New York Alano
New York Alano
2:53 p.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)
I ’ m at a Graveyard Sale with Ariana and Rio.
I wasn’t able to get any more sleep after my father’s outburst about the Spyglass leak, so I jumped at the chance to leave
the penthouse when Ariana invited us out so we can find furniture for our future apartment. She’s a regular on the Graveyard
Sale app and usually knows which ones will be worth it. This estate sale in an Upper East Side brownstone was listed online
as being run by the daughter of an auctioneer who died last month and spent her life collecting treasures. It’s so busy that
people either aren’t recognizing me behind my sunglasses or don’t care, but if that changes, my bodyguard is hiding among
them and won’t be shy about making himself known.
“You’re better off not reading it, babe, it was madness,” Ariana says while inspecting a beautiful stereo table that wouldn’t fit anywhere in her apartment. She knocks on the wood before moving on to the plush velvet ottomans. “They wrote something about you not having the right words to save that Decker, as if that was the reason he was always going to die.”
“You just told Alano not to read the article and told him what’s in it,” Rio says.
Ariana pops up from the ottoman, hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says, muffled.
“It’s fine.”
Not once have I thought about Harry Hope’s suicide being my fault. He was always fated to die, but maybe he didn’t have to
die so soon. Would Roah Wetherholt have been able to calm Harry Hope down if they made the call? What about any of the other
heralds? I believe they all could’ve done a better job than me except for Andrea Donahue obviously. She would’ve heard that
gunshot, hung up, and called the next Decker without batting an eye.
“Did your mother read the article?” I ask.
“I showed her. She said that Death-Cast should sue Spyglass for those lies.”
Death-Cast should sue Andrea Donahue for her lies. We would be well within our rights. It makes me sick that she’s lying to
Ariana about all of this.
“Who do you think snitched?” Ariana asks while testing the comfort of a lawn chair even though she doesn’t have a lawn and
we’re not looking into units that do. “My mom thinks it was one of the newbies.”
Every new lie that Andrea tells to cover up her tracks makes me angrier.
“I don’t think it was,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Then who?”
I take a deep breath while admiring the foyer’s crown molding. “I don’t know.”
We go upstairs to one of the guest rooms, where there are tables of electronic relics. VCRs, DVD players, a Walkman, pagers,
a bucket of Nokia cell phones, landlines, Dell computers, GigaPets, the first PlayStation, and more.
Rio’s dark eyes lock on a dusty PS4 like it’s a ghost. It sort of is.
“I know,” I say, resting my hand on Rio’s shoulder.
“You know what?” Ariana asks.
I wait for Rio to speak up, but I answer for him, as he’s welcomed me to do so many times before. “This was the first gaming
console Rio and Lucio shared as kids.”
I’ve heard so many stories of how Lucio pushed Rio to play story modes at their highest difficulty and never let him win in
any racing games so that Rio always felt the highest sense of achievement, something their own parents were never pushing
them for.
“I wish I still had ours,” Rio says, picking up the PlayStation. If that PS4 had been around before Lucio died, Rio would
still own it, as he has never thrown away anything of his brother’s.
I’ve read books on helping friends through grief specifically to help Rio. There was conflicting advice, so I’ve always gone with what feels right. I offered a listening ear, even when he wasn’t ready to talk. I invited him out of his apartment because I knew how haunting his bedroom had become. There was some trial and error too, like when I offered to take Antonio to the movies to get his mind off things and Rio was upset that I was taking over his responsibilities as the new eldest brother. As if Rio was failing Lucio’s memory. The most important thing has been never diminishing how he’s feeling. That’s why I don’t tell him how I’m scared his grief is evolving into a hoarding disorder.
Rio sets the PS4 down. “It’s weird that there’s going to be games and objects that collect dust without Lucio ever even getting
to try them when they were new.” Time passing is a lot to stomach for him. “I’m going to get some air.”
“Do you want company?” I ask.
“No, thanks,” Rio says, leaving.
“Should we follow him anyway?” Ariana asks.
“Not unless you want to get yelled at,” I say. I’ve been on the other end of that.
Ariana accepts defeat and looks at these old objects in a new light. She whispers, “Your dad’s new invention will find itself
on one of these tables in the future.”
I’m grateful she made sure we’re alone before whispering that. Ariana only knows about Project Meucci because I got her cast
to be in the promotion we’re filming next week. Unlike the original actor, who has now been recast, Ariana happily signed
the NDA and has been forbidden from speaking about the product with anyone, including her mother. Hopefully Ariana doesn’t
take after her mother’s disregard for sensitive information.
It is strange to think about my father’s invention collecting dust in drawers around the world before being sold at future Graveyard Sales. I can only hope something stronger is in its place. I suppose that will be something I’m overseeing, assuming I don’t get fired with everyone else tonight.
After going through all the guest rooms and not finding anything else of interest, Ariana leads us downstairs and into the
dining area where trays of porcelain dishes sit on the long table. I keep my head low as there are other people in here too
and I don’t know where anyone stands on Death-Cast or me, especially after that Spyglass article. Agent Dane hovers around
the table before positioning himself in front of a wall mirror, discreetly watching everyone who comes in and out.
Ariana leans over a set of vintage teacups. “Babe, look at these. They’re gorgeous.”
I peek over my sunglasses to admire the floral detailing. “They are.”
“I’m delighted you both think so,” an older woman says in this wise tone that makes me feel like Anna Wintour complimented
my cotton jacquard jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons. The woman is so sophisticated in her white sleeveless turtleneck,
black pleated jeans, and emerald festoon necklace that must live in a safe when not making her look like a queen. “I’ve loved
those sets since I was a little girl.”
Ariana lights up. “You’re the seller? Chiara?”
“I am indeed,” she says, shaking our hands before picking up the teacup with roses. “My mamma threw the best tea parties for
me and my stuffed animals.”
“Mine too!” Ariana says.
“As great mothers do.”
Ariana also picks up a teacup, this one with sunflowers. “It’s honestly so stupid, but pretending I was a waitress at a fancy
tea shop who was taking my mom’s order, overpouring apple juice into every cup, and bringing her the same Chips Ahoy cookie
over and over was when I discovered how much fun acting is. I loved it so much that my mom signed me up for weekend classes
when I was four....” Ariana is tearing up while telling this story I’ve never heard before. “I thought she was just trying
to get me to play with someone else since my dad wasn’t around, but she sat in on every class and never stopped supporting
my dream.”
The tears fully run down her face as she fights to say, “And now I’m starting Juilliard in September.”
I’m standing here stunned as Chiara embraces Ariana in a tight hug.
Every time Ariana shares an amazing story about her mother, it never makes sense in my head. It’s like if I was staring at
Van Gogh’s self-portrait and Ariana said it’s Pablo Picasso’s. Factually she would be wrong, but maybe facts don’t mean as
much in relationships. Maybe relationships are more like art, where everyone sees something different. For instance, I see
Andrea Donahue as a criminal, whereas Ariana sees her mother as a hero. Who am I to tell her what she sees? Who am I to tell
Rio that he has to stop seeing Dalma Young as the cause of his grief? I need to be better at respecting other people’s perspectives,
especially my best friends’.
“You have to take these, sweetie. On the house,” Chiara says, collecting the teacups for Ariana.
“No, I’m happy to pay for it,” Ariana says while pulling out cash.
“Put that away.” Chiara leads us to a gift wrap room where she carefully packs the teacups into a small box. “Have a tea party
with your mother in honor of mine, okay?”
Ariana hugs the box. “Thank you, Chiara.”
We leave the brownstone, and Rio is sitting at the bottom on the stoop. He doesn’t like anyone asking him how he’s doing when
he goes away to get air, which is actually code for crying. I just help him up from the step, and Agent Dane escorts us all
to the black Lincoln Navigator, where our chauffeur, Felix Watkins, is waiting to drive everyone home.
I usually prefer driving myself around the city, but I’m too tired and don’t want to risk an accident where I hurt someone or kill a Decker, especially a Decker I personally reached out to. The public calls this “getting killed by the messenger,” and as far as we know it’s happened five times in our company’s history. The most recent was an accident on Tuesday, September 5, 2017. That day was hard enough because after a summer of intensity with Rio, one-sided feelings were declared but not reciprocated. I had to fight for us to be best friends—nothing more, nothing less—so we wouldn’t lose each other. As we parted ways, I received a call from my mother that she and my father were heading into the office because one of the newer heralds, Victor Gallaher, had run down a Decker, Rufus Emeterio (the very same from the Time magazine profile on Last Friends). He claimed it was an accident, but Victor Gallaher’s recording of his call with Rufus
Emeterio showed him conducting himself unprofessionally and emotionally, which was enough to get him fired and arrested since
police investigated foul play. It’s never been lost on me that just because you’re not dying doesn’t mean you can’t ruin your
life in a moment as quick as sudden death.
From the back seat of the car, Ariana hugs the box of teacups so close, like her arms are its seat belt. The entire ride home
she shares more memories of the different characters she pretended to be growing up, like a nurse treating Andrea when she
wasn’t sick, a laundromat owner charging Andrea a penny to use her own washing machine, and a teacher stickering Andrea’s
old paperwork and telling her what a good job she did. I wouldn’t give Andrea Donahue any stickers for her work as a herald,
but there’s no denying she deserves some as a mother.
After we drop off Ariana and Rio, I grab my phone and see a notification from the New York Times : “Olympic Gold Medalist Caspian Townsend Killed by Paparazzi.” My head spins as I read about twenty-seven-year-old Caspian Townsend trying to make the most of his End Day with his twenty-nine-year-old pregnant wife, Eris Bauer, and their four-year-old son, Champion Townsend. From paparazzi camping outside Caspian Townsend’s house as early as 3:15 a.m. to his family being hounded to his lawyers being bribed for details on the updated will to his fans crowding the street with memorabilia to get signed, it’s no surprise that things got ugly when Caspian Townsend was denied privacy for half of his End Day. There are conflicting statements on who threw the first punch, only that Caspian Townsend proved why he brought home that gold medal as he fought off six aggressive photographers before having the back of his skull bludgeoned by two cameras . . . in front of his pregnant wife and son.
The phone falls out of my hand.
I’m so lightheaded. If I could speak I would ask Watkins to pull over, but I don’t feel like I’m allowed to ever talk again
after feeling some responsibility for what I just read—and what I didn’t read.
That article is missing facts.
Facts are important.
The fact of the matter is that Caspian Townsend wouldn’t have spent his End Day fighting and dying for his privacy if Andrea
Donahue didn’t feed him to the vultures.
9:35 p.m.
All the heralds have been summoned to Death-Cast early tonight.
Upon entering the building, every herald and their personal belongings were inspected by our security force with pat-downs, body scanners, infrared detectors for hidden cameras, and radiofrequency monitors for listening devices. Phones and electronics were confiscated and locked in a safe on the ground level. HR representatives questioned each herald with at least one of my parents present. Once cleared, security escorted the heralds to our briefing room, where no one was allowed to speak. All they could do was reread the NDAs they signed when originally interviewed and hired; my father tasked me with highlighting the consequences on all forty-four contracts so everyone, myself included, will remember what’s at stake—fines, termination, imprisonment—when betraying Death-Cast.
Now, for the past thirty minutes, my father has been laying down the law on how we operate in this building.
“You never violate someone’s death or life. No one, living or dead!” Pa’s voice is growing raspy from all the yelling, but
it’s still powerful enough that he doesn’t need the podium behind him. He rolls up his sleeves while stepping toward the heralds,
who are either sweating, fidgeting, or petrified. My father points at me in the corner, where I’m standing with my mother.
“In case you are not aware, that is my son. His privacy was violated last night while doing the important work that only we
here at Death-Cast can do. And yet, someone —one of you !—on my payroll decided to make a buck off his distress! To have lies spun about him. To make him look weak. If you are given the
chance to continue working here, you will never violate my son’s privacy. In fact, forget the name Alano Angel Rosa. If a
reporter or anyone asks about my son, you say, ‘What son?’ Failure to comply with this human decency will find you on the
other end of my inexhaustible power!”
I would hate to be on the other end of this speech.
Pa undoes his tie and catches his breath. “Do we understand?”
Some heralds nervously nod, but no one speaks up.
“DO WE UNDERSTAND?!”
Every last herald says they understand.
“Let’s see if you do,” Pa says. He walks up to Fausto Flores. “What is my son’s name?”
Fausto is sweating. “What son?”
Pa nods before walking up to Roah Wetherholt. “What is my son’s name?”
“What son?” they say.
He walks up to Andrea Donahue. “What is my son’s name?”
“What son?” Andrea says.
Pa doesn’t move on. “You know my son’s name. What is it?”
Andrea is puzzled. “What son?” she asks, questioning if this is what she must say.
“You know what son. You’ve known him for years. He’s best friends with your daughter. Tell me his name, Ms. Donahue.”
Her heart must be pounding as hard as mine. “What son?”
“ My son—Alano. Angel. Rosa.” Pa crouches before Andrea Donahue and even though this is the softest he has spoken all evening,
the room is quiet enough to hear him say, “That’s my son’s name, which you sold to my enemies last night while working for
me.”
Everyone is shocked, myself included. This afternoon I came clean to my parents about Andrea Donahue’s violations after reading about Caspian Townsend being killed in front of his wife and son. I don’t know how many times she has leaked the deaths of prominent Deckers, but I knew I couldn’t let it happen ever again. My father was furious but insisted on still putting every herald through this investigation so they understand the lengths he will go to to find a culprit. Then he planned on confronting Andrea privately.
Plans change.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Andrea Donahue lies. She then points at me. “He’s lying, and if you try scapegoating
me for his negligence, then I will sue you for everything you have.”
My father laughs, a sound as haunting as the silence that followed Harry Hope shooting himself. “Asking me to believe you
over my son is as hopeless as your chances of beating me in court.”
“Is that what you really think? You have no proof of these accusations, Joaquin.”
He stands again, towering over her as she continues sitting, and he addresses the other heralds. “Inexhaustible power is what
I’ve warned you all is at my disposal. Ms. Donahue here is smart to act innocent until proven guilty, but as sure as I am
that the Deckers we call every night will die, I am confident that she will lose her day in court. We possess surveillance
footage of Ms. Donahue vacating the call center at 2:20 a.m. after alerting Caspian Townsend of his fate to sell his story
to Spyglass, an act that not only breaks the company’s NDA and constitutes as an antitrust violation for trading information
to a pro-natural competitor, but her scheme tragically resulted in Mr. Townsend’s murder this afternoon.” Pa stares down at
Andrea. “You are correct that I do not have proof of these accusations yet, but I trust my lawyers to secure the necessary
subpoenas for your phone and bank records to prove me—and my son—truthful.”
Andrea Donahue rises. “You’re accusing me of making money off the dead. Does that sound familiar?”
“It’s time for you to leave, Andrea,” Ma says, stepping forward. “It was time a long time ago, but we pardoned your negligence
out of respect to our children. Enough is enough.”
“I have been here since the beginning,” Andrea Donahue says. “If you try to end me, I will tell the world everything I know
about Death-Cast.”
My heart is hammering. Is this a real threat? I’m going through all my past interactions around her and know I never said
anything to her, but I’m very aware that not everyone has to be told critical information. Sometimes they simply overhear
it.
Pa shakes his head. “You know nothing, Ms. Donahue. You would have long sold that information if you did. So I will not try
to end you tonight. I simply will. You are fired. Never step foot in this building again so long as you live, and not even
then.”
Andrea addresses the other heralds—the heralds. “Be careful of every move you make. This tyrant has his spy watching you,”
she says while pointing at me. She approaches, and Agent Dane guards me as if Andrea might attack me; I’m not sure that she
wouldn’t. “You’ve ruined her life.”
“No, ma’am. You did.”
“Get out,” Pa demands. “Do not speak to my son or say his name ever again.”
Andrea scoffs, and as she’s escorted out by my bodyguard, she mutters, “This isn’t the end.”
I already knew this wouldn’t be the end, but hearing her say it sends a chill down my spine. I want to run and call Ariana before Andrea has a chance to reach her phone downstairs, but I wouldn’t know what to say. How I would break the news about who her mother really is. If she will even believe me without real evidence.
Pa stands before the heralds. “I am eternally grateful for the critical work you all do here. You are the heart of Death-Cast,
but let tonight be a warning that if I sense any sign of trouble, your removal will be swift.”
The heralds are all dismissed.
I’m alone with my parents.
“What happened to doing this privately?” I ask.
“Threats are not loud and clear in private,” Pa says. “If one person is willing to betray a contract as if the consequences
are nothing but words on paper, then they all needed to hear it from me directly so they understand the force they are up
against.”
“This is costing me my best friend.”
“A tragedy, but one worth paying to protect this company.”
“Joaquin,” Ma scolds. “Alano is your son before he is your employee.”
“He is everything,” Pa says, and it feels as empty as words on paper, even hearing it from him directly.
My destiny at Death-Cast is costing me the future I want.
10:14 p.m.
I’ve called Ariana four times, but she’s not answering.
Has Death-Cast terminated our friendship too?
11:32 p.m.
There was no shortage of heralds tonight at Death-Cast, even with Andrea Donahue out of the picture, so I came home. Besides,
last night’s shift has ruined my life enough. Even my father isn’t putting me through that again.
I’m in my bedroom, cuddling with Bucky and reading Dr. Aysel Glasgow’s psychology book What to Know About Those Dying Inside about treating suicidal patients. I grabbed it from my father’s office so I can identify signs should I find myself trying
to save a suicidal person, even if it’s just a Decker who I want to have a longer End Day. There are so many things I recognize
about myself too.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I shout.
Agent Dane steps in. “Ms. Ariana is here to see you.”
I toss the book to the side. Arming myself with the skills to save a life is urgent business, but so is saving my friendship.
“Send her in.”
“She’s downstairs.”
“Have Mr. Foley send her up.”
“I unfortunately can’t permit that. Mr. Rosa doesn’t want guests inside at this time.”
“Any guests or Andrea Donahue’s daughter?”
Agent Dane is quiet. “I’ll accompany you downstairs.”
I go down the elevator with Agent Dane, well aware he won’t defy my father’s orders, even though we know Ariana isn’t the
criminal.
The lobby boasts a diamond chandelier, white marble front counter, potted plants, and four black leather chairs on a burgundy rug, but no one is here except our doorman. Mr. Foley must be confused why Ariana was denied visitation since she’s been at the penthouse so often the past three months that I’ve told him he doesn’t have to call before sending her upstairs, but he continues to do so anyway because of my father’s rules.
“Evening, Mr. Foley. Did Ariana leave?”
“I believe she is outside, sir.”
I stop at the revolving door. “Mind staying here?” I ask Agent Dane.
“I have to keep an eye on you.”
“You don’t need to protect me from my best friend.”
Agent Dane’s eyes lock on the windows, manual doors, and revolving door. “Stay visible.”
I go through the revolving door and find Ariana leaning against the wall.
“Hey,” I say nervously. Going in for a hug feels stupid, but Ariana gives me a head nod.
Her hands are tucked inside the pocket of her big hoodie. She struggles with getting her words out. “I’m not allowed upstairs?
Really? Does your dad think I’m going to kill you?”
“I’m sorry. My father is tightening security. I only just found out.”
She kicks off the wall and steps toward me. “Why—why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wish I had, but after not reporting Andrea’s crime when I should’ve, I needed to follow protocol.” I don’t need to tell Ariana about Pa’s decision to make an example out of Andrea Donahue to ensure the other heralds won’t repeat her mistakes, but she does need to hear the truth from me. I explain how I caught Andrea Donahue selling the stories to Spyglass and how we made a deal to let it go as long as she never did it again, but I couldn’t in good conscience honor that after Caspian Townsend was murdered by the very paparazzi who paid Andrea for the story.
Ariana stares with glassy eyes. “Is there any proof?”
My word should be enough, but I reveal that the camera footage shows Andrea leaving the call center after alerting Caspian
Townsend of his fate. My father’s lawyers will obtain more evidence.
“If that’s all true, what harm is it doing?” Ariana asks.
“She called a man to tell him he was going to die and then got him killed. All for five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars toward my dreams.”
“You don’t want your dreams paid for with blood money. Do you?”
“No, but I’ve worked so hard for my dream, and now it’s done. Not everyone has rich parents, Alano.” Ariana puts her hands
up like she’s in trouble. “Sorry, am I allowed to use your name, or should I forget it too?”
This is a side I’ve never seen from her before. “Don’t make me the enemy, Ariana.”
“You got my mom fired!”
“Your mother committed a crime,” I say calmly, hoping she’ll settle down.
Ariana breaks down crying. “I know it was wrong for my mom to sell those stories, and I’m sorry, but should she really go
to prison for telling the truth? She’s all I have left.”
“You have me. We’ll get our apartment and—”
Ariana laughs sarcastically. “Babe—Alano, we’re standing outside because Joaquin won’t let me upstairs, but you think he’s
going to let you move in with me? Let me tell you, if we’re about to have ten bodyguards for roommates and watching my every
move around you, they better be paying rent.”
“That’s not what I want either.”
Ariana wipes her tears, smudging her face. “Then it’s too bad that our parents have decided our futures and ruined our lives.”
I’m tearing up. I don’t like crying in front of people because my father says that can teach people how to hurt you, but hurting
my best friend is even worse. “We can start over.”
“Alano, I have to start over because your destiny ruined mine.”
“Then let’s rewrite our destinies together.”
“There’s no forgetting that I’m a girl with no future because my best friend is the Death-Cast heir.” Ariana cries so hard
that she’s clutching her chest. “You might not be able to have a different life, but I can. Goodbye, Alano.”
Ariana walks away, ignoring my pleas to stay and talk, and she turns the corner, vanishing.
I want to hate Death-Cast for pushing Ariana away from me, but Death-Cast is also what brought us together. Maybe Death-Cast will have the power to save us too. There are countless stories of friends, family, lovers who are at odds but then someone receives their Death-Cast alert and their first call goes to the person they haven’t been speaking to for ages. On the other hand, there are tragedies where a loved one discovers someone died without making amends, even when Death-Cast gifted them with the time to do so. I hope Ariana and I have a better story.
I’m about to go back inside when someone calls my name.
There’s a boy around my age. He’s wearing dark denim and a black tank top beneath his jacket. His gelled black hair goes well
with his outfit, almost like he might start snapping his fingers down the street and break out in song like he’s in West Side Story . I personally would have gone with boots instead of the track sneakers, but he’s attractive enough that most people are probably
paying more attention to his face than his feet. He’s not my type necessarily, but I see the appeal. Brown eyes, high cheekbones,
rounded jaw, and kissable lips even if the bottom one is bloody, as if he’s been biting on it. There’s something familiar
about him too, but I can’t place it.
“Wow, it’s really you,” the boy says.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“I’m shocked. I never thought I would meet you or anyone in your family to tell you what Death-Cast means to me.” The boy
extends his hand, and Agent Dane comes busting out of my building and shields me.
“Step back,” Agent Dane says forcefully.
There’s a panic in the boy’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t sweat it, Dane,” I say. This is code that I’m genuinely okay with this interaction. It’s not only important that my
physical health is protected but that my reputation is as well for Death-Cast’s sake. Sometimes I’m uncomfortable around some
fans—usually adults with strong opinions and no boundaries—that I want to get away without looking rude, so Agent Dane becomes
the bad guy for me. But this is another teenager. Someone I’ve inspired. I could use that energy after the night I’ve had.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the boy as Agent Dane eases up. “It’s his job to look after me.”
The boy nods. “Okay,” he says while still staring at Agent Dane, this uncertainty in his eyes.
I turn to Agent Dane. “Could you give us some space? I’ll be inside in a minute.”
Agent Dane scans the boy while stepping back, looking like the building’s doorman.
“What’s your name?” I ask the boy.
“Jonathan,” he says, reaching into his pocket. Footsteps pound across the sidewalk, and Agent Dane’s hand is wrapped around
Jonathan’s wrist before he can pull whatever out of his pocket. “It’s just my phone. I was going to ask for a selfie, sorry.”
Agent Dane slowly drags Jonathan’s phone out.
Jonathan looks uncomfortable. “Is that okay?”
“It would be my pleasure,” I say, patting Agent Dane’s fist to release Jonathan. “Would you like Dane to take a photo of us?”
The fear in Jonathan’s eyes lives on. “I prefer selfies,” he says, and I read between the lines.
“Mind waiting inside for us?” I ask Agent Dane. “I’ll be in shortly.”
“Only after an inspection, Mr. Alano.”
This is ridiculous, and I’m about to say as much when Jonathan consents. That alone proves his innocence, but Agent Dane continues
on with the full-body inspection anyway—having Jonathan raise his arms above his head, patting him down over and inside the
jacket, checking the waistband, and then finally his legs, as if we wouldn’t see a gun-shaped bulge in his tight jeans. Once
Jonathan’s cleared, Agent Dane returns inside, watching me from the lobby’s window.
“I’m sorry about all of that,” I say.
“It makes sense. You’re the Alano Angel Rosa,” Jonathan says.
There’s something unnerving about hearing my full name, especially after tonight, when my father forbade our heralds from
ever speaking it again.
“Death-Cast has done so much for so many people. My uncle was one of the first people to sign up for the service because of
his intense thanatophobia. Do you know what that is?”
I nod. Of course I do. Cases of death anxiety range from minor to severe, but it would have to be intense for someone to categorize
it as thanatophobia. It’s no surprise he registered for Death-Cast to have some peace of mind. “How’s he doing now?”
“Dead,” Jonathan says, his eyes welling with tears.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“My father was never in the picture, but my uncle was. He was a role model for the kind of man I want to be. It’s been almost
ten years, and it still hurts like yesterday.”
Almost ten years. “When did he die?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
He stares, seeing the recognition in my eyes. “The first End Day. Not that he knew what was going to happen.”
I realize why he’s familiar. It wasn’t his appearance, which has changed since I last saw pictures of him online three years
ago when he was scrawny and blond instead of the muscular brunette before me with a face that has filled out. The name Jonathan
threw me off too, since his name is actually Mac Maag. But it’s his voice that I recognize, that I remember from yesterday
morning, when he called and threatened my life—“I’m going to kill you, Alano Angel Rosa”—a warning I don’t deserve since his
uncle died without his own.
Mac Maag said he wanted to tell me what Death-Cast means to him.
I think he means show me.
A switchblade springs out of his phone’s case, shocking in and of itself. The blade almost reaches my neck when I swing my elbow to block as Agent Dane has trained me. No Muay Thai lessons could have prepared me for steel dragging across my forearm, tearing it open. The searing pain transports me back to my fourteenth birthday, when I was rock climbing for the first time and slipped, my thigh landing on a jagged edge, staining the mountain with my blood like I’m doing with the sidewalk now. It’s one thing to be trained to fight and another to have to put it into practice. I hit him in the leg with a low kick before returning to my stance. I immediately regret it because this isn’t a safe brawl, this is a knife fight. I should’ve powered a push kick to get him away or knocked him with my jump switch roundhouse kick because all I did was make him collapse to his knees, leaving my stomach open to be stabbed.
Mac Maag is driving the switchblade deep into my abdomen when Agent Dane flies out of nowhere and tackles him.
Fire is eating away at my wound, or that’s what it feels like. I fall to the ground in pain, choking on my breath as I pull
the switchblade—the phone with a switchblade—out of me. I only hear my heartbeat and my assassin screaming “Death to Death-Cast!”
over and over, but as I stare at the bloody phone, I know I will be hearing my alert too.