Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,96

slip of paper. He stared at it, frowning, then shook his head.

“A bank account?”

“A hidden account. A tax shelter. Logan wasn’t entirely onboard with the idea. She insisted you should have some of the money. That was her condition for agreeing to it. She …” I swallowed and zipped my coat back up as high as it would go. “She cares more about you than she does any of this. Or me. You don’t need me to tell you that. You’ve got eyes.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my own eyes shut. “It’s somewhat gray—legally speaking—which is why we have to be careful. No paper trail. No traceable transfers. I thought Logan told you all this already.”

“No.” He sounded unsure for the first time since he’d opened the door to the locker room. Like a kid. I heard the scrape of paper as he folded it. “I’m keeping this until I’ve talked to Logan.”

“Fine, but only Logan. And, for God’s sake, put it away. Don’t leave it lying around. Keep it somewhere secure.”

I heard the rustle, felt the shift of his weight on the bench, and didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the gun, put it to his temple, and fired. The kickback was nothing, so much less than the rifles we used at the shooting range for Logan’s birthday, but I let it fall out of my glove anyway and clatter to the floor.

Gurgling noises, as if underwater, or maybe I could only feel the vibration of them in the white space after the blast. I stared at the tile, my mind still playing out the other scenario, the one where the gun wasn’t loaded and he punched me across the room. Shock. Anger. I would stagger back to my feet, telling him I knew it all along, that there was no way a good kid like him, an elite kickboxer, would have relied on any weapon other than his own body. Then I’d throw the gun across the room in disgust, calling his bluff. I might have had to haggle with him to keep him from going straight to the cops. Make him think he was blackmailing me, which would only look better in the end, but risky. Too dangerous to have him out there with a story, a counter-narrative to the one I’d spent so much time and effort crafting.

This was better. Once my hearing returned and the other scenario faded into an unnecessary future, I surveyed the scene. The blood and skull and brain matter had all splattered in the opposite direction, a good deal of it hitting the lockers and dripping down to the floor around his body. There were only a few drops near me or on my arm, but—since Aaden had been reaching to stop me—there were a few on his right arm, too. Good. His phone had fallen out of his jacket pocket, face up and providentially still unlocked. Sometimes things just fell into place, like meeting Nora in Atlanta. It was almost enough to make me think there could actually be some benevolent deity in the sky, lining up the shots. But that would have diminished my role in what happened. Luck isn’t divine intervention. Luck is preparation meeting opportunity.

With one gloved finger, I scrolled to his log and deleted the record of his call to me. He hadn’t texted anyone since 7:00 p.m., and there were no messages in the last two days about his bank account, Strike, or me. I emptied his trash then locked the phone. Checking my shoes for dirt, blood, or anything that would leave a mark, I backed out of the locker room and closed the door.

* * *

Let me be crystal clear. I never wanted anyone to die. I’m not a monster. Aaden Warsame had his entire life ahead of him. He had talent and opportunities, regardless of Logan’s attention. The members liked his classes and even I could admit he was a natural mentor for the Strike Next kids, especially the ignorant boys who thought they couldn’t look up to anyone without a penis. Aaden transitioned them into the fold, and when he watched the female trainers with the concentration and respect they deserved, the boys followed his example, letting the misogyny drain silently out of their fists.

He could have had a good life, the life his mother had dreamed for him when they fled Somalia. Instead he chose his father’s path. And like his father, he died because of it.

I didn’t