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“He was an FBI agent.” I look at her and watch the last of the color drain from her cheeks. Her brows drag together, and her hand flutters to the medallion around her neck.
“You were working with an FBI agent?”
Is that shock that coats her words? I don’t know why, but a smile dances along my lips, not in humor, but maybe in rueful understanding of her shock. I wouldn’t believe that I’d ever work with the FBI, either. “I have an agreement with the local law enforcement. I work with the police. We talked about this earlier.”
Carina shifts in the metal chair, causing it to creak. “Local, Luca. Not federal. You’re working with feds, too?”
“I worked withonefed. This agent here and no one else.” I glance back at the agent in question. Guilt is something I’m not accustomed to, but looking at the body and seeing how it all ended for him has some amount of guilt quivering in my gut.
“I figured out that he was undercover about a year ago and kept his secret in return for information.”
Carina’s gaze darts around the space, and I have this terrible feeling she’s about to flee. I take a step toward her, and she jumps up abruptly. The chair bounces off the floor, and I clear the space between us and grab her shoulders. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head in sheer terror, and I can’t keep looking into her eyes and seeing that, so I pull her hard against my chest. Her hands wrap around me, and she squeezes tightly. I’m not sure what she’s more afraid of—being associated with me, knowing I could be her downfall, or just the idea I could be as faithless to have broken the code.
My hands leave her shoulders, and I hold her so I can look into her eyes. Pressing my forehead against hers, I try to calm the panic consuming her.
“It doesn’t matter. They won’t get us. They can all whack each other, but they aren’t getting us. Fuck anyone who tries.” I say the words fiercely, and my conviction is enough to make Carina nod numbly in agreement.
My phone rings, and I pull away to answer it. As soon as I bring the phone to my ear, my stomach drops.
Chapter 26
Carina
Nineteen Years Old
DearDiary,
When Francis and I were little, we were inseparable. Not just that “where there’s one, you’re sure to find the other” kind of inseparable, but the kind of connected that had me climbing into Francis’s crib before we had turned one, taking his karate class instead of my ballet lessons, and refusing to sit in separate classrooms at school, even though their policy was not to place siblings together.
We bucked policy.
Flouted convention.
Made our own rules.
I even accompanied him on his first date with Maria Capelka, although afterward, he refused to tell me where he was going on any future dates. I guess I might have been pushing the limits on that one, but I really didn’t like that bitch.
We were closer than most humans ever have the privilege of being, from before we ever drew breath until the day he died. So, I understand why, even now—two years later—his absence still feels like a literal missing limb.
That’s what they call it.
The missing limb effect. According to the therapist I dragged myself to earlier today, when a twin dies, it’s very common for the surviving twin to feel the same sort of phantom limb pain that an amputee feels. The brain doesn’t forget and still feels the presence of the limb that was once there, day in and day out.
It’s why I find myself reaching out to punch him in the arm when someone says something funny, and I know he’d be swallowing a laugh.
Why I find myself picking up the phone to send him a text, only to remember he won’t receive it.
Why I find myself standing in the doorway of his bedroom, hand raised to knock.
The pain is real and present, even if the arm or the leg…or the person…is not.
I just need to know—when does it get better? The therapist couldn’t answer that for me, and I’m so tired of feeling this way.
Thesirenshavelongbeen turned off, but the flashing strobes and urgent traffic of emergency vehicles and crew around the warehouse have succeeded in gathering the attention of a few news crews. We sit in the front seat of Luca’s car, staring morosely through the front window at the frenetic activity.
“Whoever it is, they’re escalating,” I whisper.
