The Girls I've Been(15)
“Be careful,” he says.
I turn to Iris. She smiles, but it’s shaky, and I want to lean over to kiss her because what if this is it? What if they catch me?
But if I do that, then it confirms a maybe-goodbye.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her. “And I’ll explain. Okay? I’ll explain everything.”
She nods tightly, and I grab the scissors out of my waistband. Wes bends, linking his fingers into a foothold, and I step into it. He hoists me up, and using the flat end of the scissors blade, I pry the air vent cover free, place the scissors inside, and hand it down; then Wes lifts me higher. Grabbing the vent, I pull myself up and inside.
— 15 —
Abigail Deveraux, aka the Queen of Grift (aka My Mom)
I don’t even know where to start with her. My mother. Justine. Gretchen. Maya. The names go on and on . . . Who knows how many there have really been?
But her real name is Abby.
I could write novels about what she’s done. The lessons I’ve learned. The shit she’s put me through. The love I had for her. The knowledge that’s so terrible it blots out that love completely.
I’d run out of ink before I even got to the rest.
I knew her, is the thing. And when you live a life like she lives, there’s very few people who can say that.
I knew her, and that was not a good thing.
She wanted daughters who would grow up to be just like her. And she got Lee and me instead. Girls who were molded by her actions over her pretty words. Girls who grew up straddling this strange line between good and bad. In her work, Lee floats between the criminal world and the legal one. And me?
I don’t fit anywhere. Lee pulled me out before Mom could fully get her grip in me, but Mom had too much time to get in my head to let me live a real life. I’ve been too many different girls to have a deep grasp on myself, and I don’t know what to do with any of the parts. They’re all me. They’re all useful. They’re all a little bit destructive . . . and that’s always been my problem.
I’ve danced way too long on the tilted ground. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m on something steady.
Mom and I?
We have that in common.
We have too much in common.
— 16 —
10:15 a.m. (63 minutes captive)
1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 1 strip of petticoat
Plan: In progress
The air vent is gross. Dusty and rank, and the entire time I’m breathing through my mouth as I crawl forward, stomach down, inch by inch, desperately trying to stay quiet and not sneeze.
I’ve left my boots behind—they’d make too much noise—and I serpentine through the cobwebs and stale air, staring down through the slats of each vent that I come across, counting. One, two, three.
I peer into the darkened room below me, and then bam. I hear it even in the ceiling. They’re trying to ram the door open. Haven’t they figured out it’s not going to work? I’d be looking for a crowbar by now. Or Googling how to pick a damn lock. They’ve got videos online and everything.
I unwind the petticoat strip from my wrist and tie it around the vent. There’s a murmur of voices I can’t make out, and then the thumping stops. I can’t tell if there are footsteps. I close my eyes, counting to twenty.
I scoot forward and bring my elbow down on the center of the vent’s grate. It pops out easily and dangles in the air from the length of petticoat as I lower it to the ground quietly. And then I drop down, wincing as my bare feet hit the floor. I duck behind the desk, waiting.
“. . . isn’t working,” I hear, muffled through the door. “Barely a fucking dent!”
“You’re the one who pulled out the gun before you made sure Frayn was in his office,” Gray Cap’s rough voice shoots back. “This is your mess. I never should’ve let you in on this.”
“Oh fuck you.”
More pounding, frustrated this time, instead of purposeful. But each angry burst of sound sends fear spiking inside me. My back is pressed so hard up against the desk, I’m going to have the shape of the drawer handle imprinted into my rib cage forever.
“Take a break,” Gray Cap orders, and then it’s quiet. Blessedly quiet.
The office is dark, the only light coming from the tiny inaccessible windows set at the top of the room that aren’t more than six inches wide. I peek over the edge of the desk, trying to get my eyes to adjust. I can see the shadow of a phone, and my heart slams in my chest.
When the door doesn’t start thumping again, I don’t know if it’s because they’ve both left or if one of them is just outside, waiting for the other to cool down and come back.
I look at the phone again. Risk. Reward. Risk. Reward.
I grab it and dial Lee’s cell. It rings twice, and then she picks up.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I whisper, as quietly as possible.
“Nora?” Lee’s voice cracks. “Are you okay? Where are you in the bank? Is Wes with you? His truck is here.”
“I’m in the back, where the offices are. Wes and Iris are with me. There are two robbers. I’ve seen two guns. A shotgun and a semiautomatic. I don’t know if they have more. They want the safe-deposit boxes. I’m trying to make it so they go down the basement together, so we can run for it.”