Until the Day I Die(89)

Lach snaps his fingers for his phone.

“It’s going to take a minute. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

I’m staring at the phone. The Jax icon, specifically. The way the lowercase j seems to be edging off the yellow background into oblivion. It’s like I’m seeing the design for the first time. Really appreciating it. Perry, Ben, Sabine, and I had settled on the design for the app that same Christmas night. Drawn out a dozen iterations on Shorie’s old art easel. It was actually Shorie who had tied all the pieces together.

It should file your taxes for you, piped up her high, fifteen-year-old voice from under the nest of fuzzy blankets on the sofa. And you can call it Jax, because you get a jump on your taxes. She leapt up, and on the easel she sketched out the icon. A mustard-yellow box with the j floating off to the side. See? He’s just this humble little guy, off to the side, quietly doing all your dirty work.

We all stared, struck dumb by the perfectness of her proposal. I’d had another feeling too. One probably not that uncommon to mothers who are too busy, too tired, too pressed with things they think they need to do. It was intense shame and regret—because I’d had no idea how good my daughter was at design. I couldn’t remember anything she’d drawn or painted or created since she was little, only the AP classes of math and science, the math competitions, the computer club. An inexorable, determined march toward becoming Perry 2.0. But my little girl had so many hidden talents. I needed to pay closer attention. But I hadn’t. Not in the way I should have.

I know better now. If I survive this, I swear—I will be a better mother. I will pay attention.

Suddenly a little white bubble materializes on Lach’s phone.

$100,000.00 Transfer Pending, No Bank Account.

I yelp. Shorie got my message and she’s done it. I almost can’t believe it.

“It’s there?” Lach says.

I glance up at him, trying to keep my expression cheerful. “Essentially.”

He lowers the gun. “What do you mean, essentially?”

“The transfer can’t complete until you enter your bank data.”

“You said a hundred K, done.” His face has begun to transform from incredulity to fury.

“But when you suspended your Jax profile, Lach, it erased all your financial account information. It’s a basic security precaution.”

“Well, you built the app. Figure it out.”

I feel myself beginning to lose it and clench my fists. “I can’t just pull your financial information out of thin air, Lach. Neither can you, I suspect.”

“No deal then,” he says, and holds out his hand for the phone again.

“All you have to do is let me go, and you can go get your checkbook and enter the goddamn routing number in the blank space!”

“HAND IT OVER!” he roars, then chambers a bullet and aims the gun at my forehead. I push the phone at him. He places a call and puts it to his ear.

I hear something then. A low buzzing sound, far off in the distance. A four-wheeler or motorcycle, it sounds like. I strain my ears, wondering how close it is. I should run. But I’m frozen. And I can’t be sure he won’t just solve the situation by pulling the trigger and dropping me right where I stand.

“We’re at the crater,” Lach growls at the person on the other end of the line. “What’s it going to be? You going to help me out, or do I let her walk?”

I stand there, dumbly, the barrel of the gun pressing into my temple, listening to the whine grow louder. And then he angles his body toward mine and gazes down at me, a beatific smile lighting his face.

A smile.

“Thank you,” he says into the phone. To Antonia. Our eyes meet. “You won’t be sorry.”

“No,” I say. “How do you know she’s not lying . . .”

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” he says.

I put my hands up. “Please . . .”

He shakes his head, and I close my eyes. Hold my breath.

I tried. I really did.

I love you, Perry.

I love you, Shorie.

The buzzing-whining sound is suddenly loud and close. Just as we both turn toward it, a dusty yellow moped bounces over the rim and down into the crater. A teenage girl is driving it, one of her sneaker-clad feet dragging for balance in the dirt. Her long brown hair is streaming behind her, and she’s wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt.

She is screaming.

I start screaming too.





53

SHORIE

When the moped crests the hill, I become every single emotion all at once.

Because standing at the edge of this gray bubbling mud pool is my mom. And a tall surfer-looking guy with long blond hair, who is pointing a gun at her. I start to scream, and just as I do, I hear the engine skip like it’s going to stall out. I throttle up, the engine screaming, and head directly for them.

And then I’m screaming because I’m going to hit them; I can see it now. Even the surfer guy, who’s turned around now, realizes it. What he doesn’t see is Mom lunge at him and shove him hard, right in the direction of the steaming pit.

I lean to the left and go into a slide, the moped slipping out from under me on the gray rocks. Mom leaps back as I slide right past her. Steam from the bubbling mud envelops me. I open my mouth, suck in a huge, scalding lungful of it, and let go of the moped. It spins out from under me as I flip myself over onto my stomach. I flail, grabbing handfuls of the loose gray dirt to stop myself from going into the pit.