Hold Me Like a Breath (30 page)

Then all of her seemed to melt in defeat. Her eyes sought
mine where I stood in the hall. “It doesn't smell like him anymore. I hoped …” She shook her head and dropped her chin.

“You and Carter?” I stepped inside the door, leaving it open, and leaned against the wall. “How?”

“You didn't know? Whose clothing did you think was in the closet—that dress looks good on you, by the way. And did you really think the shampoo and such around the apartment were his?”

I'd assumed—foolishly, selfishly—that they'd been for me. That Carter had set this whole place up for
us
.

“He really never said anything to you—about me?” She leaned forward and searched my face. Then stood, five feet eight inches of bottled energy and compressed stress. She seemed to absorb all the space in the apartment as she paced a lap around the coffee table and into the kitchen. She snorted and called, “Nice job on the freezer.” Then opened cabinets and the fridge, helped herself to a glass of something, and came back into the main room.

I was seated on the edge of the couch. Less because I felt comfortable around her—the door was still open—and more because my legs wouldn't support me any longer.

“No one ever tells me anything,” I said sullenly. I considered following Garrett's advice about keeping my cards tipped up, but what was the point in flipping them over one at a time just to reveal they were all blank? “Garrett's been in this apartment too, and he never mentioned it being
yours
.”

“Ah, you and Garrett; Carter loved the idea in theory—but wanted to kill him when it actually happened. And your timing
couldn't have been worse; those two did not need something else to fight about.” She sat down on the coffee table. “Garrett didn't know about me.”

“Impossible. Carter told Garrett everything. He brought him with him everywhere.”

“No,” she corrected. “He didn't.”

Maggie reached in her purse, then handed me an envelope. My name was on the front in Carter's slash-and-dash handwriting. On the back he'd drawn a cube over the seal—something he and Garrett had done with their secret club messages when they were little. It hadn't been opened. “I got an envelope in the mail from Carter the day of his funeral. This was in it.”

“Why am I only getting it now?”

“Because I was a little distracted by mourning, and then, sugar pie, you were dead.”

“Your mom used to call me sugar pie.”

“My mother calls everyone sugar pie. It saves her from having to learn their names.” She arched an eyebrow and answered my unasked question, “I only use it when people are being dumber than a box of hammers.”

“So he knew?” I wanted to tear this envelope in half. Burn it. Shred it. He'd known he was going to be killed and he hadn't done anything to stop it. He hadn't told me.

Maggie lowered her head. Her shoulders shrugged, and the rest of her seemed to slump with their descent. “I don't know. I didn't get a letter or explanation. I got a sticky note:
Take care of Pen. I love you
.”

I looked at the envelope again. It was a paper betrayal.

I hated it.

I cherished it.

“How did you figure out I wasn't? Dead, I mean.”

“The electric bill gets paid automatically from my account every month—this month's bill was crazy higher than last's. I didn't know it was necessarily
you
, but it was clear someone was using the apartment.”

“He brought me here, showed me the keys, and told me it was safe. How could he know he was in danger and not do anything to stop it?”

“Why are you asking me?” Her voice wavered. “Why can't
you
have any answers? Why did I come all this way if—”

She put down the cup and walked toward the bedrooms. There were the thuds of drawers opening and things banging. A choked, broken sound of sob and triumph, then she reemerged. A sweatshirt draped over one arm and a letter in her hands. She held it up. This one was addressed to
Mags
.

“I bought this for Carter.” She slipped the University of Texas sweatshirt over her head and burrowing into the collar to inhale whatever bit of him was left behind. “But we'd fight over who got to wear it whenever we were here.”

She wasn't lying. I wasn't sure why an orange piece of clothing with frayed cuffs and a hem that hit her midthigh demonstrated that better than keys to the door or her presence here, but it did.

“How long have you been dating my brother?” I demanded. When she didn't look up from the envelope in her hands, I snatched it away. “Hey!”

“Excuse me?” She was on her feet, towering over me with a thunderous expression, bringing flashbacks of the time she'd kneed twelve-year-old Garrett in the crotch for putting a spider in her hair.

“You said you wanted to talk. To ask me some questions. Well, I have some too. Answer mine and I'll give this back.” I was under no delusion I could really keep it away from her. But I could crumple it. I could tear it. And I didn't think she'd take that risk.

“I wasn't
dating
him. I wasn't some high school groupie. We were in love.”

Love? Carter?

Something jealous and acrid was crawling up the back of my throat; it settled sour on my lips, curving them into a bitter smile and coming out as a disbelieving laugh. “My brother—sleeping with the enemy. Why not? Everything I thought I knew about my life is wrong, why not that too?”

Her own disbelieving laugh was twice as acidic, twice as loud. “How's the view from your high horse, Penelope? And does Zhu Jr. think hypocrisy is an attractive trait?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Ha. Nice try.” She stepped closer, snatching the letter from my hand and pausing at the apartment door to say, “I'm going to go find a quiet place to read this. I get you're mad—I'm mad too—but don't lie to me. I saw you with Ming Zhu earlier. If you say
my
Family is your enemy, then how do you categorize the guy attached to the lips you were kissing?”

“Ming? No. He's shorter than me. He has glasses. Char can't be …”

But Ming wasn't still eleven or however old he'd been when I last saw him. He wasn't frozen in real life like he was in my mind, at the cross section of awkward and adolescence.

“No.” I breathed it out as a whisper, a single word, a lie I desperately wanted to be true.

“Yes. Oh, so very much, yes! I saw him two weeks ago at
your
funeral. He was a mess—looks like you've cheered him up.”

She didn't wait for me to respond before she left, slamming the apartment door behind her, which was good, because I was speechless.

I could have chased her down. I probably should have. But I wasn't ready for any more secrets. I didn't want to handle the implications of what she'd said.

I didn't want to stand. I wanted to sink. Sink into the couch, and sink below the level of thinking required to prevent my mind from connecting the dots.

I didn't know Char's last name.

His reaction when I told him he didn't look like a Charlie. He
wasn't
a Charlie, he was a
Ming
. Ming
Zhu
. Or Zhu Ming, actually, if I remembered Mother's lessons correctly. And no wonder he didn't look like a Midwestern rancher. He lived in California, and the only thing his family harvested was organs.

I pressed my hand over my eyes, wanting to reach behind them and claw this out of my brain. Unlearn it. Forget it. Scramble
my neurons until everything made sense, or until I no longer cared that nothing did.

Heartbreak was for another time. A time when it wouldn't crush me. A time after I was safe. A time when I knew which end was up and where I belonged.

If I ever belonged anywhere again.

Now was for Carter. For grief. For his need to have the last word—always. And my gratitude for whatever was in this envelope.

I couldn't stay here. Not anymore. Not when Maggie had keys and Char wasn't Char.

I counted the bills in my wallet and swallowed. I hadn't been planning long term. Stupid. Even after I realized Garrett wasn't coming, I hadn't slowed my spending. There was enough cash left for a few nights at a hotel, but not forever. Not even a week. I hoped I liked Connecticut, because I didn't see any other option.

But I couldn't call Bob yet. I wanted one last night of independence and space to read Carter's letter.

I took off Maggie's dress and put on the clothing I'd worn when I left the estate: my favorite jeans and a pale-blue cotton shirt. I packed up Carter doll, my notebook, and the few things that were mine. My purse wasn't even bulging when I put the letter on top and stepped out the door, locking only the lock Maggie had the key for.

There were several hotels within a ten-minute walk. I'd mentally mapped routes to and from them, just in case. I knew their prices and which accepted cash. I'd done all the proper planning except for budgeting, except for believing I'd really have to
stay there. It was like I thought the preparation was enough, thought that by knowing the information, I'd never have to use it.

It was a humbling thought as I stood in front of the counter and traded bills and a fake name for a plastic keycard and information about checkout times and a question about my lack of luggage.

“The airline lost it,” I answered, cutting off further questions with, “I'll let you know if I need anything, but right now I need a nap. Jet lag. You said the elevator was over this way?”

My apologetic smile was halfhearted as I accepted a city map and quashed any other niceties by crossing the lobby and jamming the Up button.

Room 1306 had windows, curtains, a bed, bedside table, chair, TV, bathroom, generic art print, and an air conditioner that rattled loudly. I noticed these things as I swept the room for “danger”—the kind that was unnamed, came in quotation marks, and could be just about anything, anywhere.

The kind I knew existed but had never been trained to identify or defend against. So I looked under the bed, checked the closet and behind the shower curtains. Stupid, waste-of-time, elementary gestures that didn't make me feel even slightly safer.

I locked the dead bolt, slipped the chain into place, dragged the chair in front of the door, and sat in it with my bag in my lap. I held Carter's letter in both hands. If I didn't open it, I could tell myself there was still one more point of contact with him. If it stayed sealed, I could imagine it saying anything. And I'd never be proven wrong.

My hopes were so sky high I knew the envelope could only contain disappointment, but he wouldn't have mailed it if it weren't important. I stuck a finger under the flap and pulled it open, ripping the cube into two jagged halves.

The sheet I pulled out looked like it had been torn from a notebook similar to the one I'd been filling with memories. It was folded crookedly, and the handwriting started rushed and sloppy and became almost illegible by the postscript.

Hey Pen—

I've only got a minute. I've got to do this now before I lose my nerve or get caught. And maybe this note is straight-up paranoia, but I don't know … Things don't feel right
.

I'm about to go torch my clinic. MY clinic. Yeah, I have one. Father doesn't know. It's a cadaver clinic—like the Everlys. It's a mistake
.

But if things go wrong, then I need you to
RUN
. Get off the estate and go. Go to the place I showed you tonight. Trust no one but Maggie Vickers. I wrote her number on the back
.

I wish I had time to write more. Hopefully I will. Hopefully we'll be eating doughnuts soon
.

I love you, kid. More than I ever told you
.

Carter

P.S. In September I want to be the one to drop you off on your 1st day of senior year. You're not too cool to be seen with me, right?

I ran, Carter. Now what?

Carter's letter was full of too-late warnings and empty of answers. All I could do was hold it and think of him and Char.

Three a.m.

That's how long it took for my emotions to drain away one at a time: despair, disappointment, confusion, shock, betrayal, grief, desolation, loneliness, longing.

All that was left was hardened rage that sat in my stomach like the last glowing ember in the middle of a forest fire's destruction.

And enough energy to pick up my phone and dial Char's number, determined to deliver a razor-tongued speech. I'd scribbled a draft on hotel stationery with pen that had punched through the paper. I would make him hear I wasn't fooled by him anymore. That he hadn't shattered me.

I may be splinters and fragments, but it wasn't because of him. I hadn't given him that much power.

The pieces of me he'd received had never been whole to start.

And when he'd pretended—

He'd pretended.

We're sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service
.

The automated message brought a flood of exhaustion and helplessness. Why? Was he scamming me? Did he recognize Magnolia? Was this some new trick to unbalance me in a world where everyone already felt like a threat?

I made a nest in the bathtub and slept there. If anyone
did
find me in this no-name hotel, they'd enter the room and go right to the bed—passing the bathroom door. It wouldn't buy me much, but maybe those seconds could be used to slip out unobserved. Tomorrow I'd go on the offensive. Tonight my mind needed to shut down, shut out the all questions and uncertainty. Forget Carter's postscript and the life we could've had if things had gone differently that night.