Chapter Twelve
Maren
S ince I can’t shift, and town is too far away to walk both ways as a human and too conspicuous for me to ride in on a goddamn dragon, we split the difference: to the edge of the forest by air, then on foot to the outskirts of town and a place I recognize.
Murray’s Used Motors: Bad Credit No Credit All OK! beams down at us as Will literally kicks the tires of the slim pickings of rustbuckets Murray has on offer.
“This place is a rip-off,” I say in a not-too-subtle whisper. “Half of these are gonna be salvage titles.”
“Doesn’t have to win any beauty contests,” Will throws back. “Just has to get us into town and back to the edge of the forest.”
I roll my eyes and look longingly at the cluster of cars under a faded PREMIUM OFFERS banner: an early 2000s-era Corvette with bad aftermarket paint, a not-terribly-shabby Chevy Blazer...hell, even the Jeep Wrangler looks tempting even though it’d be a bitch to maintain.
“No,” Will says, seeing my gaze drift. “Soon enough, greasemonkey.”
He stops at a Chrysler the size of a parade float and the color of regret. Some washed-out, noncommittal beige that screams don’t notice me, I’m already dead inside . Will says that’s the point.
“It blends,” he tells me, tapping the hood like he’s proud of it. “No one thinks twice a shitty sedan.” He looks up, signals for the sales guy—Murray, maybe. “Sir? How much for this specimen?”
The sales guy, immediately clocking Will’s tailored outfit and thousand-dollar sunglasses, smiles real big.
“ I would think twice,” I mutter. “The clear coat’s all jacked up, for starters.”
Will’s lips twitch. “Okay, no one normal would think twice about it, Danica Patrick.” He turns to the salesman. “Yes, sir.”
“I can do eight hundred,” the salesman says somberly. “But only for cash.”
Will offers him a hand to shake. “Sold, my good man.” He turns back to me. “It’s invisibility by mediocrity,” he adds in a low voice. “You of all people should appreciate why that’s necessary.”
Eight hundred bucks cash later, I shrink a little in the passenger seat.
Because Will’s right. The first time I inadvertently did a paperboy—papergirl—route of my own, I did it stupidly, by hitting a string of ATMs with the same account and tooling around in a flame-colored Mustang.
And that led Guy right to our door.
Not to mention—ultimately—led the Mustang to its fiery end.
I guess now I’m seeing how it’s properly done.
Our first stop is MegaValu, where we exchange stacks and stacks of cash that apparently had been hidden inside the pool table this whole time for a series of prepaid debit cards, all in a bunch of transactions, all with me conveniently standing at just the right angle to block the view from the security camera. With that done, I sit wedged up front with a shoebox full of the things as we head towards town. The windows are down and Will’s got one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on, breeze in his hair, like this is just another Tuesday.
Which, for him, I guess it is.
We turn off the road towards Nottingham, the east side. There’s a small campus on our left, a flat, broad brick building almost like an elementary school without a playground. Will pulls into the cracked parking lot and kills the engine by a faded sign that says NOTTINGHAM VA HOSPITAL – WE PUT VETERANS FIRST.
“This one’s fun,” he says, flashing me a grin. “You ever rig a vending machine?”
“Not since middle school,” I deadpan.
“C’mon.”
I follow him to the lobby, which he strides in like he owns the place, and to a corner of a fluorescent-lit waiting room where an ancient, rickety-looking vending machine hums diligently. It’s so old, I’m surprised it’s not selling Tab and Sanka.
Will flashes me a look and mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Stand still and look pretty, okay?”
I nod—there’s no one around except a distant receptionist who can barely see over the edge of her desk—as Will slides in a dollar bill and punches the number for a packet of peanut M&Ms. As the metal spiral chugs around, freeing his candy, he quickly presses a bunch of keys all at once, in a quick pattern, and suddenly the whole keypad flashes and there’s a rusty clunk sound in the front latch of the door.
“Bingo.”
He fishes in his jacket pocket for some of the debit cards, and, with a smooth flick of his wrist, pries open the unlocked door, just enough to snake his hand in, and slips one behind each and every item. Before I even register how fast he’s moving, he’s out, shut the door, and tapping a reset code on the keypad—old habit, from the looks of it—then bends down for his candy like nothing out of the ordinary.
“M&M?” he says, offering it to me like a trophy.
I shut my mouth, which I realize had fallen open.
“I know,” Will says. “I’m impressive.”
“Shut up,” I say, but take the candy.
“You’re welcome, by the way.” He grins. “Welcome to the redistribution economy.”
Next stop is a Little Free Library outside a daycare center: painted with chunky sunflowers on the sides, chipped and sun-faded, full of picture books with crayon marks and cracked spines.
Will opens the front and pulls a few books at random— Brown Bear, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie , a board book about skulls. He quickly slides a card into each one, then pauses before putting them back.
“What?” I ask. He ignores me, just pulls a fountain pen out of his jacket and whips open the covers again to scribble something down. I read over his shoulder:
GIVE THIS TO YOUR MOMMY AND/OR DADDY, with a series of arrows pointing to the debit card.
“Seriously?”
He looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “What? Kids are stupid. They might throw it out or trade it for a Pokémon card or something.”
Back in the car, I question his thinking—out of curiosity, not second-guessing. “So the idea is, just...leave it where people are likely to find it?”
“More or less,” he says. “But also in a place where people who need it are likely to be, you know? These just happen to be just a few of my favorites. Here.”
He rounds the corner and parks us by a Discount Drugs. We walk in casually, like any two people buying allergy meds or condoms or whatever. No one looks twice.
Will tips his head to the right, and I follow as he makes a detour toward the BABY NEEDS aisle. I snort.
“Now there’s a sight,” I say.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he says, pointing at me right between the eyes. “My bloodline dies with me.” He turns on his heel, faces a display shelf, and blows out a breath. “You know what the most-shoplifted item in drugstores is?”
I follow his gaze to the shelf of pastel-colored cans standing at attention behind a plexiglass barrier. A notice by the keyhole reads LOSS PREVENTION - PLEASE ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. “Baby formula?” I guess.
Will nods, pulling a slim leather case out of his pants pocket. “And what does that say about the health of our society?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just flicks open the case and produces what looks like a handful of dental tools—lockpicks, I realize. In two seconds he’s jimmied the thing open and popping open the plastic lids, just enough to slip a thin card underneath, on top of the foil seal. Works fast, keeps his head down, shuts the barrier again. Walks away, quick and purposeful.
“Aren’t you going to...” I whisper-shout at his back as he leaves. He swivels.
“What?”
I look back at the shelf. The barrier hanging open. Then back at Will.
“Lock it back up?” he finishes for me. He shakes his head. “No, Maren,” he says softly. “I’m not.”
Right, I realize. Of course not.
I don’t speak again until we’re back in the car.
“Why not take this stuff to food banks?” I ask. “Soup kitchens? Places that, you know...exist to help?”
Will shrugs, eyes on the rearview as he pulls us out. “We used to. Back in the early days. But it’s too many questions. Always want to know where it came from, who to thank, give you forms to fill out so they can report it for tax or grant purposes.” He shakes his head. “Paper trail’s not worth the risk.” He puts the car in gear and steps on the gas. “Besides, no one’s too proud to get a checkup or go shopping or get a book for their kid. But plenty of people would rather starve than go to a food pantry.”
We’re looping back around the east side to our next stop—a laundromat—when we see it. Or hear it, actually: shouting, sharp and ugly, cutting through the otherwise sleepy morning haze.
Half a block from the laundromat, two guys in cheap jumpsuits are yelling at a woman who looks like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a decade. Her car’s half up on a tow truck ramp, and she’s talking fast, desperately, all but pulling at the guys’ sleeves to get them to stop.
Will mutters something and swerves back to the center of the road. “We’ll have to come back. We could—”
“Stop the car,” I interrupt. I know those guys—or the uniforms, at least. Used to deal with them all the time at the shop: repo men, and sleazy ones.
Will glances at me. “Maren, we can’t get involved in—”
“Will,” I all but spit. “Stop. The. Car.”
He mutters something about reckless women and bad decisions but pulls over anyway.
I don’t exactly have a plan, but it doesn’t end up mattering. By the time we jog across the street, someone else is already on it.
Tall. Confident. Familiar form in a worn khaki shirt, flashing a badge as he breaks up the mess.
“Is that—” Will mutters, cocking his head with just the faintest groan as he jogs in behind me.
“Yep,” I confirm.
Zayn.
He’s got the two repo thugs backed off with nothing but words and a glare, and appears to be talking them down—I can’t make out exactly what he’s saying, but his tone sounds calm but firm. The guys snarl and swear, but ultimately give up, and unhitch her car as Zayn watches. He crouches a bit, says something to her, earning him a shaky smile and a laugh, and hands her a card as the repo guys squeal away in their truck. When he stands up again, he turns—and sees us.
There’s a pause. The kind where you can practically hear the oh, shit hanging in the air.
“Well,” Zayn says, dry as dust. “You’re lucky I didn’t have to arrest you two again.”
“Still on the right side of the law, then?” Will says. I throw a light kick back at his shin— cool it, dragon boy.
Zayn just shrugs. “More or less. Department’s broke, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“We have,” I say. “But they’re still giving you shifts?”
Zayn opens his mouth, shuts it, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Uh...not exactly.” He looks almost embarrassed. “I live around here. Shit’s been kind of wild, so...” He shrugs. “I guess I’m volunteering.”
“Volunteering’s a lot like crime, you know,” Will observes. When Zayn frowns, he explains. “As in, it doesn’t pay ?”
Now I groan. “Oh my God,” I say through my teeth, “can you shut up ?” I turn to Zayn. “I’m sorry. It’s actually...it’s really good to see you.”
But Zayn laughs, a real laugh. “Stupid fucking joke, man,” he says. “But you ain’t wrong.” He shrugs again. “What can I say? I’ve got two skillsets: starting shit and stopping shit. And only one of them really feels useful right now.”
The moment feels strange—tense, but not in an altogether bad way.
“Coffee,” I blurt out. Zayn’s brows knit.
“Pardon?”
“I mean, let us buy you some. Coffee, that is.” I smile. “Just to...I don’t know. A peace offering?” I glance at Will, who lifts a shoulder.
“Sure.” He nods at Zayn. “You’ve certainly earned as much just now.”
“Well, thanks,” Zayn says, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone. But, to me, he says, genuinely, “Sure, Maren. Thanks.” And adds, with a glance at Will, “but I’ll pick the place.”