Prologue—Caught

The rail in the subway is cold, chilling his bones as he grips it. His brown eyes dash from his reflection in the subway's window, watching the tunnel go by as he stays still, to the back of the subway where the two men stood, eyeing him suspiciously.

In any other case, he might have gone up to them casually, taunting them before he left them speechless and angry, but today is different. He stays, his feet shuffling every few seconds restlessly. He swallows as sweat collects on his forehead and runs smoothly down his throat. His breathing picks up as he hears them speaking to one another, no doubt about him.

He can feel the blood oozing easily with a pulse from the wound above his right hipbone though he clutches his coat and jacket to it hard. The air is humid, thick with invisible water that clings to his skin even underground. New York in May is hell, but the weather is the least of his worries.

Now they've found him again.

Just a second. One single millisecond was all it would take for him to be somewhere obscure, random and safe. But now everything means more. He has more to think about.

When the subway lurches to a sudden halt in the center of the tunnel, he closes his eyes sadly, exhaling as he presses his face against the cold rail. The men stand immediately, expecting the stop and pull their long, baton-like weapons where a faint buzz could be heard.

"No more running, Mark," the taller man says, his baton at the ready.

He smiles darkly, laughing under his breath like a crazy man. He opens his watering eyes and looks at them, eyes black from pain and insanity. "Who said I was running?" he laughs darkly.

The shorter man thrusts his baton into his stomach, sending and awful electric charge through his system. He seizes and falls to the ground.

The taller man kneels to touch his neck. He rises and put his baton back into its holster within his coat. "He's dead."

"His body was already weak," the shorter man says harshly. "I don't think he could've jumped if he wanted to."

The taller man nods sagely. "Why didn't he though?" he thought out loud.

"Does it matter, Carter?" the shorter man said as he pulled out a small silver cell phone. "Jumpers are fools by nature. This one's been terrorizing Hong Kong for the past three years."

Carter glares at him. "He's been in Egypt for the past year, Tanner," he corrects angrily. "Helping evacuate civilians from the fighting."

Tanner shrugs and presses the phone to his ear. "We've got a body," he says sharply. "We'll meet at—" Tanner frowns as he pauses. "That's not protocol—" Tanner's frown deepens. "Alright. Get the train started."
Tanner hangs up and goes to the emergency exit. "Leave the body," he says as he opens the door to go to the dark subway tunnels. "Let the civilians find it."

Carter's frown deepens as Tanner leaves with a flashlight, coughing casually. Carter kneels next to the body of the young man. He closes his eyes postmortem and shakes his head. "Boy, you were played a wrong deal," he says sadly. Then he sees a wallet, bloodied from the knife wound the jumper took in outside his home in the Village where other paladins got to him.

Carter pulls the wallet free of the bloody pocket and opens it. Inside is sixteen hundred dollars in cash, a mix of American bills, South African notes and Chinese currency, a platinum credit card, a piece of paper with the word CARILLO on it, and a small, wallet-sized school picture of a young pretty girl around the age of five with curling raven hair and richly colored dark blue eyes. She smiles with two front teeth missing and her lovely eyes sparkling. Carter looks at the back and sees the date is from thirteen years ago.

The girl smiles up at Carter with the same hair color as the dead jumper before him. Carter tucks the photo in his pocket and leaves the subway, where the next commuters will have a grim discovery.

Chapter 1—Perfection

My breath is caught when I see him—the new student, Grigori something. I can't pronounce his name, it's too Russian. He has dark brown hair, big lips and flat brown eyes. His English isn't bad, but it isn't good and he moved from Moscow so he can have a better education.

I blush when Ms. Randall points to me in the second row. "That's Lila—Lila! Raise your hand. See she sits right there."
"Thank you." Grigori's accent is thick and all of his words are heavy and originate in the back of his throat.

"Hello," he says thickly.

"Hi." I swallow and tuck a strand of my black hair behind my ear. I gesture for him to sit. "You switched into this class?"

He shrugs indifferently. "I was tired of Advanced Biology and since I already took it I could go to this little Marine Science class."

I blink at the mildly delivered back-handed insult. "Okay. So you had Sanders. I heard he was easy."

Grigori's face becomes uncertain. "He's easy?"

"Oh." I laugh. "Not that kind of easy—just… it's difficult to fail his class."

"Oh."

I press my lips together and smile despite my discomfort. "So you're from Russia," I say casually. He nods. "I've always wanted to go. I mean, Europe in general, even though my parents can't afford it. London sounds incredible, and I wish I could go for the Olympics this summer, but you know, prices. Paris sounds better too, though, with the museums and all, but Russia…"

I look up when I realize I've been rambling. It's clear that Grigori understood it all and still he looks ready to laugh at me. I look abashed. "Sorry," I say. "I ramble."

"Americans say a lot of things," he says heavily. "But mostly it is stupid things. What you say is not stupid."
I frown. "So Americans are stupid and I am not?"

"Yes." He does not seem to feel bad about that. I'm not sure how I think of him. "So," he changes the subject, leaning casually against the chair. "I am having a party tonight for all the new people I am meeting. There will be a lot of liquor, mostly vodka, but we will have hookah as well. You should come."
There was no question involved and I realize he had only been pretending to be bad at English—a ploy to size the "stupid Americans" up. I press my lips together. "I dunno. What do your parents think of it?"

"They paid for the liquor."

I blink and laugh, unsure about how to answer. "Well, I—"

"Lila."

I look up at the sound of my name and see Ms. Randall holding her manicured hand to the receiving end of the phone. Her wrinkled eyes are grave. "Come here, please."
I stand and walk hesitantly over to the teacher. Once given the phone, I frown deeply and look absently at the white board.
"Hello?"
"Lila Cross?"

"Yes?"
"This is Mr. Martinez. Would you please come to the counseling office please?"

I blink. Mr. Martinez is the school's, hard, unfailing principal. I've never had so much as a tardy; why would he need to see me in the counseling office?

"Sure, Mr. Martinez," I say uncertainly. "I'll be there soon."

"Bring your stuff, too."

I swallow and hang up without a goodbye. I collect my things by a confused and prying Grigori.

"So will you come?"

I press my lips together. "I dunno. Maybe."

Grigori presses a small piece of paper with blue ink scribbled with lovely calligraphy on it into my hand. "When you come, find me."

I didn't realize I accepted. "Okay."

After a long, confused walk to the office, I sit in front of Mr. Martinez and Ms. Lestor, my counselor. Their eyes are sympathetic, full of pity.

"What's wrong?" I ask holding onto my Government book like a security blanket.

Ms. Lestor sighs. "Lila, I am sorry to tell you this," she said softly. "But your brother has passed away."

I feel my stomach rock with confusion, hot lava, and pain. I frown and hold a hand to my stomach. "Wait—what do you mean he passed away?"

Mr. Martinez steps in more easily than the young, fresh-out-of-college counselor.

"Your brother Mark," the principal says. "They found his body in a subway in New York two days ago. They ran his DNA through the system and were directed to the missing persons file on him back here."

I feel slightly better that I was told upfront by the principal, rather than beating around the bush as Ms. Lestor did. "He…He's been missing for almost thirteen years, how can he…" I swallow deeply, anger coursing through me and hot tears overflowing from my eyelids. "How did he die?" I demand darkly.

Mr. Martinez speaks up before Ms. Lestor can say something evasive. "From what they can tell, he was murdered."

I shake my head. My brother has sent me letters since he disappeared though I never told my parents. He never gave a return address with the pseudonym of John Michaels, pen pal. He sent cash sometimes specifically for me to frivolously spend and always asked about what was going on with me. Still, I haven't seen him in almost fifteen years since he disappeared off the face of the earth. He never told me why he left, nor did my parents have any idea where he could have gone or why, but he never came back to Hermosa Beach regardless.

I briefly wonder why my parents didn't tell me this, calling me from school to do so themselves, but then I realize that I shouldn't be surprised. I flinch away from the counselor's touch and clench my jaw, wishing to be anywhere but here.

—The sting of the slap lingers around my cheek and my mother's ring bit into my cheekbone sharply, causing a small amount of blood to blossom from the flesh.

"It's your fault!" my mother screams at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. "If you hadn't been so horrible to Mark he never would have left us!"

I wish my father was home to soothe my mother, but he is at the police station, getting more information about what Mark's been doing the past thirteen years. Whenever my father is gone, I have to fend for myself against mother who just hasn't been the same since Mark left.

"Mark was perfect!" mother cries. "Good grades—handsome—kind—generous! And he leaves us with you! A crazy little bitch with no promise!"

Mom slaps me again so I fall over onto the carpet. I touch the mark on my cheek and blood comes out onto my fingertips.

"Mom," I say softly. "Mom, please—"

"Keep your mouth shut, you—"

"MARTHA!"

Mom's hand stops in the air, frozen without striking me for the third time. Dad grabs his wife's arm and thrusts it away. She breaks out into sobs, saying Mark's name and a stream of curses and sadness.

"Lila," dad begins, but I stand and yank my purse from the rack. I ignore the yells from dad desperately to come back and shove my keys into the ignition of my Volvo.

It doesn't take me long to reach Grigori's house. It's huge and people are going in and out, either drunk or drinking or eager to drink. I run a hand through my black hair and look at myself in the mirror. I let the cut from mom's strike bleed on the drive while I suppressed tears, so blood trickles mildly down my cheekbone. I wipe it clean with a napkin from Starbucks and put on mascara sharply, careful not to smudge.

I become glad that I live in southern California suddenly, where the nights are as warm as the days are tepid and sunny. This particular May night is not too dry, not too humid, and warm enough to wear a tank top without a coat. One month away from graduating, all the seniors are eager to let loose before needed to act adult.

I recognize quite a few people, but no one I particularly like. While shoving between two girls sucking face blatantly in the hallway, I go to the bar where Warren Sumpter is tending.

"Hey, Lila," he says mildly with his large muscles moving as he cleans a beer mug. "Didn't think you come to these sort of things."

"I do tonight. Get me something."

"What do you want?"

"Anything."

Warren shrugs, laughs and takes two shot glasses from underneath the bar. Across his neck is a chain of jingling car keys he's taken from all who order from him. Everyone seems to already have red cups of beer and others are playing beer pong and pyramid with vodka.

"What's this called?" I ask as Warren pours amber colored liquid into the shot glasses. Warren laughs.

"Tequila."

"Oh. Right."

Warren laughs again, and gestures toward the shot. "I didn't know you were friends with Greg."

I blink. "Who? Oh. Right. Well, we just sort of met and he invited me tonight. Are you taking this with me?"

Warren laughs. Apparently, I'm hilarious.

Warren raises the shot to me and I bring it to his with a soft clink. "What are we drinking to?" he asks me.

"Mortality."
I swing my head back as I let the alcohol constrict down my throat. Hot and heavy and foreign to me. I inhale through my teeth and shake my head, ignoring that fact my hair is falling in front of my face.

"Mortality, huh?" Warren says while he pours beer from the tap for an eager football player I don't bother to look at twice. "Why so serious?"

I tap on the top of the shot again. "Don't worry about it."

Warren raises his brown brow with slight worry as he pours me more tequila. "What's wrong?"

"Why do you think I'm here, Warren?" I rebuke. Warren blinks rapidly and opens his mouth to reply. "Because I want to forget what's wrong, that's why Warren."

I lift my shot and clink it to his empty glass before swinging my head back to finish the shot.

"Layla!"

I ignore the call with the wrong name and a warm, rough hand wraps around my bare shoulder. The smell of booze I don't know the name of blows into my face and I look up to see Grigori—or Greg.

"It's Lila," I correct as I tap on the shot again for Warren to fill it.

"I'm glad that you came," he said with his thick Russian accent. He pulls me into his muscular body. "Come—I will give you the tour."

I take the shot quickly and wave to Warren, but the bartender grabs my wrist.

"Lila, I need your keys," he says but his voice has a deeper meaning. My mind is already foggy from the alcohol and I pull the keys from my pocket.

"Here." I drop the keys into his hand and he grips them. "Hey." I stop again. "Isn't it your birthday today, Lila?"

I blink. I forgot about that. How did Warren remember? Then I remember that he's known me since we were five. I swallow and nod once. "Yes, Warren. I'm a big girl now. Eighteen. I'll see you later." I leave him eyeing me with worry as I leave with Greg.

Greg talks thickly and quickly with slurred half-Russian words as we ascend the staircase. Once we reach the top, he shoves me into the room immediately to the right. I hold my hand up, but he is over six foot tall with a large, muscular build. He lifts me from the ground and his tongue covered with booze slides hard and determined into my mouth.

I try to push him away, but he won't budge. I kiss him back—at least here I'm not as unexperienced as I am with booze—but yank away when he puts me on the bed I didn't have a chance to look at.

"Greg," I say as he pins me to the bed. When he pushes my shirt up, I say "Greg!"

He mumbles something in Russian and kisses my stomach as he yanks my jeans off. I try to push him away but then he becomes stronger. I think to scream, but nothing comes out especially with the music as he pulls down his own pants and pulls down my underwear.

I sit up suddenly and push his face hard away. "Greg—no!"

"Shut up," he says, then something in Russian.

I open my mouth to scream as I feel his skin touch mine but instead the world swirls with sharp extremity.

I am now on the floor of the Natural History Museum in Downtown LA. It's closed and I am in front of the hall of African animals. The stuffed lioness stares at me with the proud lion behind her, watching my half-nakedness.

I immediately pull on my underwear and pants that are hanging at my ankles. My heart is beating too fast and I can still feel the chilling warmth of Greg's skin on mine and the bass of the house's music still rung in my ears. I could still hear him speaking roughly in Russian.

But I am no longer there. I am nearly twenty miles away from that party in a dark, taxidermy filled hall. No Russians in sight.