CHAPTER 22 #3
"Which means whoever hired Leo might be using those tunnels," Cole said. "They might have been in the tunnels for years. Watching. Waiting. Learning the network from the inside."
"Which means they might still be there." Mara stood up. "Leo, you said you were hired to burn my apartment and beat Marcus and make it look like Santoro was behind everything. But there's a gap. A piece that doesn't fit."
"What piece?"
"The fire. You said you were hired to make it look like an accident.
You made sure it spread slow enough that I'd get out alive.
But the electrical panel—the swapped panel—that wasn't you.
That was someone else. Someone who had access to the building.
Someone who knew how to replace a panel without anyone noticing. Someone who wanted me dead."
Leo's face went pale. "I didn't know about the panel. I was told to use a grease fire. Something simple. Something that would spread slow. I wasn't told about the panel."
"Then someone else was there that night. Someone else set the electrical panel as a backup. A failsafe. In case the grease fire didn't work. In case you failed."
"Or in case I succeeded," Marcus said quietly. "In case the fire was supposed to kill you both. In case the person who hired Leo wanted Leo dead too. A loose end. A witness. An arsonist who knew too much."
Leo's hands started trembling again. "Tommy Chen. They killed Tommy Chen. They killed Carlos. They're killing everyone who knows about them. Everyone who could connect them to the fire. I'm the last one. I'm the only one left."
"Mara turned. Cole was still standing behind her, his scarred hand resting on her shoulder, his gray eyes steady and watchful. "We need to call Reyes. Tell her about the dead drop. Tell her about the Walnut Street Theater. Tell her there's someone else out there."
"And then what?" Cole asked.
"And then we go to the dead drop. We stake it out. We find out who's been watching us. We find out who wants the flame. And we stop them before they can make their next move."
"The fourth priestess's obligation," Cole said. "Guard the flame. Pass it forward."
"Yes." Mara touched the pendant. It was warm again—steady and warm and certain. "But first, we need to find out who's been trying to steal it."
---
Dawn broke over the city at 6:47 AM.
Mara was standing at the window, watching the pale February light seep over the rooftops, when her phone buzzed. A text from Reyes: "APB on Leo Vargas still active. No sightings. Call me."
She didn't call. Not yet. Instead, she turned to Leo, who was still sitting at the far table, his coffee cup empty, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"Reyes wants to know if I've seen you. The FBI has an active APB. If I call her, she'll be here in ten minutes. She'll arrest you. You'll spend the rest of your life in federal prison."
Leo didn't look up. "I know."
"You came here anyway. You knew I'd call Reyes. You knew you'd be arrested. And you came here anyway."
"I came here because I didn't have anywhere else to go. I came here because I wanted to do something right. One thing. One right thing before the end."
Mara crossed the bar. She sat down across from Leo. Cole and Marcus and Finn were watching from the bar—Cole with his arms crossed, Marcus with his coffee cup, Finn with his notebook.
"You said you wanted sanctuary. Three days. The original Mara's rule. But sanctuary isn't just about hiding from the law. It's about telling the truth. The third sacrament. Release. You haven't told me everything yet."
Leo's jaw tightened. "I've told you everything I know."
"No. You haven't told me why you did it.
You haven't told me why you beat a man you'd never met.
Why you burned a woman's apartment. Why you spent years working for Santoro and Tommy Chen and whoever else paid you.
You haven't told me what happened to make you the kind of person who could do those things. "
"You want my life story?"
"I want to know if you're worth saving. The original Mara saved Mira Bennett even though Mira stole her knowledge and wrote the shadow ledger. She saved her because she saw something in her. Something worth protecting. I need to know if there's something in you worth protecting."
Leo was silent for a long moment. The bar was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of a delivery truck on the street above. The turntable was off. The pendant was warm.
Then Leo spoke.
"My father was a drunk. My mother was a waitress at a diner on Oregon Avenue.
She worked double shifts five days a week, and she still couldn't make rent.
My father spent every paycheck on bourbon and blackjack tables.
When I was twelve, he broke my arm. When I was fourteen, he broke my jaw.
When I was sixteen, I broke his nose with a baseball bat and never went back. "
His voice was flat. Monotone. The voice of a man who'd told this story a hundred times and never felt a thing.
"After that, I lived on the streets. I did odd jobs for anyone who'd pay me. I ran numbers for bookies. I collected debts for loan sharks. I learned how to be invisible. I learned how to hurt people. I learned that the only thing that mattered was getting paid and getting out."
"When did you start working for Santoro?"
"Five years ago. I was twenty-two. I'd been running collections for a guy in Kensington who got himself shot over a twenty-dollar debt.
Santoro's people found me. Offered me twice what I was making.
All I had to do was what they told me. Collect debts.
Deliver messages. Make sure people understood that Santoro wasn't someone you crossed. "
"And the beating? The fire?"
"Three months ago, Tommy Chen called me.
He said there was a new job. A woman. A bar.
A network that went back a hundred years.
He said the client was willing to pay more than I'd ever made in my life.
All I had to do was what they told me." Leo's voice cracked.
"I didn't ask who. I didn't ask why. I took the money.
I did the job. I burned your apartment. I beat Marcus. I did everything they told me."
"And Carlos Mendes?"
The name hung in the air. Leo's face—already pale—went white.
"Carlos was my friend. He was the only friend I had.
He'd been working at Santoro's for six months.
He was the one who convinced me to leave Philly.
We were going to drive to California. Start over.
Get clean. Get legit. And then Covington found out he was the informant.
And then Tommy Chen called me and told me Carlos was a rat.
And then Carlos was found in the river with two bullets in his skull. "
"Did you kill him?"
"No. God, no. I didn't kill him. I would never kill Carlos.
I loved him. He was the only person who ever—" Leo's voice broke.
His hands covered his face. His shoulders shook.
"I loved him. And I let him die. I knew what Covington was going to do.
I knew he was going to kill him. And I didn't warn him. I didn't save him. I just let him die."
The bar was silent.
Mara watched Leo cry. The pendant was warm against her sternum—not pulsing, not questioning, just warm.
The same warmth it had given when Marcus had wept in the chamber.
The same warmth it had given when Cole had surrendered to the wand.
The same warmth it had given when she'd spoken the original Mara's name and let her rest.
"Carlos Mendes," she said. "Twenty-two years old. A busboy. A federal informant. A man who wanted to drive to California and start over. He died because he tried to do the right thing. He died because he trusted you."
"I know. I know he trusted me. I know I failed him.
I know I failed everyone. That's why I'm here.
That's why I came. Not because I deserve sanctuary.
Not because I think I can make up for what I did.
But because Carlos would have wanted me to try.
He would have wanted me to do the right thing. Even if it kills me."
Mara stood up. She crossed to the bar. She poured a fresh cup of coffee—not the stale beans Marcus had brought from the deli, but the good ones she'd bought before the fire, the ones that tasted like chocolate and earth and a little bit of smoke.
She set the cup in front of Leo.
"Three days," she said. "You get three days. Not because you deserve them. Not because I forgive you. But because Carlos Mendes believed in you. And Carlos Mendes deserves to have his faith honored."
Leo's hands wrapped around the cup. His tears dripped into the coffee. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Cole came up behind Mara. His hand found her shoulder. His deliberate fingers traced the line of her collarbone.
"You're going to stake out the dead drop," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"No. With you. With Marcus. With Finn if he wants to come. With Reyes if she'll agree to keep Leo out of cuffs long enough for us to catch the person who really killed Carlos."
"Reyes isn't going to agree to that."
"Reyes owes the Whitfields. The Whitfields owe me. The original Mara had a network that stretched from the streets to the courthouse to the FBI itself. I have that network now. I just need to use it."
Cole was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "When do we go?"
Mara looked at the window. The dawn light was growing brighter—pale February gold seeping through the frosted glass and the barred windows and the hundred years of secrets.
"Tonight," she said. "The dead drop is at midnight. That's when the instructions said to leave the next payment. If we're there at midnight, we'll see who comes to collect. We'll see who's been watching us. We'll see who wants the flame."
"And then?"
Mara touched the pendant. It pulsed once—warm and steady and certain.
"And then we stop them."
---
The Walnut Street Theater was a ghost.