Page 1 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
Prologue
THERE ARE MOMENTS like earthquakes in your life, when the ground splits open and nothing will ever be the same. My first moment came in fourth grade, when I got an assignment to create a family tree. I applied myself like the good little student that I was at the time, making an actual tree from construction paper and Elmer’s glue.
This is where you come from, Mrs. Fitzpatrick had said when my classmates had complained about the project. This is who you are.
My parents seemed different the moment I told them about the project, more subdued and standoffish—which was saying something for them. So I did like always and threw myself into the work, as if another A+ would somehow impress them when all the rest hadn’t. I used online sites and library references to pull actual census reports and, in a couple of cases, pictures.
I had been too naive to notice what I saw in them: blue eyes and pale brown hair ran in the family. Like my brother and my mother. Only my father had darker hair—I suppose I always assumed I got it from him. But none of them had the faintly olive toned skin or the full shape of my mouth.
During that presentation I learned that Jennifer had Native American heritage, which explained why her eyes were so pretty. And Brittney’s grandmother was part Creole—I wasn’t sure what that was, but she had curly black hair that always looked windswept.
“Where is our family from?” I asked when I got home from school that day.
“Brooklyn,” my mother said.
“I know that. I mean, I know Grandpa moved to Chicago because he got laid off. But before that, like our ancestors.”
Her lips pressed together in that way that meant she was hiding something. Kids had a sense about these things. “From lots of places. People come from all over.”
“Like Scotland?” Dad’s side of the family came from Scotland. I had learned that lineage while creating my presentation.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “Lots of places.”
Why didn’t she want to tell me? I thought that was the most I would learn, but there was a fight in hushed voices in the kitchen when my dad came home. And then they both sat me down.
“Hey, squirt,” he said, tapping me on the side of the arm. We never really hugged or cuddled. For him this was the equivalent of a great bear hug. “You know your mom and dad love you.”
“Yes,” I said with the kind of guileless certainty only a child can have.
“Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “We will always love you, but we think it’s time you know the truth. Your mom and I adopted you when you were a baby.”
I felt the ground shift, felt it open wide—a dark chasm stretching beneath me, waiting for me to fall. I stared at them, unable to speak, unable to think.
Mom attempted to smile. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but honey, you’re like our own child. Just like Tyler.”
My brother. “Is he…” I had to force the word out. “Is he adopted too?”
They shared a long glance. “No,” my father said finally. “He’s ours.”
He was theirs, and I…wasn’t.
This is where you come from. This is who you are. And for the first time in my life, I had no idea who that was.
That was when I stopped wondering why they always seemed to favor my younger brother, when I stopped trying to desperately please them with good grades and obedience and presents that said Best Mom in the World. That was when I started rebelling, wearing makeup and starting fights—eventually hanging out with the wrong crowd at skate parks and underground raves.
It was my first earthquake, but it wouldn’t be my last.
It wouldn’t even be the biggest one.
As many big things do, that one came i
n the form of a man. I met him when I was a child and he was a grown-up. I met him when I was nobody and nothing—and he was already rich and powerful. I met him when I was in danger and he was the most dangerous man in the city.
Chapter One
THE THING ABOUT not knowing where you came from, you can make up whatever story you want. And when you’re that desperate for acceptance, you make it a good one. The handsome father would carry me around on his shoulders. The beautiful mother ached at the thought of leaving me alone with the nanny for even a few hours. A dark night, slippery roads. Crash.
I was desperate, not stupid. I knew the more likely story involved a druggie teenage mom and a dad in prison or something like that. Still, I held on to that dream—until the world cracked underneath me for the second time.
Purple and blue lights flashed across the faces of my friends.
Friends. Well, they were people I spent time with. I knew most of their names. Some of them sold drugs; some of them bought drugs. Sometimes they traded places.
What am I doing here?
I didn’t have an answer, and something about the air bothered me. More agitated than usual, though I couldn’t pinpoint any one thing that was different. There had been a few fights by the bar, but those were standard operating procedure—and truthfully, part of the entertainment at the Meat Market. It was called that because it used to be a meatpacking warehouse.
And because everyone there was looking to hook up.
“Let’s dance,” my friend Kristy said, draining the last of her fluorescent green drink.
“Maybe later,” I said.
It felt like there were eyes on me from behind every beaded curtain, even though I knew there were only people getting high or having sex. No one watched me here. No one noticed that I was fifteen-years-old, not really allowed. No one cared enough to notice me, just like at home.
That thought was almost enough to make me stay, where at least I could find a boy to buy me a drink, to take me onto the dance floor, to kiss me behind one of those curtains. That wasn’t the same as love, but it was the closest thing I’d ever felt, a tin-can structure in place of a real beating heart.
But that strange sensation raised the hair on the back of my neck.
“I’m not feeling this,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Kristy raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “We barely got here. I’m not leaving.”
“Will you be okay if I leave?” I asked, because we’d split a cab here tonight.
It had felt amazing when she had befriended me in ninth grade. I’d gone from nobody to one of the cool girls, pretty and unapproachable in the hallways of Lakeview High. Only, it was getting harder and harder to pretend that was me.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
“Later,” I said, though I wasn’t sure there’d be a later.
I headed toward the bathroom to make a stop before finding a cab. Was my brother Tyler still awake? Maybe we could hang out and do something, like one of the video games he liked to play.
It was a sad thing when shoot-up video games seemed like the wholesome-entertainment option.
That was what I longed for, though—boy band posters and friendship bracelets. Maybe even family game night. The kind of togetherness I’d never really found. Definitely not with Kristy.
I used the restroom and studied myself in the mirror. Heavy black makeup lined my eyes, highlighting the way they slanted up a little—how different I was from my family.
