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“Are you?”
“Of course. I’m his mother, and mothers never leave their children. We live in them, deep down in their hearts. Carmine can’t see me, but I know he feels me all the time.”
The thought comforted Haven. “Do you think he’s okay?”
Maura smiled. “I’m sure he will be.”
Haven wandered through the field and picked a dandelion puff, blowing on it. The fluffy seeds flew off and multiplied, exploding into hundreds surrounding her in the air.
“Is my mama with me, too?”
“Yes,” Maura said. “Don’t you feel her? She’s right there.”
Haven spun around so quick everything blurred. When it came back into focus, the dandelion seeds had morphed into snowflakes, falling from the sky like puffs of cotton. They coated everything in a layer of white, hindering her view of her mama a few feet away. She was twirling, the sound of her laughter encasing Haven in a blanket of love. For a moment, as she watched her mama dance, she forgot it wasn’t real. She forgot her mama was dead. She forgot she must be, too.
But in a flash it all came back, as when she blinked, her mama started to fade.
Panicked, Haven ran toward her, but the snow came down heavier, blinding her with whiteness. Haven ran long and hard, her chest burning and legs weak, but she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Exhausted, she collapsed to the ground in sobs, suddenly in Blackburn again. The desert ground burned her, scorching the soles of her feet.
After a moment, a voice rang out behind her, the smooth familiarity silencing her cries as goose bumps spread across her skin. “She’s gone,” Carmine said. “I’m sorry, hummingbird, but she isn’t coming back.”
Haven turned, desperate to see him, but instead of deep green eyes, all she saw was icy blue. Haven’s stomach twisted as Number 33 stared through her, the paper still pinned to her shirt. “Never stop fighting,” she said. “I didn’t.”
“But you’re gone, too,” Haven said. “I saw it. Frankie killed you in front of me.”
“Some things in life are worse than death,” Number 33 said, “and had I lived, those things would’ve happened to me. He took my life, but he didn’t break my spirit. No one did, and no one ever will. Don’t let them break you. Don’t let them win. Fight the fight. It’s the only way to be free.”
Haven was jolted roughly from behind then, everything going black. Someone shook her as pain swept through her body, and she forced her eyes open, seeing Ivan. His voice was muffled as if her ears were clogged. “What is the code at the DeMarco house?”
“What?” she mouthed, no sound carrying out. It burned, stabbing her throat.
“The code for the house,” he repeated. “If you do not want to die from dehydration, you will tell me what I want to know.”
She turned her head, wishing he would disappear. “Go away.”
Her disobedience sent him into a rage. He pulled out a knife as he grabbed her hand, twisting it violently. “Tell me the code, or I’ll cut off your finger.”
Every inch of her begged for relief. She squeezed her eyes shut, Dr. DeMarco flashing in her mind again. She could see his anger, but she couldn’t feel the fear anymore as he pressed the gun to her throat. She understood how he felt, and as she lay there in agony, she almost wished Dr. DeMarco really had pulled the trigger. “Do it.”
* * *
Night had fallen hours before, but Carmine no longer had any sense of time. He thought it was ten o’clock, maybe midnight, but it was nothing but a number to him now. He would simply go until he felt like he couldn’t go anymore, and then he would push himself just a little more. He had moved past exhaustion and now teetered on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Sleep only happened when his body gave out, periods of blackouts tucked into the frantic spells.
Carmine knew nothing about Giovanni, besides the fact that he was Sicilian and he broke the law. They had only met a handful of times, and Giovanni was never friendly, but Carmine had a newfound respect for the man. The two of them stood in the small office at Giovanni’s modest brick house, poring over a map of Chicago. They had been at it for so long that Carmine couldn’t read the small print anymore and counted on Giovanni to keep everything straight.
“Are you sure it’s this guy?” Carmine asked, picking up the small photograph. “He looks like someone’s grandfather.”
“I am certain,” Giovanni said. “Do not be fooled. Ivan Volkov is dangerous.”
Carmine stared at the photo, trying to focus. He remembered his father mentioning problems with the Russians months ago, but Carmine still didn’t understand what any of it had to do with them. Giovanni had tried to explain it more than once, but the point was lost somewhere between the man’s accent and Carmine’s exhausted mind.
He set the picture down and glanced at the map. Giovanni was on his laptop researching addresses associated with the Volkov family. The map was littered with writing, random circles splattered on it like polka dots.
Carmine stared at it, overwhelmed.
“I thought Doc microchipped the girl,” Giovanni said. “Why have you not found her that way?”
“We tried,” Carmine said. “The chip isn’t working.”
