Page 46 of Uncontrolled

“Hold tight. We’re on our way.”

“Two of you? Who is this?” she asks.

I hang up, tearing the address free. The last of the grocery list—grapes? stuff for tacos, bread—comes off with it.

The door to the apartment opens.

“Allie?” I call, aware I sound a little frantic.

Thumbing through the mail in her hand, she freezes when she hears me. Her hair’s wet and bunned, as if she’s fresh from a shower. Her bottom lip is swollen. “You’re here,” she says, carefully. “You were asleep when I got back and then this morning—”

I hold her phone like an offering on my palm. “I’m sorry. I answered it. It kept ringing, and I thought—” I thought someone took you. I swallow hard. I almost said it. “It was for a resurrection.”

“Oh,” she says.

“I took notes?” It comes out a question as I hand her the torn sheet.

She reads over it quickly. “Give me that,” she says, grabbing for the phone and by her reaction I screwed up big time. I’m not sure if she’s mad about our fight yesterday, or this.

“Allie, I—”

“It’s not your fault,” she says, dialing. “This is Talia’s work.” As she trails into silence, Talia’s end clicks over to voicemail. “Who is predictably not available.”

“Why didn’t Talia take this resurrection?” I ask.

For a moment she stands, eyes closed, silently fuming. “Because the next job’s mine,” she says. When she speaks again, her voice is clinical. “I have to get my stuff. I’ll take care of this and I swear, I swear we’ll talk when I’m done.”

Even before she finishes, I’m shaking my head. “I’m coming with you. Not up for debate.” When she flinches, I remember she used the same phrase on me yesterday. “Listen,” I say. “This is not us setting new standards. This is a onetime thing, but I’m coming with you.”

She tongues her bottom lip as she considers it. Now that she’s closer, I can see a purple splotch of bruise, healing but discolored. I thumb the mark, an invitation to explain. Instead, she tips a fraction of an inch from my touch.

“I answered the call,” I say as I drop my hand. “I’ve seen a resurrection. Hell, I did one on you.” I can’t watch her go alone. Not after the way I spent my morning. Not when this could be a trap. My body coils in anticipation of a rejection.

“In or out,” she murmurs to herself in the same intonation I said the words last night. When she glances at me, her stare is haunted in a way I don’t understand. “Toss that in the kitchen,” she says as she hands me the mail. “I’ll grab the rest of my supplies.”

“You got it,” I say, wrestling to hide my relief.

The second the messenger bag loops across her chest, it’s as if she heard a silent starter gun. I’m left struggling to lock up behind us, dropping the key in my rush. The carpet in front of her door still holds the noticeable stain where I bled out, most of it hidden under a cheap “Welcome” mat. I remember reaching, the chill in my bones spreading with that stain. I remember dying alone.

“Hey! Coming?” Allie calls from the end of the hall.

I shiver. “Yeah,” I manage.

The path to the address the woman gave passes in a near jog. It’s no more than five minutes, but by the time we get there, I’m soaked in sweat. We don’t speak. The only resurrection Allie took me on was a baby, with Talia running the scene. From the car involved, this guy’s older.

Heart attack? I wonder. Or maybe it’s a suicide. What if they don’t resurrect those? What if I’ve unintentionally set Allie up to break a rule?

I spot the place, a two-story version of a shotgun house. The garage looms at the end of the driveway. A for sale sign is sunk into the small patch of dying grass near the sidewalk. All the blinds appear to be missing. I can’t see much inside. I wonder if they lost the place, and the dude offed himself. Without a word, I point.

Allie stops, turning toward me, her bag slung over a shoulder. “You remember what to do?”

I stare at the closed garage door. “Stay out of the way,” I say. “Help if you ask for it. The code is flowers and colors.”

Absorbed with what could be in the garage, I finally tear myself away and find Allie softening as she takes me in.

“Cobalt,” she says. It’s the call and answer Talia and her cousin use to let each other know everything is okay. Talia taught Allie. Allie taught me. So far, we haven’t gotten more creative than the original pairing I heard them use.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re really going to saddle me with ‘dandelion’ in this situation?”

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