Page 14 of Texas Kissing

The next morning, Annette’s parents found that she wasn’t home and that her bed hadn’t been slept in. The police were called. I was summoned.

I’m sorry,I told them. Annette asked me to cover for her. She slipped out the window—said she needed some time alone. No, I don’t know where she went. I’m sorry I lied.

Then Annette’s mother discovered the missing sleeping pills and the search turned frantic. They found her body in the woods, cold and alone and without a friend in the world.

I had to pretend she’d been depressed. I had to stand there and take it as her mother sobbed and screamed and cursed at me, demanding to know how I could be such a terrible friend. There was free counseling at our college for her friends and our parents were told to put us all on suicide watch.

No problem,Uncle Erico told the college.I’ll keep a real close eye on her.He even came to the funeral, clasping Annette’s mother’s hand and telling her how awful it all was. She blamed herself, of course, because they’d been her sleeping pills.

I couldn’t even look her in the eye. She’d been right—I was a terrible friend.

Uncle Erico thought he’d broken me. I did everything I was asked without complaint orhesitation. I went to college every day like a good girl and was driven home every night by Antonio. I never left the house without an escort.

But I hadn’t given up. I’d simply made a decision. I was going to escape, but this time I wasn’t going to bring anyone else into my problem. I was going to do it all on my own and, if I failed, I’d be the only one who suffered.

At college, I slept, dozing off in a quiet corner of the library. My grades plummeted. In my room at night, I returned to hacking and coding with a vengeance, learning everything I could. This time, I wasn’t exploring aimlessly; this time, I had a purpose.

I was learning everything I could about government databases and forgery. I was going to create a new identity for myself.

I learned about where in China makes the best fake holograms and how to trick the DMV database into thinking you’re an engineer running tests. I struck up relationships with people who could help me—hackers and forgers and low-paid clerks in government departments. I switched some of my college classes to arts so that I had an excuse to spend hundreds of dollars on plastics and paper. My uncle didn’t care about that or my falling grades—when I was married off, I wouldn’t need a college degree anyway.

It took me over a year of painstaking work to become an expert. I must have made and destroyed a few thousand fake passports and driver’s licenses before I finally had a set that were perfect.

Then I gathered up my savings and, one morning, I simply walked out of a fire exit at college and disappeared.

I knew my uncle would be looking for me—hecouldn’t risk just letting me go. It was about more than just the fear of me going to the FBI and testifying against him and the rest of the mob—I’d betrayed him by leaving and he’d never, ever forgive that.

The irony was that I was far too scared to go to the FBI. I couldn’t face my uncle across a courtroom and recount what he’d done to Annette, or all the contract killings and extortions I’d heard about. I couldn’t face all those months in hotel rooms and safehouses during the trial, wondering when someone sent by my uncle would get to me. Maybe if I’d had someone with me, someone to support me, but not on my own.

I could change my name but I couldn’t change my face, so I stayed the hell away from cameras and looked for a way I could earn a living—something I could do from home, with minimal contact with people.

Fortunately, I’d accidentally taught myself a very marketable skill. I bought the bus and set up in Texas, convenient for meeting with the Mexicans. They were always in need of fake passports.

My fake IDs became known in the underworld as the best around and I made them for criminals from Russia to Japan...but never, ever for the Mafia.

And I never let myself get close to anyone again.

12

Lily

Now

I sat there in the darkened car for a full half hour before I finally had myself under control. The drive home helped—it was familiar, relaxing. It helped me remember that I was thousands of miles away from New York. I didn’t kid myself that I was safe: I’d never be safe, with my uncle out there looking for me. But I was as safe as I’d ever been.

As the memories receded, the anger started. It was almost a relief.

I hadn’t had a full-on breakdown like that in months, and it was all because I’d forgotten the rules. I’d gotten lazy and careless and let myself believe that I could start some kind ofthingwith some guy. As if it was possible for me to be happy.

As if I deserved it.

I parked beside the bus and stomped inside, slamming the door behind me.

Or I would have done, if I hadn’t lived on a goddamn bus. I had to hit the key fob remote and then stand outside, fuming, while the door did its agonizingly slowpump...hissand folded open. And once I was in, I found that bus doors don’t really slam, either, so I had to settle for mashing the button as hard as I could.

Now I was even more frustrated. With him. With me. Mainly with me.

I turned on the coffee pot. It was getting late but I needed to work. My stupid attempt at a night out had put me behind. What I do pays well and there’s no need for me to take on as many jobs as I do, but staying busy keeps me from thinking about the past.