Ellis K. Popa

PROLOGUE

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 19

The wind scraped at my cheeks and whipped my ponytail around. I laced up my cleats, shivering, and zipped myself into a Lady Knights hoodie. The soccer field stretched around me. Silence rested on the empty stadium.

I turned away from the goal and jogged up the sideline. My thighs protested. Cold air hit my lungs and caught fire in my chest. I pushed harder, commanding myself into focus.

District. Regionals. State. State champs.

A blip of movement drew my attention to the bleachers. I turned, expecting to see Brandy—but why would she be in the bleachers? We were supposed to be practicing.

I paused my warm-up, scanning. The announcer’s box fortified the top, and I could see straight through the large windows. There was nobody in there.

There was nobody anywhere. I was alone.

My pocket vibrated. I pulled out my phone and checked the message.

Hello dear

I blinked. The text was from Dad, but… he never called me dear. He also never wrote messages shorter than fifty words.

I swiped a reply.

Did you see my text? Need to know when your flight gets in.

I pressed Send and dropped into a lunge.

The phone vibrated in my hand. The screen brightened.

U can find it dear

I straightened. Dad never abbreviated anything. Ever. He also used perfect grammar and punctuation in all his text messages. These didn’t have any of that.

A scuff broke the silence. My attention moved to the stands, then to the cyclone fence that wrapped around the stadium. Somebody was here. Whoever it was didn’t want to be seen.

“What are you doing?” The muffled voice came from behind me.

I wheeled around.

Brandy stood there, padded goalie gloves held between her teeth while she yanked her auburn hair into a ponytail. She was layered up in bulky clothing, and the gray weather dulled her normally warm freckles.

When she finished, she spat out the gloves. They landed in a heap on the grass. “You’re looking paler than usual. You’re not sick, are you?”

“N-no, it’s just— Never mind.” I stilled my heart, which pounded at a full sprint. “Trying to figure out my dad’s itinerary. Almost done.” I held up my phone.

She shrugged, plunking herself on the grass.

Her neon-pink cleats were tied together and slung over one shoulder. She pulled the shoes onto her lap and picked at the knot.

I headed for my bag, swiping a reply to Dad.

Have to go. Shooting drills with Bee.

I hesitated, thumb hovering. Dad had been acting weird since Thanksgiving, and he was acting extra weird now.

Unless I was imagining things. Was I? How could I know for sure?

An idea breathed across my thoughts. It wasn’t the greatest idea, or the nicest, and it might get me in trouble. But…

I gnawed my bottom lip and added to the message.

Ty’s coming over to help me study. Hope that’s ok.

Ty wasn’t allowed over at night. Not ever, but especially not while Dad was out of town. If I didn’t get a reply with all caps and threats of being grounded for life, I’d know something was up.

I held my breath and pressed Send.

“My mom needs the car tonight.”

I pivoted, insides heavy. “Huh?”

“My mom’s covering the overnight at the nursing home.” Brandy flexed her fingers in the padded gloves. “Can you follow me home and then drop me off at Dave’s?”

“I… can’t. Have to study. Chemistry midterm.” That part was true. I really did need to study.

My gaze landed on the phone. No reply from Dad.

“Come on, Kat. We have to study, too.”

“Right. ‘Study.’”

Brandy cocked her hip and used it as a handrest. “Dave and I have pre-cal.”

“Then take the MARTA.”

“You know that station by my house is sketch, and I’ll have to connect by bus. That’ll suck in this weather. Please, Kat?” She blinked out puppy-dog eyes. “Pretty please?”

I rubbed my forehead. Dave and his dad lived forty-five minutes away. Double that with rush hour traffic. I couldn’t afford to lose that much time.

But I also couldn’t let my best friend end up cold, stranded, and stuck at a sketchy train station.

“Yeah, okay. We won’t have time for sprints or crunches—”

“I’ll do crunches before bed and sprints up and down the staircase.” Her mouth tipped up. “What’s the deal with chemistry, anyway? You’re not at risk of getting a B, are you? Or dare I say… a B-minus?” She waggled her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes and started for my athletic bag.

She angled to cut me off. “Hold up. For real, what’s going on?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but… Coach Jules got a call.” I fought a smile. “From Georgia State.”

Brandy’s mouth dropped open wide enough for a small plane to land. “They called about you?”

“Sort of. They’re sending scouts when the season starts, and they had a lot of questions about me. They even asked about my academic performance. Coach Jules thinks they might offer me a full ride.”

“A full-ride scholarship? What?” Brandy squealed and spun me around.

Georgia State checked off all the boxes. I could live with Dad rent-free, and I’d be close to Brandy and Dave, who were planning to stay in Atlanta for community college.

But without that scholarship, my college horizons were bleak. I hadn’t wanted to jinx myself.

“Okay, okay.” I anchored my feet, bringing us to a stop. “But I have to practice. Shooting drills every day, even on crap days like this one.”

“Don’t worry, babe. I got you.” Brandy glanced around. “Where’s the ball?”

I tipped my chin toward the goal. My soccer ball rested against the post. Brandy took off in that direction. I closed the distance to my bag.

I stooped and tugged on the zipper. No more distractions, not from Dad or anyone else. My phone would go in the bag. I would focus. Everything else would fall into place. It had to.

District. Regionals. State. State champs. My smile tugged harder. Georgia State. Scholarship.

The smile faltered. I checked the phone one more time, and my chest tightened. The message light was off. The screen was still black.

1. DELIVERY

TWO WEEKS LATER

More people die from selfie accidents than shark attacks.

Vending machines kill an average of thirteen people per year.

A Brazilian man died after a cow fell through his roof, crushing him while he was asleep.

Of all the statistics I’d seen, that death-by-cow incident had to be the weirdest, but I couldn’t say it was the absolute worst. That honor surely belonged to selfie accidents, especially those involving heights.

Imagine the regret someone would have as they fell, knowing what’s about to happen, knowing they can’t stop it. What would they be thinking about? Would they have enough time to ponder their life’s decisions (or at least their last decision)?

There’s a saying in Romania: „Viața celui care se teme de moarte este tot un fel de moarte.”

Translation: “The life of one who fears death is a kind of death.”

In other words, the person who’s afraid of dying is the one who really loses his life. But how can that be true? Because if the selfie-accident people had been afraid to climb up to that height, they’d still be alive.

And if Dad had been afraid to return to his homeland, he’d still be alive, too…

I pushed a stack of dirty dishes aside and dumped an armful of mail on the counter. The words Past Due in blood-red ink glared up at me. I picked up the envelope, and the one beneath it had an identical, inky-red twin.

My eye twitched. I rubbed it and reached for a padded mailer. Probably something from Mom, a late Christmas gift no doubt. I was surprised she remembered at all.

I tugged on the junk drawer and reached for the scissors. My attention skimmed a postmark on the back of the mailer.

Braşov – Poşta Română

My brow dipped. Braşov?

The front door to the apartment creaked, and cold air settled around me.

“Kat?” Brandy’s husky voice drifted into the kitchen. A quick double knock followed. “Hello?”

“In here.”

The ceiling fan blinked on, drawing my attention across the breakfast bar.

Brandy breezed into the living room, striding past the Christmas tree, then the couch, before stopping next to the one-and-only box I’d managed to pack—Dad’s programming books.

She yanked off her beanie, leaving a trail of static in the wake, and surveyed the living room. Her smile crashed and burned. “What the hell? Kat, you’re supposed to be packed.” She marched into the kitchen. “Dave’s coming with the truck. He could only get it for tonight.”

“I was about to, um…”

Brandy leaned sideways, trying to see past me. I sidestepped, putting myself between her and the mound of dirty dishes.

“I’m sorry.” I wrung my hands. “I-I meant to do more.”

Her eyes found mine, and her expression softened. “You don’t need to apologize, okay? You just lost your dad.” She took my hands. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll figure this out.” She marched out of the kitchen.

I wiped a stray tear and followed her.

The Christmas tree sprayed the living room in blue, gold, and red. The lights splashed across the wall and spilled onto the carpet. Homemade flag ornaments dotted the branches.

My feet stalled. I hadn’t thought Dad would let me do a Romania-themed tree. He never had before. Why this year? Why the change of heart?

I looked down at the padded mailer I was holding. My fingers detected something hard and clunky inside. Had the cleanup crew found something in the wreckage?

“Today’s Wednesday.” Brandy stood beside the couch, massaging her temples. “School starts Monday. I’m working tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday. Shoot, and I think Sunday, too. We’ve gotta get this done tonight.”

“We could take the big stuff to your house first, couldn’t we? I-I’ll move the smaller stuff by myself this weekend.”

Brandy slanted an eyebrow.

“What? When we moved into this place, I packed everything we owned into our car. It’s a compact, but it holds a lot.” The real reason was because we hadn’t owned much back then. Even less than we owned now.

Correction: Than I owned. There was no more “we.”

Brandy whipped out her phone and punched out a text. Probably to Dave. I let my stare drift over the living room… over Dad’s TV… over our ratty couch.

I paused on Dad’s poster of Rosie the Riveter. Her red bandanna wrapped around her head and tied at the top. She pursed her lips, expression serious and kind of intense. She was confident in her mission, in herself, with her sleeve rolled up and her biceps flexed.

WE CAN DO IT! The World War II slogan filled a dialogue bubble.

Dad had other posters, but Rosie had been his favorite. She was the screen saver for his laptop, too.

Grief dragged my heart into my rib cage.

“Hey, Bee?” I swallowed my emotions and held up the mailer. “This might be from the government liaison I’ve been working with. I think the cleanup crew might have—” I looked down and nearly choked.

My name and address had been scribbled in a familiar, left-handed slant. Hope sprang up. “Dad?”

“The cleanup crew, what?” Brandy peered back at me. “Babe. You’ve got to start finishing your sentences. I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time.”

I bolted into the kitchen. The package had been taped solid on both sides. I grabbed the scissors and ripped through the semisoft material. Something gold and shiny clattered to the linoleum. A folded-up sheet of paper followed, landing on my shoe.

I picked up the paper and unfolded it.

[ Image: Scavenger Hunt ]
---
=> OTP

drs sade / „Am fost profesor la Universitatea Politehnica din Bucureşti” / dreads finds

=> Braşov

Read behind the lines / 2 Favorites / Vintage

awaken the dawn

[ Image: sailboat with 16 ] / X marks the spot / [ Image: drawing with arrow and X ]

Boris Funa

Orientation – Eat – See / coffee press / numbers

3 ♣
---
This looked like the scavenger hunts Dad used to make, and it was all in his handwriting.

I scooped up the other item that had fallen out—a gold locket with a wagon wheel stamped on the back and flowery vines engraved on the front.

[ Image: locket ]

I pressed a latch, and the locket opened to an inscription.

“That wasn’t a bad idea.” Brandy’s lean frame appeared in the kitchen. “We’ll take the big stuff tonight. Dave’s bringing the truck for that, and then he’s gonna swing by this weekend for everything else.”

I stared, lips parted. My vocal cords wouldn’t work.

“I’ll start on your room, okay? Take your time, do what you need to do, then come help me.” She stripped off her fleece jacket, tossed it on the dining room table, and hauled a stack of flattened cardboard boxes into my bedroom.

The screech of packing tape hit my ears and sank to my stomach. My room, my entire life, was being dismantled, and no amount of procrastinating had been able to stop it.

I clutched the locket. The thing was sturdy, an antique from the looks of it—but Dad hadn’t been into antiques. And when could he have sent me this? He’d been dead for two weeks.

Two weeks. Was that enough time for mail to arrive from Romania? I didn’t know the answer, but I thought of someone who might.

2. DJANGO

I peeked behind the potted plants stacked around the entrance. The diner’s pale lights reflected off crinkly plastic.

“Sour candies!” I squealed and clapped. “Daddy, I found them, I found them.”

“That’s my girl. Up we go now.” He scooped me up. The list of clues slipped from my hands and floated to the floor.

He spun me around. I giggled, clutching the candies.

“Has the explorer found her big prize?” Mr. Kotfas came through the kitchen doors and wandered into the dining area. He’d been in America as long as Daddy, but he still rolled his R’s and sang his words together. Sometimes I couldn’t understand him.

“She certainly did. Ohh, but our game required a bit more work this time.” Daddy set me down. “Didn’t it, my darling?”

* * *

Highway lights rushed past my window. I gripped the steering wheel, pressing the grooved vinyl into my palms. The sensation helped sharpen my focus.

Eighty percent of car accidents were caused by distracted driving. Nearly three thousand of those resulted in deaths. I needed to concentrate.

Downtown Atlanta glittered against the black horizon. Skyscrapers towered over the freeways, glass giants standing guard over their neon-lit kingdom.

I veered onto Peachtree Street and skidded to a stop behind a line of traffic. “Seriously? Ughh.” I hadn’t told Brandy where I was going, just that I needed to step outside. She was going to be pissed if I didn’t get back soon.

A parking space opened up near restaurant row. I swung into the spot and hopped out. The meter had twenty-two minutes left. Hopefully that was enough time.

The wind blasted me, whipping my hair into curly black chaos. I zipped myself into Brandy’s fleece jacket, which I’d borrowed without permission, and jogged up the sidewalk. A heady mix of hot oil and fried chicken swirled.

Memories rushed back. Dad and I used to come down here when I was a kid. Sometimes we would race each other on this sidewalk.

I stifled my emotions and stopped at the corner. Gold letters twirled across a backlit sign. GYPSY DJANGO. It wasn’t the sign I remembered, but there wasn’t another Gypsy Django in Atlanta.

I tugged on the sturdy black door—also new—and then hesitated. I hadn’t been here in… how long? Five years? Six? What would I say to Mr. Kotfas? Sorry I stopped coming to your restaurant. Dad’s dead, but can you help me figure out if he mailed this stuff?

Yeah. I hadn’t thought this through. Not even a little bit.

I released the door as the hostess appeared. Her jewelry glistened beneath diamond-white lights. Glossy tiles stretched around her stiletto heels, her curves wrapped in a chic dress.

The door swung shut. I yanked it open. Since when did Gypsy Django have a hostess? Mr. Kotfas had always done everything. He even helped the line cooks.

The hostess gathered a stack of leather-bound menus and led a party of four into the dining room. Classical music drifted from that direction.

I hurried inside, grabbed a menu, and skimmed the glossy pages. A tiny black 47 marked a veal dish. Was that the price?

“May I help you, miss?” A man stationed himself behind the host stand. The lights burned above him, casting a shimmery glaze over his red silk tie.

“I’m here to speak to Mr. Kotfas.” I studied the menu. “Real quick, do y’all still serve burgers? I’m trying to figure out—”

“We do not serve burgers.” He said the word like he’d been chewing on a lemon. “And I am unsure who you wish to speak with. We have no staff by the name of Kotfas.”

“He’s not staff. He’s the owner.”

Understanding crisscrossed the man’s face. “This establishment underwent a change of ownership last fall. I do not know the previous owner, but none of the present owners—there are three—are named Kotfas.”

I fumbled with the menu. The man scowled.

“I-I guess I’m more interested in one of your customers. His name was Nicholas Barrett. He was a regular on Mondays. I should have a picture.” I patted my pockets. Where was my phone?

“That name likewise does not sound familiar, nor are we open on Mondays.”

I froze. “You’re not?”