Page 77 of Pretty Nightmare

And fine. My girl is never going to be an Olympic gymnast, or a professional ballerina, or world-class skater or swimmer. But knowing these things will keep her alive one day. They give her poise, and balance, and teach her determination. They will prepare her for the serious training that comes next.

Because I will train her.

Not because she’s my weapon, the way Indie was. But because there is no way to change who and what she is.

Either she learns to fight back or someone will kill her.

There is always someone out there hunting these girls. Including me. That’s why Wendy was so freaked out when she called me yesterday. There is a new one on the loose. One we didn’t know about. And if there’s one, there’s more. And this little girl, who we will now be hunting, has a man like me back at home base. A man like me who taught her things to keep her alive. To slip away when the Company men come for her.

“Open it up.”

“Be patient,” I say. “This packet is old. We need to be careful. Hold the light a little closer.”

She does that. And I peel the plastic cover open and remove the first yellow envelope.

I already suspect what’s in this one. I can just tell by the weight of it.

But Maggie audibly gasps when I pull out four straps of hundred-dollar bills. “Wow. How much is that?”

I flip through them and decide. “Ten thousand each.” I toss one of the strips into her lap. “You keep that one for now. Keep it close until we get home.” Then I toss her another. “And you can give this one to the guard out front when we leave.”

She makes a little huff of noise, but doesn’t get excited or go crazy. Just stuffs the straps into the bib pocket of her overalls.

They are old bills, not the colorful ones that circulate these days. Which means they will need to be laundered. But that’s to be expected. We deal in gold anyway.

Maggie has had her own stash of money since she turned five. There are always some low-value bills in that stash, just in case. But she’s got a debit card from a Cayman Island bank with her name on it, a bag of American Gold Eagle coins, and a memorized phone number she can call to access her trust, if those options are not enough and I’m not around.

I won’t always be around. It takes a lot of effort to live to old age in this business. Gerald Couture was probably the oldest Company man I’ve ever known. I’m trying to prepare her for that inevitability.

“What’s in the next one?” Maggie is ready to move on. Money isn’t exciting. Money is just money.

I pull out the next envelope and open it up. Inside is a small stack of passports held together with a rubber band, three birth certificates, a deed to a house I have never heard of, and an envelope with the name ‘Nick Tate’ scrawled across it in my father’s handwriting.

Fucking Nick Tate. Why the hell is he suddenly popping up everywhere all of a sudden?

“Huh.” Maggie is reaching for the envelope.

I snatch it away before she can grab it. “Not for you.”

“But it says Nick on it. I want to know what’s in there.”

“None of your business, little girl.”

She tsks her tongue in frustration. “Then show me something I can see.”

I hand her the birth certificates. “Here. Read them to me.”

She huffs, but this time it’s satisfaction. She opens it up. Squints at the small typed letters. “OK. Number one is… Mallory Match-it.” She looks up at me. “Hmm. Who’s that?”

“It’s pronounced Machette. Like machete. No clue.” Which is not entirely true. I mean, I don’t personally know Mallory Machette. But the Machettes are an old family in the Company. Scientists, mostly. “What’s that birth year say?”

“Whoa. It says eighteen seventy-five.”

“What’s the next one say?”

“This one is for… Neek-klos Zzzzabo. I don’t know how to say that.” She hands me the paper and shines the light on it.

“Sab-oh,” I say, sounding it out. “Nikos Szabó. The z is silent.”