Chapter 7: Scam

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HE MUST HAVE SPACED OUT, BECAUSE ONE MOMENT the bank was shuttered and dark and the next a line of people was streaming in.

Ethan stood and hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. He left money for the check, then added another twenty bucks from the bundle he'd shoved into his pocket.

The bag had no drugs in it, just like the Craig had promised. Only rolls of money wrapped in bright blue rubber bands-wads of used-looking twenties and tens, all smelling of beer and sweat.

Ethan hadn't counted the bills, but it was more than he'd ever seen. He got a funny thrill from not waiting for his change. Suddenly twenty bucks seemed like nothing.

Besides, he owed that waitress. Apart from the fact that he'd been a jerk to her, she'd helped him decide what to do next. When he'd ordered his first coffee, the voice had asked her what she'd do if someone gave her a big stack of money. Just outright asked her, like that. Say, what would you do with a big ol' stack of money? And she'd said, "Put it in the bank, I guess."

Not very imaginative, but it was all he had right then. Put it in the bank. Get it out of sight. Ditch the green duffel bag.

Ethan's legs were rubbery from sitting so long. And from nerves.

He left the diner and crossed the road, checking the shadows of the park beside the bank. No black Jeep, no sign of the Craig. Taylor and him were probably busting heads somewhere, trying to discover how some kid knew so much about their operation.

The good thing was, they'd never figure that out.

Inside the bank there was already a short line of people waiting for tellers. Ethan hesitated. He wasn't stupid enough to deposit this much cash into an account. What if Mom found one of his bank statements?

Forget it. He'd get a safe deposit box. Then he'd have plenty of time to figure out what to do next.

He joined the back of the line. Maybe he could get his own apartment, away from the prying eyes of his mother. Maybe take a road trip. Leave Cambria behind for a couple months. Ethan eased the bag onto his other shoulder. This could be a great summer.

The line edged forward slowly, like a glacier receding. The gallon of coffee he'd consumed was wringing every nerve in his body. He kept waiting for the Craig to come through the door and beat him to a pulp.

A security guard sat in a corner of the bank. He caught Ethan looking at the door every few minutes and gave him a flat, blank stare. He didn't seem like he'd be up to stopping an assault from the Craig. In fact, he seemed more interested in Ethan. Probably wondering why this seedy-looking teenager was so jumpy.

Ethan tried to give the security guy a reassuring smile. The guy continued to stare.

The duffel bag grew heavier with each passing minute. Ethan dropped it to the floor in front of him and nudged it along with the toe of his shoe. He'd be glad to have all that cash safely stored in the bank's basement. Then he could relax.

"What's taking so long?" he muttered.

The girl in front of him half turned his way. She had short, straight hair, the tips dyed in a pink sawtooth pattern. Weird but kind of cool. She was wearing a crisp blue-and-white uniform, like she was about to start a shift as a flight attendant. Back in the fifties. She held a phone in a sparkly case, and pink headphone cables disappeared under her hair. She bobbed in time to whatever she was listening to, sending her glossy hair bouncing.

The next time the line shuffled forward, Ethan kicked his bag so it bumped the girl's ankles. She turned a blank expression toward him. Her eyes were unnaturally green, her mouth painted into a cute little pout.

Ethan smiled at her. Suddenly what he wanted was to be in familiar territory. Not driving stolen cars or getting shot at-just charming someone.

"I like your hair," he heard the voice say.

She frowned and pulled out one of her earbuds. "What?"

"I said I like your hair."

"Thanks." She turned the rest of the way around, looking him up and down. She was wearing a name tag: MARJORIE.

"You don't look like a Marjorie," Ethan's voice said.

She made a puzzled face, glanced down at her name tag, and shrugged. "They recycle these things. Like, for decades."

"That explains it. You look more like a Sophie."

She smiled. "Close. Sonia."

Ethan nodded. The voice always guessed girls' names almost right. Maybe it figured that exactly right was creepy.

"Wait. I get it now," the voice said. "Your hair. Low Brow."

Sonia's eyes widened. "You know Patty Low?"

"I so know Patty Low." Ethan had never heard of Patty Low in his life, but he could feel his muscles relaxing as he spoke. Like someone who knew all the answers. "I even know that photo, the one you based your hairstyle on."

"No way," Sonia said.

Ethan gave her a confident smile. "Not the cover of Low Brow, but the special booklet that came with the acoustic versions."

"Oh, wow." Sonia nearly leaped into the air. "I can't believe you know those! That's, like, her most obscure stuff."

"I know all her stuff." The voice knew everything, after all.

Sonia was ecstatic now, launched by his lies into her own little reality. "That's so awesome. I got this stupid job just so I could buy Low Brow. You get the joke on the cover, right?"

"Sure! Where she's posing with Jay White-" The sound of the name in his own mouth made Ethan sputter to a halt. "Wait. The Jay White?"

Sonia frowned. "What? Of course."

"Ah, man." Ethan hated Jay White. Producer and pop supremo White's crimes against humanity numbered in the thousands. One for every tune he released. Rumor was he could record twenty a day. Before breakfast. "The guy who ran over a couple girls while he was high?"

That was his real voice talking. Ethan tried to slip back into the passive role, the listener. But he was too exhausted, too wired from coffee and anxiety. The ache from speaking with the voice was back now, as if the Craig had socked him in the jaw.

"He was in a bad place then," the girl muttered, turning away.

"Sure." For a moment Ethan wanted to reconnect. But Sonia's pout was back in place, and it was beginning to annoy him. "I mean, those two girls were probably having a crappy day too. Especially after they messed up the paint job on his SUV."

She turned back to him, her expression one of complete betrayal.

Ethan hadn't said that last part; the voice had. He'd only wanted her to stop talking to him. But the voice always gave Ethan exactly what he wanted.

Sonia did exactly that, of course: stopped talking and turned away. She cranked her music until a tinny Jay White-produced tune was spilling out of her skull.

Great. Now he felt like crap. He hated when the voice insulted people. It was hard to take that stuff back. And the awful thing was, half the time he didn't even remember exactly what the voice said. They weren't his words, after all.

Last summer he'd lost his three best friends in a single spray of insults. He'd been so angry, wanting those guys to hurt, really hurt. Wanting them to leave him the hell alone. And, just like Sonia, they had.

Those three were the only people who really knew what Ethan was. They had their own powers to deal with. They understood.

The Zeroes, they'd called themselves as a joke. Like heroes, but not. They'd even tried to act like superheroes, with stupid training exercises and code names. But at least they'd all been friends.

Until he'd let the voice lash out. None of them had spoken to him since.

The line inched forward. He tapped Sonia lightly on the shoulder. "Hey."

She turned and glared at him, head still bopping to the music.

"I'm sorry." He mouthed the words clearly.

Sonia hesitated, her eyes narrowing. Finally a half smile crossed her face. After all, he was a fellow fan of Patty Low. At least, she thought he was.

She pulled one earbud out, like she was about to say something. But then her gaze swiveled to a point over his shoulder and she froze.

Ethan turned. Three guys with very big guns had entered the bank. They wore all-black clothes and white hockey masks. One of them lifted his rifle and shot it directly into the ceiling.

The world flew apart into dust and noise.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the gunman said through the ringing echoes of the boom. "Get your asses down on the floor!"


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