The Saint. Tiffany Reisz

his pulse throbbing in the hollow of his throat and his unusually dark eyelashes casting shadows on his face. She wanted to capture those images before they were gone. They lived and died quick deaths in her mind. Ink could preserve them long after her mind had moved onto new fantasies.

      Søren thrust into her, she wrote. Thrust? She’d already used the word thrust twice in this scene. She got out her thesaurus and flipped to the entry for thrust.

      “Ram, jab, prod, push, poke, drill,” it read.

      Drill? He drilled into her?

      “He’s fucking me, not installing new kitchen cabinets,” she said to her useless thesaurus. Whatever. Back to writing. She’d fix her thrust issue later.

      Lost as she was in her writing, she at first ignored the tapping on her window. A branch, a bird, a burglar coming to rob them—she couldn’t give a damn about that now. Only when the tapping morphed into knocking did she turn her head toward the sound.

      Eleanor peered through the dirty glass and spied a man’s face. She flung the window open.

      “Dad, what the hell?” she whispered.

      “Long story. I need you to get your things and come with me.” His face wore no smile. She saw fear in his dark green eyes.

      “Dad, what’s—”

      “Get your stuff right now,” he ordered.

      “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back.” She started to pull away but her dad grabbed her hand.

      “Put on your school uniform. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

      He released her hand and stepped back into the darkness.

      In the bathroom Eleanor stripped out of her pajama shorts and T-shirt and pulled on her abandoned school uniform—plaid skirt, white polo shirt, tights and boots. She’d put her hair in pigtails when she’d gotten home from school in a failed effort to tame the black waves. She looked like some kind of cartoon character with the pigtails, the combat boots and the Catholic-schoolgirl getup. But her dad had promised to explain so she grabbed her coat, grabbed her backpack and snuck out the window, shutting it behind her.

      A beige Camry idled across the street. She’d never seen her father in a car so nondescript before. Bad sign.

      “So what’s up?” she asked as she threw herself in the passenger seat and her dad took off at twice the speed limit.

      “I’m in trouble,” he said.

      “How bad?”

      Her dad paused before answering.

      “Bad.”

      “Oh, fuck.”

      “Yeah, I got into some money trouble a few months ago. I had to take out a loan. They called it in early. I either pay by morning or—”

      Eleanor gripped her knees in fear. Her hands shook. Her stomach flip-flopped.

      “Or I don’t.”

      She leaned forward and breathed through her hands. “Or you don’t …”

      Her dad tried to shield her from what really happened at his shop. And when he talked about his business partners, he never used the words mafia or mob—because he didn’t have to. She was young, not stupid. She’d seen enough gangster movies to know the score. If her father didn’t pay back his loan by dawn, he was in trouble. Bad trouble.

      “What do you want from me?” she asked.

      “We need quick money. Manhattan. I have the crew out and working. We need more.”

      “Dad, I can’t—”

      “You can. You’re faster than any of the guys on my crew.”

      “That’s only in the garage. I’ve never done this on the street before.”

      “It’ll be easy. No one will worry about a girl your age in a school uniform. They’ll think you’re some private-school snob wandering around after curfew.”

      “What if I get caught?”

      “You’re not going to get caught. It’ll take two hours. You’ll be in bed by morning.”

      “No way. This is crazy. Take me home.” Eleanor shook her head and fought off a wave of nausea. Yeah, she knew how to steal a car. She’d known as long as she could remember. This way to bend the hanger. This wire to that wire. But that was a game she played in her dad’s garage in Queens, something to do to impress her dad and the guys he worked with. Look at me, I can do it faster than you. They’d pat her on her head, applaud, tell her she needed to work for them instead of wasting her time in school. Those were jokes, funny cracks, playtime.

      “Honey. I need your help here. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life and death.”

      Life and death. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the visions of her father lying in casket that danced through her head. Casket? Probably not. If he didn’t pay off the mob, there wouldn’t be enough left of him for a casket.

      “Don’t call me honey.”

      They drove in silence the rest of the way to the city. Friday night in Manhattan, all the money had come out to play. Up ahead on the left Eleanor spotted a black Jaguar trying to parallel park in front of a bar.

      “Elle—” her father began but she didn’t let him finish.

      “How many?”

      He shrugged. “Five?”

      “Five. Fine. I’ll see you at the shop.” She opened the door and slammed it behind her.

      Five cars. Home by dawn. No one would suspect her.

      Eleanor walked down the sidewalk, not taking her eyes off the Jag. Finally the driver managed to worm the car into the spot. He opened the driver’s side door and Eleanor stood on the passenger side.

      “Sir, I think you hit that car behind you,” she said over the roof.

      “What?” He barely glanced at her. “No way.”

      “Looks like it to me. Check the bumper.”

      The driver, who looked half-drunk already, stumbled to the rear of the car and bent over.

      “Nah, it’s good. You scared me there.” He pointed at her over the trunk and smiled.

      “No problem. My mistake.”

      He walked into the bar, barely giving her a second look. He didn’t seem to notice that while he’d examined the rear bumper, she’d unlatched the passenger side door. When she was certain no one on the street was paying her any attention, she dropped into the car and shut the door behind her.

      Seconds later, she was on her way to Queens.

      She’d snagged the Jag so fast she beat her father back to the garage.

      Sitting on the hood of the car, she watched the shop at work. They’d known her since she was a baby; Jimmie, Jake, Levon and Kev had entertained her with card tricks and jokes and let her watch them working under the hoods of the cars anytime she’d come around. Now they barely glanced at her. In fact, in the past year whenever she’d stopped by they all treated her like a stranger.

      “Nice Jag,” Oz, the oldest guy on her dad’s crew, said as he shuffled past her. He had so much grease and oil on his overalls she couldn’t tell what color they were supposed to be. “Yours?”

      “Mine. I’m keeping it.”

      “You got good taste, kiddo.”

      “In cars only. I suck at picking parents.”

      Oz raised his hands. “You know he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t desperate.”

      “How desperate?”