The Disappearance of Sloane Sullivan, page 30
All these bad guys getting locked up is a good thing. I know that. But it doesn’t make it any easier every time I bet my roommate to do something silly and she just looks at me like I’m weird. It’s those little reminders of the things from Sloane’s life I miss, like making bets, that make me wonder what would’ve happened if I’d walked out of school that first day and told Mark about Jason. If I hadn’t decided to make my own decisions and play God with all three of our lives. Mark and I would’ve moved for sure. I wouldn’t have gotten to know Jason again, but at least I would’ve known he was there, as Jason Thomas. I would’ve had an easy way to find him again whenever I wanted. And most likely, Mark would still be alive. That’s the what-if that gets me every time.
Maybe Lorenzo would’ve tracked us down somewhere else. Maybe I never would’ve learned the truth, never seen my mom again, never been able to help put the bad guys away. But I also wouldn’t have killed Mark. That’s the part I’m sure of, the part that keeps me up at night. The one time I didn’t run away, and I end up killing someone.
The what-ifs are the worst.
An unexpected click makes me turn my head. My dorm room door flies open and blond ringlet curls bounce on my roommate’s shoulders as she jerks her head back in surprise. “Hey,” Celeste says as the door falls shut behind her. “I thought you’d be in chem lab.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t feeling it today.” She has no idea I officially withdrew from school this morning. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be on your way to sociology?”
She snags a paper off her desk and shakes it at me. “I forgot this. And now I’m super late.” She throws the door open but peeks her head back around. “We’re still on for tennis tonight, right, Faith?”
“Yup. See you then.”
Her fingers wave goodbye around the door frame, then disappear right before the door shuts. I hate lying to her. She’s been pretty great, all things considered. Especially with the nightmares I have practically every night. She’s gotten really good at waking me up, joking around to calm me down and pretending she believes my excuse that I’ve suffered from night terrors since I was a kid. In reality, they’re all different versions of the same thing: me killing Mark.
I’ve shot him in my dreams, of course, but I’ve also strangled him, drowned him, stabbed him, killed him in more ways than I could possibly imagine awake. I finally realize what Mark meant about guns. The mistake part was easy to get—I proved that one myself. But I didn’t fully understand what he meant about the consequences being too permanent. At the time, I thought he meant death. But now I know that’s not the only permanent part.
Out of everything that happened, that’s the thing I can’t change, the thing I have no control over: I can’t unkill Mark, and I can’t stop reliving it. God, what-ifs suck.
Sighing, I stand and reach between the pages of my thick chemistry book for the letter I wrote Celeste a few days ago. I lift the edge of her monogrammed comforter—turquoise blue with a hot pink coral pattern—and place the letter on her pale pink pillowcase, covering it back up. I’m so busy trying to imagine what her reaction will be when she reads it that my phone’s on the second chorus of my ringtone by the time I realize it’s ringing.
I snatch it off my tiny desk and smile, both at the time and the person calling. “You’re so punctual. Kessler would be proud.”
Dixon chuckles, and it makes me smile even wider. “What, no hello? You sound like Kessler now. I knew I should’ve been the one to guard you at the trials.”
Just like Kessler explained, the only time I’ve had around-the-clock Marshal protection in the past eight months was when I testified, first against Mark’s cousin and then against Angelo. And both times it was Kessler and an agent I didn’t know who escorted me, not Dixon. But we’ve been emailing, and thankfully my request for Dixon to be my contact for this, my first official check-in call after I fulfilled my testimonial duties, was approved. After this, he’ll check in with me once a year. Still smiling, I say, “It’s good to hear your voice, Dixon.”
“You too. So how’s college life? How’s the dorm room?”
I make an exaggerated stretching sound. “Wait...almost...there. I’m touching both walls of my room right now.”
“Sounds like my dorm room in college.” I hear the grin in his voice. “And how’s the roommate? Still perky?”
“Annoyingly so.”
“She can’t be that bad,” Dixon replies. “I don’t hear anyone playing the bouzouki in the background, which is what my freshman-year roommate did at all hours of the day.”
“Oh. Well, that’s only because Celeste’s in bouzouki class right now.”
Dixon laughs again, but it doesn’t last long. “Seriously, how are you?”
I shrug even though he can’t see me. “I’m hanging in there.”
“Have you seen the therapist I emailed you about?”
Definitely not. I don’t need someone psychoanalyzing why I picked the name Faith Peterson. Or why I still refer to myself as Kid sometimes. “I don’t need to talk to a therapist. It was only me for many years. I’m good at dealing with things myself.”
“No,” Dixon corrects. “It was only you and Marco for many years. That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Can’t we talk about something else? Isn’t there, like, a checklist of stuff you should be asking me or something?”
There’s a loud ruffling of paper on his end. “As a matter of fact, there is. But just know I’m allowing you to change the subject for now. The topic will be broached again in future irritating emails.”
I grin. “Duly noted.”
“Any problems I should know about?”
“Nope.”
“Any contact with anyone from your past?” This question is followed by a pointed cough.
“Nope.”
There’s a pause in his questioning and I know he’s waiting for me to ask, so I do. “How is he?” No need to use a name, he knows who I mean.
“He’s doing as well as can be expected for someone going through this for the first time.”
I close my eyes and picture Jason. Dixon technically isn’t supposed to tell me anything about Jason, but he’s one of the good guys who doesn’t mind bending the rules a little every once in a while.
“I just talked to him a few days ago,” Dixon continues. “He asked about you.”
I bite my lip and say the most honest thing I’m probably going to say to him in the whole conversation. “I wish things had turned out differently.”
“Me too,” he admits. “But you did the right thing.”
“I know.”
“And this is the safest place for you,” he reminds me. “But don’t get complacent.”
My smile in reply is sad. I remember lesson number eight.
“Watch your back, okay? Things may be calm right now when the family’s focused on the trial, but there are still many people loyal to Angelo who would love to get their hands on you. I know Dante may be little in your memory, but he’s a full-fledged member of the family now.”
Like I could forget the sole remaining Rosetti son. He’s half the reason I’m doing what I’m about to do. “Got it.”
“You never know when someone might pop up and surprise you.”
My heart thumps in my chest and for a second, I’m positive he knows. But I’m just being paranoid. There’s no way he could know what I have planned. “Okay.”
“You have my cell number, right? I’ll answer it anytime, day or night.”
“Yes. And thank you.” And that’s the truth. I do have his number. It’s the only one programmed into the new, secret phone packed away in one of the duffel bags under my bed. I may be about to do something that totally breaks all the rules, but I’m not foolish enough to do it without a backup plan.
“If you ever want to talk or just...have any questions, please call. I’ll even promise not to mention the therapist during the first call.”
I chuckle. “With that generous offer, how can I resist?”
I hear more paper shuffling, then Dixon says, “That’s all I’ve got. But let’s keep talking. Tell me about the most disgusting thing you’ve seen at a frat party.”
I glance at Celeste’s alarm clock’s glowing pink numbers. “It would take me forever to describe all the disgusting things I’ve seen at parties here, and I have a class soon.”
“Fess up, that roommate of yours signed you up for bouzouki class, didn’t she?”
I snort. “Is that even a real thing?”
“Why am I the only person that’s happened to?”
Out of nowhere, there are tears in my eyes. It’s not like I actually get to see Dixon, or even communicate with him, that often, but I’m going to miss him. “Thank you for everything,” I say softly. “I mean it.”
The teasing disappears from his voice. “You’re welcome, Sasha.”
That little slip in the rules, the tiny reminder of who I am, is exactly what I need. “Going all out with the first names, huh, Tony?” Before he can answer, I groan. “Sorry. I just can’t do it, Dixon.”
His tone is light again when he says, “I’ll talk to you later, Peterson.”
No you won’t, I think. But all I say is, “Bye,” and the line goes dead.
Before I do something stupid and give in to the urge to hear Dixon’s voice one last time, I place the phone on my desk, pick up my massive chem book, and smash the phone to pieces. Then I scoop up all the bits, run down the hall to the bathroom, and flush them down the toilet. Hey, it worked the last time I had to destroy a phone.
As soon as I’m back in my room, I check Celeste’s clock again. Everything’s going according to plan, but I still feel jittery. I lean under my bed and pull out two nondescript black duffel bags. Two small bags that contain all I’ll need in my new life. Everything else on my side of the room is disposable—souvenirs from a life I never intended to live.
Don’t get me wrong. I really like college. And I intend to go back. Just on my terms, at a school I picked, not one someone deemed to be the safest or the farthest away from anyone else in WITSEC. Not one where my admittance was required by the flash of a badge.
I couldn’t have packed more of my stuff anyway. Once Celeste reads her letter, she has to believe that, after finding out my mother just died, the only thing I would’ve done was throw a few clothes into a bag and bolt. The dead mother story should buy me a few days, maybe even a few weeks, of time in which she won’t be suspicious about my lack of response to her attempts to contact me. And by the time she does a little digging, the school will tell her I officially withdrew.
I unzip one of the bags and pull out the fake ID I got during a road trip to a school across the state line a few weeks ago. It’s not great, but it will do until I get to one of the places Mark and I used before. We always had the best fake IDs. A soft, hesitant knock on my door makes me grin. Right on time. I put the fake ID back in the bag, take out an envelope, and open the door.
I nod at the guy standing on my doorstep. He looks even better than when I found him early this morning roaming aimlessly around the student parking lot on the other side of campus: pale skin, long brown dreadlocks, massive beard, baggy cargo pants, T-shirt for some band I’ve never heard of and about twenty hemp bracelets piled up one arm. My Lilly Pulitzer–wearing roommate would never talk to this guy.
“You’re here,” Dreadlocks says. “It’s Jessica, right? I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
“I’m here,” I confirm.
He looks over my shoulder at Celeste’s side of the room and his eyes widen in obvious pastel overload. He shifts uncomfortably, like being that close to so much pink is making him itch.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling at my sheer luck in finding him. “Here it is,” I say, holding out the envelope.
He glances back at me and blinks a few times, like he’s been looking at a bright light for too long. “So all I have to do,” he says as he takes the envelope, “is drop this off at this address?” He points to the address typed on the outside of the envelope. “And you’re going to give me $400?”
I pull four $100 bills from my pocket. “Yup.”
Dreadlocks takes the money with the same reluctant expression he gave Celeste’s lime-green inspiration board. “That’s it? There’s nothing, like, illegal in here, is there?” His forehead creases. Trying to imagine the types of illegal activities preppy girls could be caught up in must be hard work.
“Of course not,” I assure him. “It’s just something my aunt and uncle need by tonight. I forgot to mail it and I don’t have a car. Plus, I can’t spend four hours driving there and back today. I’ve got a test this afternoon and a bouzouki lesson I can’t miss.”
His head tips to the side. “Bouzouki. Right on,” he says with an approving nod.
Thank you, Dixon. “I told them you’d put it in the mailbox.”
“Sure thing, Bouzouki Jess.”
This is going better than I imagined. If he ever comes back here looking for Bouzouki Jess, Celeste isn’t going to have a clue who he’s talking about. “Thanks. You’re doing me a big favor.” And he is. I couldn’t risk this letter getting lost in the mail or arriving faster than I expected. And I couldn’t deliver it myself.
“No, thank you. It’s like I’m getting paid to skip class.” He gives me a mini salute with one hand and saunters down the hall.
After he disappears, I close the door and sigh. Celeste isn’t the only person I wrote a letter to. I just hope that when my mom reads hers after he delivers it, she’ll understand why I’m doing this.
I know the Rosettis will come after me. Putting Angelo in prison won’t stop them, and anyone who knows where I am is someone they could potentially use to get to me. Not only the Marshals, but also my mom or her new boyfriend, Celeste, maybe even Jason and his family. They could all be kidnapped or hurt or killed for information about me. Payback is a matter of when, not if. I mean, no one even knows why Reuben Marx killed Sofia. Maybe just to prove he could. Even though Mark said that was unusual, I won’t take the chance of that happening to the people I love.
Leaving my mom behind will be the hardest part of this, but she won’t be alone. Her boyfriend’s a good guy. When I was over at their place last weekend, he asked me if he could propose and I gave him my blessing. He’ll help her get through it. Although the first thing she’s going to do is call Dixon. He’s the wildcard.
In one of his many lessons about the real WITSEC, Kessler confirmed what I’d already figured out: WITSEC is voluntary. I’m eighteen, I can leave the program if I want to, and there’s nothing they can do about it legally. But I know Dixon would break the rules and search for me even if his bosses told him not to. And he’s the only one with the resources to possibly find me. All I can do is hope he realizes that this way, I’m the only one who knows who I am and where I’ll be.
There’s more knocking on my door, louder and more emphatic than the last time, and butterflies dance in my chest. Make that two people who’ll know who I am and where I’ll be.
I throw the door open, faster than I’ve moved in eight months, and the first thing I see are his eyes: pools of almost green around his pupils that melt into a deep ocean blue set against even darker blue rings around the edges. The unmistakable deep blue eyes of Jason Thomas, and they’re smiling at me.
I grab him and yank him into my room. He’s wearing a baseball cap that covers most of his black hair, but a little is peeking out the back. I reach up and rub it in between my fingers. It’s soft and smooth and proof that he’s really, finally here. And then Jason is kissing me.
His kisses are urgent at first, insistent, like he’s trying to erase the last eight months. Then they slowly turn soft and sweet and gentle, a promise that from here on out, we’ll never have to make up for lost time again. It leaves me breathless.
He pulls away first and runs a thumb across my cheekbone. He half laughs, half shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Your eyes are green again.” He brushes a lock of my pale blond hair behind my ear. “You’re more beautiful than I remembered.”
I lean forward and kiss him again and this time, it’s my promise that he’s more beautiful than I remembered too.
It didn’t take me long between all the kisses and I love yous in Jason’s hospital room eight months ago to realize that, even though I hadn’t actually been in WITSEC all those years, I had a pretty good idea how the whole witness protection thing was going to work. And that, as Sloane Sullivan, I’d starting doing things my way, the Sasha way. And, as Dixon had pointed out outside of Jason’s hospital room, Sasha was the girl who didn’t do anything by the rules.
So I came up with a way for the two of us to communicate after we’d been placed. It was simple, really: we picked a popular social media site, created profiles in fake names we picked that day, and posted random, seemingly innocuous messages that contained clues as to who we were, where we were, and when we were ready to put the plan into motion. Something as simple as Can’t wait for the FSU-Florida game tomorrow. Go Gators! can tell a lot to someone who needs to know where you go to school. We only accessed our profiles from computers in public places like libraries, never posted anything on each other’s profiles, and it worked. Jason’s here.
“I’m glad I understood all your clues and found the right room,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I was a little worried I’d be wandering around campus for days searching for you.”
Something tugs at the back of my mind but I’m too excited to pay attention. I’m looking at Jason and I still can’t believe it. This time I’m the one half laughing, half shaking my head. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
He leans his forehead against mine. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then he pulls back and winces. “Except maybe to the bathroom. I’ve been driving for hours.” His face lights up. “Bet you have to make more bathroom stops than I do on our road trip.”
