Dad scooping me up into his arms, tickling the breath out of me as we walk home on snowy streets.
Pain swamps me — I snap my eyes open, hoping it will drive back the memories, but it’s no use. I can still feel the way their mittened hands engulfed mine as they swung me between them, how my boots skimmed across the thin layer of flurries coating the sidewalks.
Zoe, our little Sugar Plum! Can you believe Santa will be here in the morning?
We were laughing. Happy. Mouths open to the sky, snowflakes on our tongues. Christmas decorations on every corner. Roses cradled in the crook of an arm, cheeks red with cold and eyes bright with love.
It was the best day.
Until, quite suddenly, with no warning at all… the pure white snow was stained red with trampled rose petals and blood… and it became the worst day of my life.
My phone vibrates loudly on the table beside me, pulling me out of my most familiar nightmare. When I catch sight of the name flashing across the screen, I sigh deeply. I debate not answering, but I know he’ll just keep calling.
There’s no avoiding Luca. Persistent bastard.
“Hello?”
“Got a job for you.” The gruff, familiar voice cracks over the line.
“I’m listening.”
“Lancaster Consolidated.” There’s a pause. “You heard of it?”
I roll my eyes. Lancaster Consolidated controls almost all of the foreign oil and natural gas shipments coming in and out of New England, not to mention several dozen steel factories scattered across the continental United States. They build everything from airplanes to railroads. Everyone in the country’s heard of Lancaster Consolidated.
“Give me a little credit, Luke.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s a valid question.”
“I’m not wearing any panties,” I throw back at him.
A laugh rumbles across the line — it’s low and it sounds a little like he’s trying to muffle it, but it’s definitely a laugh. I feel my eyes widen slightly. Luca is not typically one to tip his hand when it comes to emotions. That’s part of the reason we’ve managed to stay friends all these years.
No touchy-feely bullshit.
“Just stop being a priss for two seconds and listen to me,” he says, abruptly back to his normal, caustic self. “Last week Lancaster Consolidated closed two of their biggest factories — the one in Lynn, plus another one out in the sticks of Western Mass somewhere — and put about ten thousand people out of jobs.”
“I heard. It was all over the news.” Frown lines crease my forehead. “Apparently it’s cheaper to farm the work overseas than keep the production lines on American soil.”
“Yeah, well, did you hear Lancaster is refusing to pay out pensions for ninety percent of those workers?”
“That’s impossible.” My frown lines deepen. “In fact, that’s illegal.”
“Well, illegal or not, apparently Robert Lancaster found some loophole in the contract. Says he’s bankrupt and can’t afford to pay — not even two weeks’ severance. Even though everyone knows he’s sitting on millions in a tax shelter somewhere.”
“What a prick!”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’d love to pin Lancaster to the wall as much as anyone, trust me.” I sigh and rub my temple. “But I don’t know what you think I can do about this, Luca. I’ve already tried to crack into the LC network remotely, remember? Last spring, when that oil rig went down in the Atlantic and all those crew members died, I wanted proof Lancaster gave the order for them to set out in a fucking hurricane to make his shipping quotas. I was going to show the world the asshole signed the death warrants of thirty good men.” My fingers curl into fists, remembering. “But… It. Didn’t. Work. Whatever software they’re using was custom built from the inside-out, probably to cloak their shady financial shit from the IRS. There’s a massive firewall. And, let me tell you, in this case — size matters.”
“Babe.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Pretty sure size always matters.”
“Yeah, well, this code is complex. I’d be impressed by whoever built it if I weren’t so fucking annoyed.” I lean back in my chair and glare up at the ceiling. “Even if I wanted to help, there’s nothing I can do and you know it.”
There’s a pause. “You could hack it on-site.”
“Oh, sure, I’ll just stroll right into the offices downtown and ask politely if I can use one of their computers, pretty please with sugar on top?” I snort. “Oh! Maybe if I wear a low-cut shirt and bat my eyelashes while pinky-swearing not to cause any trouble, they’ll let me into their network.”
“You — always there with the bitchy answers,” Luca mutters, exasperated.
“And you — always there with the unreasonable requests,” I counter, equally pissed.
Why does he always expect the impossible from me? Since the first day we met, two lost kids picking pockets and sleeping on street corners, he’s pushed me to ask for more — from strangers with fat wallets, from the system, from the entire goddamned world.
Take more. Make more. Be more.
Asshat.