Chapter 11
Walker
The weather turns, and I know I should work in my studio instead of my room.
Only I can’t seem to leave the house. I know RJ will call me the second Clara reaches out, but I want to be here for her, even if it’s just staring at words on a screen.
It’s been two Fridays, and we still haven’t heard from her.
If it weren’t for the tail waiting for us outside, I might be tempted to do something nearly as stupid as Jansen did.
But the tail showed up two days after his stunt, so we’re being careful and working extra hard not to lead them to Jansen. So far, we’ve kept that from happening.
Jansen and Emma have had to order a lot of delivery, though.
Going to my parents for dinner last weekend was torture, knowing I could miss a message.
My parents’ constant praise for my brother Marshall, every word making it increasingly obvious that I was their audience for the ‘Marshall Show,’ didn’t help.
After dinner, Marshall tried to ask me a few things about my life, but my dad pulled him away, the only comment pointed at me the whole night a ‘You should be more like your brother.’
I don’t know why I keep trying. Probably because there isn’t really another option—family is family, no matter how they make me feel.
The doorbell rings, forcing me to set down my blood-red paintbrush, lock my door, and head downstairs, almost tripping over the bedside table I moved into the hall earlier.
Outside is a guy I’ve never seen before, clean-cut and vibrating with energy.
“Wrong address,” I say, knowing this guy isn’t here for RJ at a glance.
If he were here for anybody, it’d be Trips, but the man doesn’t really have friends, and even if he did, they’d have figured out he isn’t here by now.
I go to close the door, but the guy throws out an arm to stop me.
“Wait, are you Walker or RJ?”
I hold the door half open, saying nothing, having learned from Trips the power of weaponized silence.
“Clara McElroy is in class with me, and she asked me to drop this off.”
As soon as Clara’s name falls from his mouth, I quickly change into my shoes and get the guy to follow me down the street, noticing a square of paper in his hand.
“Dude, are you guys like, spies? Because I feel like a spy, and I’m just passing a note.”
I feel the tail’s eyes on me, so I smile at the guy, and it must be rusty, because he jumps. “Let’s talk about the project at the coffee shop, yeah?”
He catches on quickly. “Oh yeah. Let’s do that.”
Luckily, the Prancing Goat Cafe is busy enough for our conversation to be anonymous.
And if the tail sees that this is just a random, class thing, hopefully this kid won’t get caught in our mess.
We both get drinks, and I claim a table in a busy back corner, leaving the tail to sit by the front door.
Finally safe enough, I hold out my hand.
“Who are you? And how did you end up involved?”
He doesn’t get that I’m asking for the note, instead taking my palm in a well-trained firm handshake.
“I’m Jonah, and I’m in marketing with Clara.
We were also in business law last year. I’ve had a bunch of classes over the years with Trips, as we’re both finance majors.
” He fiddles with his cup, looking around the restaurant in a frustratingly obvious way.
“We’re here working on a project, so keep your focus on me,” I say, a harsh note in my voice that I’m usually better at moderating.
“Oh, right.” He stares down at his cup instead, which isn’t really an improvement, but not everybody can act. As we found with both Jansen and Trips this summer. “So, are you?” he asks, peeking up at me.
“Am I what?”
“A spy?”
I huff out half a laugh. “No. I’m not a spy, and I pray to God that’s not a job I’m ever forced into.”
“Then what’s with all the subterfuge?” He tears the sleeve off his cup.
“I looked at the note. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I dropped it, and it unfolded, and I’ve never seen anything like it.
Clara has scary-looking guards who don’t want her talking to anybody.
I don’t know if it was her who did it, but there was this whole mess with a phone going off in class, and that’s when she asked me to bring you the note.
It’s just that it all seems like a lot. Why couldn’t she bring you the note herself?
Or call or text or really anything less crazy?
My girlfriend’s half afraid I’m going to get hurt, but I’m only delivering a note, right? I’m not in any danger?”
Once this guy gets going, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re not in danger. But would you be willing to take a note or two to Clara over the course of the semester?”
“Like a courier?”
“Yeah. You’d have to keep the guard from seeing, but Clara can handle the rest.”
He tears the coffee sleeve into short strips. “I can do that. Only if you promise there’s no danger.”
“You’ll be fine.”
He finally takes a sip, staring off to the side. “You didn’t say Clara would be fine.”
“She isn’t fine. This wouldn’t change that for her.”
“Is she in danger?”
I take a sip of my drink, wanting to lie, but I’m so sick of it.
I’ve spent so long pretending, hiding, wearing masks, that it should get easier.
Instead, every day the lies get heavier, and I’m too exhausted taking care of RJ and Jansen to lift them anymore.
“Yeah, she is. But we’re working on getting her out of it. ”
“Is it Trips?” A cloud comes over the guy’s face, and his reaction confirms that he’s an okay dude, a normal guy with a conscience.
I shake my head. “No, Trips is in the same situation as Clara. Can I have the note now?”
“Wait, which one are you? Walker or RJ?” He hands me a loosely folded piece of notebook paper, and I flip it open to see Clara’s scrolling script on the page, the blue pen bleeding through the back where she hesitated to draw the next character.
I fold it up, and when the tail takes a sip of his coffee, I pocket it. “I’m Walker. And thanks. I know this has to seem really weird.”
“We should exchange phone numbers for the next note,” Jonah says, sliding his phone across to me. After a moment of hesitation, I give him my IRC codename instead of my phone number, with a link to where to log into the system.
I slide it back to him. “This is safer. Our phones are being monitored.”
“Seriously? Is that why we’re at a coffee shop?”
“We’re in a coffee shop because I’ve got a tail. They’re looking for another of our roommates, and they keep hoping we’ll slip up. But they’re not that stealthy, and we’ve had practice losing a tail.”
He chuckles. “I don’t believe you.”
The fuck? The guy’s right across the room.
My confusion must be easy to read. “You are all totally spies. And now I’m a spy by proxy. This shit is awesome. I can’t wait to tell Callie.”
I shake my head at his excitement. Was it really only a year ago that I felt that kind of excitement when we got ready for a job? Was it really only a year ago that we were strictly white collar, and this shit wasn’t dangerous?
Was it really only a year ago that I fell head over heels for Clara?
Back when my biggest problem was thinking my girlfriend was only with me because I got to her first. But it’s not a race. It never was.
She loves me because my passion echoes hers. She needs me as her guide, giving her space to melt into sensation, color, sound, excess. I’m blessed that she trusts me with the part of herself that echoes the fire in her heart.
I miss her so damn much.
“So, how much longer do we sit here to throw off your tail?” Jonah asks.
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I stare at my red and black speckled hands, my paintbrush likely ruined back at home. “I’ll head out. Count to twenty, then make sure the guy in the green coat sitting next to the front door is gone before you leave, too.”
He nods, attempting and failing to shut down his uncontrolled grin.
“Thanks, Jonah,” I say before heading back out into the cold.
When I get back home, the tail left a few houses back, my room is ice cold but fume-free. Only the paint has dried leaving my brushes a mess.
My walls are morphing into swirls of red and black, hints of Clara clear in every swipe of black—the curve of her cheek, the dip of her waist, the strength of her calves or the set of her jaw. But she’s surrounded by blood-red clouds, caught in the net of choices we’ve made.
Choices she’s made, too.
I close my windows, leave my brushes to soak, and knock on RJ’s door.
He’s barely recognizable the longer Clara’s gone, so far lost in his work that what started as negligent stubble is now a full beard, his hair pulled into a low ponytail more often than its free, deep shadows under his eyes from not sleeping as much as he should. “What’s up?” he asks, letting me in.
“We’ve got mail.” I hand over the note, and we sit together, parsing the meaning in low whispers.
Trips locked away. No release known. Mental status unknown.
Consequence was me killing my guard Smith and a week of mostly solitary confinement.
Trips’ dad is aware we’re up to something.
I plan to up my charm. They’re looking for Jansen and Emma; keep them safe.
Falk might be trustworthy; I’m testing the waters.
If storage is off site, Falk will know where.
Glad things are okay there. Miss you. So much. Love you.
I swallow, hard, wanting her here instead of there, her hand in mine instead of this slip of notebook paper. “I hate this,” I whisper.
RJ drops his head in his hands. “Me too. I’ll reach out to Mattie tomorrow, see if she’s picked up on anything that Clara hasn’t.”
“Jansen—”
“I know. He’s moving, he’s healing…”
“But will it be soon enough? Both his body and brain are so busted.”
RJ stands up, his gaze locked on his computer. “All we can do is what we have in front of us. And if we need to cover for him—”
“It’ll be a shitshow.”
“Maybe. At least we practiced, just in case.”
“And Clara was his best stand-in.”
“With the locks, but not with climbing.” RJ rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, I know Jansen usually has the sunshine and blind faith market cornered, but if you could be less negative, we might be able to make a contingency plan. Just in case.”
I slump onto his bed, knowing that my first reaction to stress is to shut down. To keep my heart safe instead of being open to a solution. It’s an issue I know I’m going to keep struggling with and one I’d asked the guys to check me on before we came back. “Sorry.”
“No worries. You’ve been the one keeping us alive. I’m just trying to help lift the burden.”
“Thanks. I guess that means we should climb twice a week from now on, just in case,” I say, staring up at his ceiling.
“And swim. But it’s the locks that worry me,” RJ says.
Flopping back on his mattress makes me wish for a particular warm body to be sprawled next to me. “I’m fine with the picks—not Jansen good, but fine. It’s the safe-breaking that’s scary hard.”
“Understood. But it might be you,” he says, settling into his chair. “You’re better at both than I am.”
“You’ll have to practice, too. Is it selfish that I don’t want to damage my hands scrambling up buildings? Remember how nasty Jansen’s hand was when we ran?”
“No, man. Those are your moneymakers. But I’m in the same boat on that one.”
I stare at his space-age light-up keyboard and can’t deny the honesty in that statement. “I guess I should steal a few practice locks.”
He spins in his chair. “Probably.”
Stepping into Jansen’s room, I grab a few practice pieces, and after a moment of hesitation, his largest puzzle box book.
I drop one lock on RJ’s desk, then take the rest back to my room like a thief. But unlike Jansen, it’s not a feeling I much like. Because I’m not a thief. I’m an artist forced to make another mask to save the people I love.
At least I’m good at masks.