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  Copyright © 2017 by Kieran Scott

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Nicole Komasinski/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover images © Aliaksei Kaponia/Stocksy; shipov/Thinkstock

  Internal art © Milan M/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  CONTENTS

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  18 Months Ago

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  12 Months Ago

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my mom, who would’ve really loved this book.

  18 MONTHS AGO

  “And the champion goes down!”

  I laid down my cards and raised my fists in the air. Yes, this was a bit juvenile, but I could count on one hand the number of times I’d beaten my mother at any game—chess, UNO, hangman, Monopoly (we had travel versions of every game ever made)—so I decided to give myself a pass. My mother didn’t react, however. When I looked up from the table, she was staring at the hotel room door. My heart gave a tiny squeeze.

  “Mom?”

  She refocused, her dark eyes flitting to me, then the table. “Wait, what? You won? How did that happen?”

  The joking tone of her voice was forced. Her eyes found the digital clock on the bedside table. It was 4:22 p.m. She seemed confused by this. And she was too fidgety. Something was wrong. I chose to ignore this. Call it self-preservation.

  Because maybe she was still mad at me for what I’d said before we’d left for Oaxaca. That I didn’t want this life anymore. That I wanted to be normal. Which, while it was somewhat true, I’d said it in a fit of emotion after my father had come home four days late from a job and looking like someone had mistaken his face for a piñata. I never would have said it out loud if I’d had time to think.

  Because I loved my parents. And they loved our life. We were a unit. A family. We were all we had. I would never turn my back on them. She had to know that.

  “It happened when you weren’t looking.” I cocked my head to one side and knit my brow, hoping to keep the playful vibe going. “Maybe it’s that you’re getting so old.”

  My mother lifted one finger. “Watch yourself, mija. I eat little girls like you for breakfast.”

  She gathered the cards, the gold locket she always wore glinting in the meager light that slipped through the crack in the drawn curtains. I sat back and took a pretzel from the bag I’d been gradually decimating for the last half hour. When I was little—two or three—my mom used to say that to me all the time, then pretend to devour my stomach, showering my skin with kisses and tickling me with her nose. I relaxed now, a warm feeling of security coming over me. Everything was fine. I knew it was fine. When was it ever not fine?

  There was a click outside the door. I heard the catch in her throat.

  “Mom? Is everything okay?” I asked finally.

  I didn’t usually question my parents. Especially not when we were in the middle of a job. But I’d never seen her act like this before. Elena Thompson was unshakable. As far as I knew, she’d never broken a sweat in her life. And right now, the hands that each held one half a deck of cards were trembling.

  She put the cards down and wiped her palms on her hips, leaving finger-shaped trails on her otherwise pristine black pants.

  “Yes, of course. Everything’s fine. Your turn to shuffle.”

  I was reaching for the cards when the Batphone let out an unfamiliar peel. We both stopped breathing. “The Batphone” was our cutesy name for the untraceable cell we brought with us everywhere. The cell that was only supposed to be used when something went very, very wrong. I’d never heard it ring until now.

  My mother’s olive skin went gray. She stood up and froze. The phone peeled again.

  “Mom?” I said.

  She picked it up. Looked at the screen. Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Mom?” I said again, though this time my voice sounded nothing like my own.

  That was when the gunshots rang out.

  chapter 1

  KAIA

  I didn’t see the two-by-four coming. I’d registered the creak of the floorboards a breath before the bastard knocked me unconscious. Or bastards. It was hard to tell how many there were, what with my eyes still struggling to focus as I slowly came to.

  “Where is she?”

  A man’s breath was hot against my face, smelling of pickles and tobacco. He ran the tip of a blade along my cheekbone, leaving a trail of puncture marks, each stinging in its own special way. My forehead throbbed from the initial blow that had knocked me out, and my eyes felt like one hard shake would pop them from their sockets and send them rolling across the floor. Hard to believe that a couple of hours ago I was debating whether or not to let Chelsea Franks switch lockers with me so she could be closer to her b
oyfriend. I’d been leaning toward no, because hey, maybe if she couldn’t assert her independence I’d assert it for her. But now, here I was, tied to a chair with my arms twisted uncomfortably behind me, taunted by some assface who was clearly out for blood.

  But was it a couple of hours ago? How long had I actually been unconscious? The sun seemed weak behind the pink, flowered curtains of Bess and Henry’s living room, but it had been cloudy all day.

  And where were Henry and Bess anyway? They were always here when I got home from school. My fingers curled into sweaty fists. If this motherfucker had done anything to hurt my pseudoparentals, he was going to regret it.

  “Tell me where she is,” he whispered, corkscrewing the tip of the blade near the corner of my mouth, as if trying to give me a dimple, “and I’ll make it quick.”

  Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. The man had a German accent, pale skin, and greasy blond hair, plus a twitchy demeanor that spoke of someone who was never quite sure where he stood. Why the hell was he here? Did this have something to do with the Hamburg job? We’d barely stayed in town three days. Simple, my dad had said. In and out. Did someone know we had been there—what my parents had done—and sent this guy after me? Who, exactly, was I dealing with?

  I tugged at the binds on my wrists and they pulled apart slightly. Eureka. Sometimes being five feet nothing with baby cheeks and big blue eyes was a plus. People mistook me for a weak little girl. And when people underestimated me, I usually managed to take advantage. I bent my head forward and squeezed out a tear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whimpered.

  “Yes, you do, you little bitch!”

  My face exploded as the man backhanded me across the cheek. The rickety dining chair he’d tied me to fell sideways, and my shoulder collided with the floor. I heard a crack, and the hold on my wrists loosened. One of the spindles on the back of the chair had splintered. My heart flipped with excitement. I curled my chin toward my chest, pretending to sob, and worked my wrists until they were entirely free.

  The guy hit the ground in front of me, kneeling to bring his face close to mine. I could see a fleck of blackish-green lodged between two teeth.

  “You know where your mother is hiding, Kaia. So why don’t you make this easier on the both of us and simply tell me?”

  I looked into his blue eyes and started to laugh. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t help it. He clearly believed what he was saying, which made the situation that much funnier. As I struggled to catch my breath, the guy sat back, blatantly surprised.

  “That’s what this is about?” I spat, still playing possum on the floor. “My mother? My mother is dead, you idiot. She’s been dead for more than a year!”

  His ugly, pockmarked face twisted into a condescending smile. “That’s where you’re wrong, schnuckelchen,” he said, rising to his feet. In the waning light, his fair eyebrows disappeared, giving him the look of a very angry, very nasty, newborn baby. “Your mama is alive and well and living the high life while you rot in this waste of a town with only those pathetic geriatrics to protect you.”

  He was lying. Obviously he was lying. If my mother were alive, she never would have left me to get out of Oaxaca last year by myself—not by choice. If my mother were alive and she’d been forced to run, she would still have come to get me months ago. We’d be off in Brazil or Morocco or South Africa together, planning our next move, trying to find out what had happened to my father. Why he’d never shown up to do the job he’d been paid so generously to do. But none of that was any of this guy’s business, so I wouldn’t bother trying to talk him out of his delusions. He had no idea the condition my mother had been in the last time I’d seen her. That was also no business of his. And it was something I preferred not to think about. I focused, instead, on the more pressing matter.

  “How did you find me?”

  His thin lips curled into a sneer. “Word is out, liebling. You should thank me because I’m going to make your death nice and quick. Others will be coming for you and they won’t be as kind as I intend to be.”

  Others? The very word sent a spiral of fear down my spine.

  “What did you do to Henry and Bess?” I demanded.

  Slowly, the visitor walked past me, slipping the side of his knife across the placket of his gray pinstriped jacket over and over again. My blood left tiny red hash marks in the fabric. He came to a stop behind my chair.

  “To who? Those trolls you call protectors? I’m sure they’ll find their bodies before the end of the month.”

  A real sob welled in my throat. “You sonofa—”

  He grabbed me by the hair. Before he could bring the knife to my neck, I drew my arms forward, then yanked my elbows back as hard as I could into his gut. His knife hit the floorboards as he doubled over and I kicked it away. He was as good as dead, but knives were not my style. I was a gun girl, born and raised. I yanked the shotgun off the mantel—the one Henry had told me he always kept loaded in case of emergency—turned around, and whacked the guy across the chin with the side of the stock so hard even I saw stars. I was going to have to thank Bess for making me keep up the kickboxing training—for keeping me strong. If I ever saw her again.

  Please let this guy be lying about what he’s done to them. Henry and Bess had become my family over the last year and a half. They were the only family I had left. I couldn’t lose anyone else. I just couldn’t.

  The impact from my blow had laid the German out, and I brought my foot down on his neck, choking off his air supply.

  Shotguns leave a serious mess, and they can be painful as hell to fire, but you can load the shell from the magazine into the chamber with one hand. Click clack. It’s pretty badass. I aimed the gun at his face and looked down the sight line at the man’s quivering, bloody upper lip.

  “Please, kid,” he rasped. “Please. I’m only doing my job.”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  See? Badass.

  But then I started to sweat. My throat tightened, and my vision went fuzzy. I didn’t want to do this. Not really. Not again. But I had to. If I didn’t kill him, he was most definitely going to kill me.

  I had this sudden, vivid memory of my uncle Marco frying ants with a magnifying glass when I was about five. When I’d burst into tears, he’d looked over his shoulder at me, his glass eye glinting, and sneered. “Survival of the fittest, baby.”

  “Please kid,” the guy choked out now. “Please.”

  I clenched my teeth. My finger twitched on the trigger. Before I ended him, I needed to ask him who’d sent him here. It was what my parents would have done.

  “Kaia?”

  I blinked. The screen door creaked open, and Oliver was there, staring. Oliver Lange. My boyfriend. His unruly blond curls were slicked back with water from his postpractice shower, and his solid soccer bod practically filled the doorway. Oliver was the love of my life. The only person left on this godforsaken earth who gave two shits about me.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He looked, understandably, like he was about to throw up, and suddenly I was reliving, in vivid detail, the day just over a year ago when Oliver and I had met. I’d dropped my books all over the floor in front of my locker when Oliver’s soccer ball had hit my shoulder—an accident that felt like the icing on the crapcake that was my life. It was my second week at South Charleston High School—the first normal school I’d ever been to, and hardly anyone had said a word to me. I’d spent every night for three months not sleeping, searching the Internet for any sign of my parents, waiting for a text or a call or an email, and afraid of the nightmares I had whenever I closed my eyes. I was so exhausted that when my books hit the floor, I’d almost lost it. Yes, I’d almost cried over spilled books.

  But then Oliver was there, helping to gather up my things, looking directly into my eyes. And unbelievably, what I�
�d seen there was understanding.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  “I’m Oliver,” he said.

  “I’m Kaia,” I replied.

  He offered his hand to shake, and when our fingers touched, I knew nothing would ever be the same.

  “Kaia?” Oliver said again in the here. In the now.

  I blinked.

  Behind him, a black SUV careened around the corner into view. No plates. It didn’t belong here. We were about to have more company. And Oliver was in their line of fire.

  No. Hot desperation welled inside my chest. Not Oliver.

  He was everything good and pure in this world. Broken, yes. But to me that made him all the more perfect. And he loved me. Almost every single detail I’d told him about myself had been a lie, except for the fact that I loved him too. That was 100 percent true. And I wasn’t about to let him die.

  I flipped the gun around, brought the butt down in the center of Picklebreath’s forehead, and snatched my canvas backpack from the floor. My eyes lit on the German’s duffel, tossed carelessly next to the front entry.

  “Grab his bag,” I ordered Oliver.

  “What?”

  I groaned, leaned past him, and picked it up myself. Brakes squealed outside.

  “Get inside!” I shouted to Oliver as I grabbed his arm and dragged him into the house.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Oliver, I swear I will explain everything!” I shoved him ahead of me, through the kitchen toward the back door. There was blood all over the floor—Betty and Henry’s blood—and he slipped in it as he reached for the handle. I swallowed hard and held my breath to keep from throwing up. Outside, a second set of brakes screeched, and a car door popped, then another, then another. “Please! Just run!”

  chapter 2

  OLIVER

  My heart was thudding so hard it felt as if it was being shot with a nail gun over and over and over again as Kaia threw two bags and her gun—her gun—into the backseat of her grandfather’s truck. They clattered against one of her skateboards. I slammed the door, shaking, and hadn’t even managed to touch the seat belt when she shoved the car into first and shot forward. She was about to drive us right through the door of the detached garage.