The Red Hunter(92)

“Get the money out of that trunk and go home to your family,” he said.

Chad stood a moment, toeing the ground, searching for words to express his gratitude, how sorry he was. But instead he said nothing. He lifted the heavy blue canvas bag, transferred it to his own trunk. Paul was still standing there as he pulled from the rest stop and went home.





thirty-seven


Raven grabbed the canvas handle and started to tug. It was heavy, and she had to use the strength in her legs to move it from where it had obviously been sitting for a decade. Moving it released all the dampness and mold that had gathered beneath it and within its deep folds. Her sinuses tingled and she stifled a sneeze, but more than that, her heart was thumping with effort and excitement. What if? What if? What if? She didn’t want to open the bag. What if it was filled with paper? Or a dead body? (It would smell, right?) Or something worthless like old clothes, books? As long as it was closed, it could contain anything.

With effort, she got it back to Troy, who pocketed his dead phone and got up to help her and then started sneezing. He folded his nose into the crook of his arm—one, two, three.

“What is it?” he asked with an exaggerated sniffle. He knelt down beside it.

“This is it,” she said. “It was right inside the door. This must be it.”

Both of them stared. “Did you look inside?” he asked.

She shook her head, then reached for the thick metal zipper and pulled.

“Holy shit,” said Troy, sinking back onto his heels. “Oh. My. God.”

Raven thought of all of those cartoons, where the lid of a treasure chest opened and light radiates out. There was no glow except the flashlight she’d tilted up against the wall and which Troy now shone on the bag. Money. Thick stacks of bills wrapped in white and orange bands.

“No way,” said Raven. “No way.”

Troy laughed a little, nervous, uncertain. He reached out a hand to touch the money, but then he drew it back.

It felt as if she were dreaming, that it couldn’t be quite real. A dream that started with sneaking into the city and meeting Andrew Cutter, one of those long, twisty messes that makes absolutely no sense when you wake up. She reached into the bag and pulled out a stack. It was soft and heavy in her hand. It had so much energy, that energy of possibility—what you could do, what you could buy, who you could be.

“We have to get out of here and call the police,” said Troy, breaking rudely into the spin of her imaginings. He gently took the stack from her hand and tossed it back into the back where it lay soft and dark. The envelope slid into the dark of the bag.

“It’s blood money,” he said. He wore a deep worried frown, such a rare expression. “People died for it. It’s tainted.”

Something came up from deep inside her. At first it felt like anger, because that was her go-to emotion. It was red and hot, burned fierce and bright, lashed out, pushed people away, defended. She was safe behind it; no one could get to her there. But it smoked out fast in front of Troy, fizzled, and died before it burst into flames. Beneath it was the thing she didn’t want to feel, that black hole of sadness that sucked in everything even light. It was so much scarier than rage. You could lose yourself in that black place.

The bag of money gaped between them, and her thoughts spun.

The cafeteria on Friday. When Clara sat across from her, Raven had been reading. “Hey,” she said. Raven smiled; the kids had been nice so far. She told her mother that she didn’t like it. But it was okay.

“So,” said Clara. “Does your mom have a blog?”

Raven started to shake her head. Claudia had tried to protect their privacy. But some people back in New York had figured it out anyway. It was only a matter of time before stuff like that got around, especially in a small town like this where no one was doing anything.

“Makeovers and meltdowns dot com,” she said. “Cute.”

Raven didn’t know why Clara didn’t like her. But that’s when she saw it, that mean glint that some girls got. There was a faux niceness, a smile that tricked, a tone that dripped sweet as honey. But it was a mask. Underneath was something cold, sharp as a razor.

“If I was her, if some animal had raped me? I’d have had an abortion.”

The word hurt like a slash to the face. It stung and started to bleed while Clara’s friends twittered nervously, though the blonde one looked a little disgusted by her friend, uncomfortable. Raven felt that heat. That white sweater, that faux earnest expression. It wasn’t an accident; she did flip the tray and the red viscous (disgusting) sauce sprayed like gore. She got all of them—hair, faces, pretty clothes—and watched as their expressions turned from superior and gloating to horrified and embarrassed. It was a comical shift, one that made Raven laugh out loud. It wasn’t until they were being led down the hall by the gym teacher that despair set in. Why didn’t she? Why did Claudia have her?

Ella’s implication that she should find her real family. Had she used those words? Maybe not, but that’s what she meant, right? Andrew Cutter’s rejection; even he didn’t want anything to do with her. The people who died in her house. Her mother who tried so hard to make everything right.

Now, with the blood money between them, and the swirling mess of sad-mad churning in her gut, the tears came. She almost never cried. Troy cried more than Raven did. He was a highly sensitive person; a good commercial could make him cry. But now a big sob escaped her, and then Troy was in close, wrapping his arms around her.