waitresses. I’d had a fight with Marcus the night before, when I pushed him away, and Keira said with such authority, “You’re not broken, Anastasia, any more than I am.”

Maybe we weren’t then, but I had a feeling there were a million little cracks inside us now that needed only a tiny feather to land to shatter us completely. Keira’s feather might have already landed. And I feared mine was coming soon.

I guided her up the Gone With the Wind-worthy staircase to her stately bedroom, her canopy draped with white gossamer curtains.

I lowered her to a seat on the cushy mattress. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she said.

“I’ve seen worse,” I teased.

“I’m drunk on Valentine’s Day. What a cliché.” She shook her head. “You know, I didn’t do this when Mom and Dad died. I held it together.”

“You did. I couldn’t believe it. But this is more normal.” I searched the room for her pj’s, wanting desperately to push her head onto the pillow. Drunk Keira veered toward dark conversations, and I didn’t want to have one right now.

“I’m not normal, I’m a victim. Don’t you watch the news? I couldn’t save myself. My little sister had to do it.” She looked at me, her hazel eyes glassy and her mouth drooping as she spilled words I didn’t want to hear. “That’s why Mom and Dad wanted you to come with them in Rio. That’s why they don’t want to talk to me. I’m a loser.”

Her words squeezed my heart, and I stopped short. “How can you say that?” I moved toward her on the bed and sank beside her. “Keira, you raised me. You. During the shitty years. Now you’re going in front of cameras all the time. I couldn’t do that. And you were kidnapped by spies, by assassins, and you survived. Mom and Dad aren’t getting in touch with us, because they don’t care about anything other than saving themselves. So we’re going to have to save ourselves. And right now, you’re the one doing that.”

“They care about you. They confronted you, sought you out in Rio,” Keira said, her head swinging like its hinges were loosened.

“They had no choice. I barged into Allen Cross’s condo while they were still there. They never would have confronted me otherwise.”

“You don’t know that.” She shook her head, her greasy hair sticking to her lips. “They wanted to see you. You’re the daughter they want. You’re the girlfriend everyone wants. You don’t make mistakes like I do. Your first boyfriend, ever, risked his life for you. And he’s still here!” She waved her hand in the dusty air as she spouted words she didn’t really mean. Or maybe she did. “Urban sends you baby pictures. What are you up to now, three? Four? You got another one yesterday, right?” She cocked her head at the accusation, and I stared down at my bare feet.

It was three. And she was right—I received the third photo yesterday, but I hadn’t told her. I didn’t like reminding her that we had different fathers, and she was already so wounded from not hearing from the parents who raised us, shoving a baby picture in her face seemed mean. Besides, it wasn’t like the pictures were useful. All were untraceable. But they all definitely came from Urban.

The latest showed me watching fireworks at a company BBQ on the Fourth of July, and Urban was handing me a burger he made special with orange cheese. It was the first image sent to me that I truly remembered. I was five years old, and I was smiling at him, twinkling because he was being so nice; my parents never cooked, let alone made anything special for me. I called him “Uncle Urban,” and he loved that. I had no idea how much more closely we were related. I wonder if he did?

Just that thought, that single question flickering in my mind, made my stomach clench with rage. He was the man who took my sister. I was not going to let him morph himself into something else. I was not going to let him use some childhood memories to manipulate me.

“The pictures from Urban are a way to mess with my head. He’s trying to get me to stop coming after him, that’s all,” I said, hoping to convince myself as much as her.

“Oh, I think it’s the exact opposite. He’s blazing a trail to get to you, Anastasia. You know that, whether you want to admit it or not. So stop hiding the pictures from me, because you’re not that slick. You get all moody every time he sends one.” She glared at me like the all-knowing sister she was. “Everyone spends so much time worrying about me, but that man wants you. Not me.” Her eyes bored into mine, her voice so sober, that I briefly wondered where all the vodka went. In vino veritas…

What does Urban want? Did he really think it was possible for me to forgive him for kidnapping my sister, for letting me think she was dead? Even if he was “blazing a trail,” it was too late. How could I ever care about someone who was capable of that?

Silence hung as conflicting thoughts fired inside me like shotgun blasts—he’s a monster, he cares about me, he’s a criminal, he’s my father—then Keira burped so loudly the mood shattered.

“Seriously?” I laughed involuntarily.

She wiped her lips, back stretching. “I used to be able to burp the alphabet,” she said proudly. “Want me to try?”

“No.” I swatted her arm and she giggled, pushing me back.

She was still my sister. Sometimes I needed to be reminded that she was still in there.

The lamp on the beside table suddenly shook and I heard a stampede of feet thudding up the staircase. I turned toward the hallway, every hair on my body lifting. The feet stopped outside our door, and I looked at my sister.

Something happened. She knew it, too. I could see the matching dread in her eyes.

The doorknob twisted, and the door creaked. Finally, I saw Charlotte standing in the entry, wearing a black cocktail dress and sky-high black heels—her Valentine’s Day attire.

“It’s Regina,” she said, her face pale. “She’s made another video.”