Page 40 of The Friend Scheme
Where are you now?
Mercy Hospital. Why?
The message appears pretty much straightaway.
I’m on my way.
CHAPTER NINE
Hey, I’m here, where are you?
I stare at my phone for a second, as that sinks in.
I mean, it’s not that tough a question to answer. I’m on the rooftop of the hospital. There’s an ocean breeze, cutting through the humidity, and I can hear the endless traffic flowing through the streets. It’s dark out, but the space is well lit by the buildings around.
I wanted to find somewhere where I could talk to Jason without stressing about being interrupted. I explored for a while and then found an elevator that goes up to the roof. I’m not sure I’m allowed to be up here, but nobody has stopped me yet.
I start typing my response.
On the roof.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
It’s really nice that he came. Of course I think that. But isn’t this risky as hell? Anyone in my family could show up at any time, and then I’d need to explain why I wasn’t in the waiting room, like I said I would be.
And if Jason met anyone, he might be able to figure out that I’m part of this city’s first family of crime. Knowing that, he might not want to be friends anymore. I think he thinks I’m like him, from an allied family. I don’t think he knows just how deep in this world I am.
It’s a risk I’m willing to take, though. Having a friend to talk toright now would be so nice it almost doesn’t feel real. I’m so used to bottling up how I feel, but tonight, maybe I don’t have to.
I hit send.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket and try to find a place to sit. Obviously there aren’t any chairs or anything: but there is the lip of the roof. It’s pretty thick; it’ll be fine. I go over to the edge and peer down. I can see the street below, which is quiet. I spot a parked silver Alfa Romeo. Luke would love that car.
I push myself up and onto the lip of the roof. I scoot forward, until my legs are hanging in thin air. The cement is cool and rough.
My hands are shaking now. From everything.
My dad got shot.
He nearly died.
It’s completely fucked-up.
It makes me think about the Donovans. I picture them and try my best to hate them.
There’s Frank Donovan, the current patriarch. He’s an overweight man, balding, who always wears a three-piece suit. He has reddish hair and a beard. It’s said that he’s vicious but not very smart. In this business, though, pure, ballsy aggression often does work. Still, it’s his wife, Maria, who’s the really dangerous one. She’s pretty much the opposite of him: Her hair is dark when his is light, and she’s incredibly slim, to the point where she looks ill. She’s a scalpel to his hammer, an expert at finding our weak points and exploiting them.
She’s ruthless and wants my family dead as much as most of my family wants hers. Not for any personal reason that we know of, other than that she’s sick of her family being second-best.
Always being the bridesmaid gets old, apparently.
Then there are all the Donovans we don’t know. Part of this game has always been trying to figure out who they are. Once we find a Donovan, we normally try to kill them. They’re the same with us.
I hear the sound of sneakers scuffing on gravel and spin.
Jason raises his hand at me. I wave back.
Good timing, too. I was just starting to fall down a rabbit hole thinking about my family and the war. And now I don’t have to. That’s the beauty of our deal, I guess. It lets us pretend we’re normal. It makes me understand why he doesn’t want to talk about our families, because I don’t want that, either.
