The Last Wish of Sasha Cade

I rip out the flash drive, shove it in my pocket and close Sasha’s laptop. My thoughts are everywhere at once. It’s not like the heaven

s part and white doves fly out of the sky to the chorus of a thousand angels singing hallelujah, but it’s close.

Sasha just gave me permission to have this huge crush on her brother. I never realized how heavy the guilt of liking Elijah was weighing on me until it finally lifts away …

… and I am free.

Chapter Twenty

My parents are planning a date night tonight. It’s an event that was nearly nonexistent when I was a kid, but now it happens maybe once every other month when Dad’s schedule aligns with having a day off on a weekend. The glorious news is that I can practically run off and join a cult and tell them about it, and they won’t care because it’s date night. The bad part is that now I’m more than a little nervous to show up at Elijah’s work.

With the next few hours free and Elijah’s shirt in my passenger seat, I begin the drive while replaying Sasha’s secret video in my mind. The landscape grows hilly as I near Austin. Interstate 10 is pretty barren until I’m on the outskirts of the city, which is exactly where my GPS is leading me. I turn onto a side road and meander through an older neighborhood, passing a couple of gas stations and laundromats. This is unquestionably the bad part of town. I try not to imagine a world where one sibling is adopted into a life of luxury and wealth, while the other sibling ages out of the system and ends up here.

My chest constricts as I near Monterrey’s Auto Body Shop. It’s a long metal building with a faded plastic sign near the road. The driveway is gravel and full of potholes, broken-down cars and a black motorcycle. I park in the very first spot, on the other side of a tow truck and out of sight from the small window near the only door. A neon Open sign lights up the narrow window.

I hold Elijah’s work shirt in my hands, my shoes crunching over the white rocky driveway.

I can’t wait to tell him about the video. Maybe he’ll be so thrilled he’ll ask me on a date, and I’ll get to feel the wind in my hair on the back of his motorcycle. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as I walk up to the weathered door and pull it open. A rush of cold air hits me as I enter into a small tiled room that looks like something straight out of the early nineties. Dark wood-paneled walls are covered with posters and brand names of car parts, plus some old award plaques from the Chamber of Commerce. Two ratty chairs are against the wall to my left, and an old desk is in front of me, the ripped leather chair empty. It smells a little like old coffee and a little like mildew in here, and the place is eerily quiet. I’d expected to hear machines rumbling, cars idling or, I don’t know — the hiss of spray paint or something.

“Hello?” I call out. This room is tiny and no one’s in here. There’s another door to the right, but it has big red letters saying EMPLOYEES ONLY and DO NOT ENTER, so I take a step back and hover near the worn-out chairs in the corner. I won’t risk ruining my jeans by sitting down.

After a few awkward minutes, I can hear voices behind the employee door. The longer I sit here, the lamer I feel. But I know Elijah will be excited to see me. With a burst of courage, I walk over to the door and twist the handle slowly.

It opens into a vast metal building that looks like the mechanic shop that services my car in Peyton Colony. Two wrecked cars hover in the air on lifts, panels removed and lying crumpled in a pile off to the side. I see them before they see me: four men standing in a circle, a cloud of tension hanging in the air. Two have their arms crossed, and they look absolutely terrifying. Like they’re competing for an award for most pissed-off guy on the planet.

They’re arguing over something, and one guy, an older man with thick-framed glasses and a lumberjack beard, shakes his head violently in protest.

I’m about to close the door, but then I see him. Elijah stands off to the side next to another guy who looks about his age. One hand rests in his pocket, the other runs across his face. He seems stressed. Is it because of the argument?

Maybe I should sit in my car and come back in a few minutes. I turn to go, but one of the older guys sees me and stops talking, his eyes widening as he gestures to the man with the beard.

“Who is that?”

“Oh, hi,” I say, my voice high-pitched. I put on a big smile and consider lying and saying I’m a customer.

Elijah turns around, almost bored at first. But then he sees me and his eyes go wider than golf balls.

“I got it,” he says quickly. “She’s no one.”

He jogs over to me so fast I don’t even have time to feel offended.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growls as he shoves me back through the door, pressing it firmly closed behind us.

Startled and a little freaked out, I can’t seem to form words, so I just hold up his shirt.

He snatches it from my hand. “You have to go,” he whispers even though we’re the only two in this room.

“Wha — I don’t —” I shuffle backward.

From the other side of the door, someone yells, “That better be a pizza delivery girl.”

Elijah’s jaw tightens. He grabs my arms and says, “You need to go. It’s not safe here.”

“Why?” I say. “This is a business.”

“Just leave,” he says, his voice low and pained. “You can’t be here. Don’t ever come back. Please.”

I fight tears and grab for the doorknob.