What Have We Done

by Alex Finlay

She catches the looks, the whispers, that she must be in it for the money, the gossipers not realizing that Simon isn’t exactly Bill Gates, even if he resembles him. In fact, Jenna’s numbered Swiss account dwarfs their modest savings and Simon’s 401(k).

Her downcast expression is the worst. One thousand percent pity.

Tom took all the songwriting credits—at the time the rest of the band didn’t understand that if your name isn’t on the song the money stops. It’s the reason Tracer’s Bullet broke up. Donnie’s the only other member who was desperate enough to come back.

Nico listens patiently to their gripes, fights the urge to remind them that they’re hardly living an “authentic” coal miner’s life.

She was willing to work things through, even after discovering the credit cards he’d opened in her name. The thousands in debt he racked up. “You know, it’s not the gambling,” she’d said on that last day. “You might be able to overcome that.” “Then what is it?” “You’re incapable of loving anyone.”

Tracked by a woman with some type of death-tube weapon, her stepmother’s gone crazy, and Willow’s mind is on her college applications.

She leads Jenna to the garage, which is underground. It’s filled with luxury sedans, but Willow stops in front of a Jeep Wrangler. “He’ll be here in a minute.” “How’d you—” “I got my phone from my locker and texted him.” “But—” “Don’t worry. I put it in airplane mode and left it there.” Jenna feels weirdly proud for a moment. A few minutes later, the boy with floppy hair—the same kid from the 7-Eleven—appears. He looks nervous when he sees Jenna but is

And who doesn’t love Miami Beach? Palm trees, beautiful girls, perfect weather.

Like they’re all wondering when life will take a turn for them. When they won’t be the outcasts, when they won’t have to face the indignities of the lunchroom, when they won’t have to go to bed worried about closing their eyes, when they’ll have families again.

“Reeves Rothschild,” Donnie repeats, amused. “Sounds like royalty. I feel like I should bow or something.” “A handshake works,” Reeves says.

Why would someone want to kill Artemis Templeton? He’s famous, one of those tech billionaires people love to hate. But is that it? Why was I assigned for the hit? Is it because Arty and I were both wards of Savior House twenty-five years ago?

Jenna knows what she needs to do. She’d spent much of her twenties riddled with guilt and self-loathing knowing that she’s an assassin, which is just a nicer way of saying cold-blooded killer, murderer, executioner. By her early thirties, she’d justified it all—the targets were bad people, the world was a safer and better place without them.

For him, booze, drugs, sex, you name it, were like potato chips. He could never stop at one. Once he started, Donnie Danger would keep going until he was passed out or arrested.

A construct that seemed more out of a spy movie or thriller novel, too farfetched to ever happen.

a tech visionary who’s constantly trying to outdo whatever Bezos, Branson, Musk, and the rest of the bored billionaires are wasting their money on—the only reason she recognized the adult version of

Whenever he thinks about Benny, he feels a weight in his chest, an insatiable need to get high. It makes him ashamed, since that’s the opposite of what Benny would want.

hide out in the open, taking a Valerie

“You mean, how’d my mom get the idea to move from one of the poorest towns in the South to one of the poorest towns in the Northeast?”

Beauty is a skeleton key that opens almost any door. Don’t take my word for it. Studies show beautiful people make more money than smarter people,

“Everybody’s talking about discrimination, but they never mention the Irish and how we get treated.”

“When we were kids, he watched the O. J. Simpson trial and that was it. It was like when Mr. J gave me my first guitar. We both knew.”

It’s a strange thing how the sheer luck of genetics draws such advantages. A handsome stranger gets more curiosity than suspicion. Ask Ted Bundy.

“And what?” she cuts in. “Now you want to talk? Make it up to me? Let’s save each other the time. I’m over it. I forgive you or whatever it is you need to hear.”

“Nat, please. Just give me a—” “What? Give you a chance? That ought to be the tag line for your stupid TV show. For your life.”

Sabine is a magnet. And she has aged like an expensive whiskey.

married, have kids. That wasn’t who he is, he’d told her. Yet here he is with a wife and two kids.

Someone is targeting the kids from Savior House. The same someone who extorted her into taking a shot at Artemis.

“You think anyone’s gonna miss a junkie whore’s kid? A kid whose father’s in prison for killing his mom? A kid whose only relatives died in a car wreck? The kid of one of O’Leary’s rejects?”

“That she isn’t doing jobs for the money or ideology or the usual reasons.” He pauses. “She’s doing it for the sport.”

He’ll never forget Mia’s face, twisted with anger, when she called the marshals over. Worse: Bell’s confused expression, unsure why Uncle Donnie was acting this way.

“Come on, Nico,” a paparazzo says. “Give us something, don’t be an asshole for once in your life.”

“I can’t believe Derek Brood’s in Congress. What a disgrace.…” Artemis chuckles. “Have you seen Congress lately? There’s more sociopaths and carnival barkers than legislators.

“Maybe,” Artemis says, like a man who knows that money often can shift the paradigm, overcome morals, emotion, sentimentality, even family ties. Particularly with the politicians

couples who mowed their lawns, planted flowers, maintained the exterior of their homes—fought the losing battle of their neighborhood being taken over by drugs and crime.

“Quit fucking whining. You get paid plenty. As long as you keep washing the cash—and don’t bring any more attention to this place.” Nico listens. The two men

Reeves looks at him with something that resembles pity. Maybe the town’s getting to Reeves. Lord knows it got to the rest of them.

“These rich dudes who have more money than they’ll ever need, but waste it on flying into space or buying more companies or mansions. They could be Batman, like a real-life superhero, going around finding people in need and changing people’s lives. I don’t get it.” Donnie thinks about Benny, Black Superman.

“I imagine the same thing you’re both doing.” She looks at them both. “Trying to figure out who’s trying to kill us.”

“That Lara Croft wannabe bitch was also following and backed off when she saw him. It’s not going to take long for the agent to put everything together.”

The other reason people borrow money from bankers who wear leather jackets and gold chains and carry brass knuckles.

No bosses, no parents, no TV, no social media. It’s peaceful.” He looks ahead at the interstate like he’s taking it in. Like it’s a scenic villa in Italy or some kind of long-hauler’s pilgrimage trail.

Maybe if he’d admit that the reason he never reached out to his mom is that he knows the hard reality: that she has no interest in seeing her cowardly son—the one who didn’t protect her.

“You ever watch the Spider-Man movie where three Spideys from different multiverses meet?” she asks the agent. He doesn’t respond. “Yeah, well…” Haley points to her sister, then herself. “Here’s the bad news: Both versions of us are evil.”

Now he’s a Benedict Arnold who deserves an ass kickin’.

“Arty lied to all of us. Take care of Mia and Bell. Take care of yourself. You’ll always be my brother from another mother.”

With her life seemingly over now, Jenna is struck by the fact that this house where she will die instilled something in each of them that helped them reach their full potential.

The closest thing Arty had to a father figure, and ultimately a relationship that fostered the technology that supported the then newly emerging social-media sites, technology that made Artemis a rich man by his mid-twenties.

Ned Flanders’s real name was Park Jones. He was a child molester who’d befriended a boy who had easy access to young girls. She thinks of Ben’s handwritten note at the library: BROOD-ROBOT LLC-FAGIN JONES. Ben loved to read; he’d referenced Boo Radley. And Fagin is an infamous character from a Dickens novel—a despicable man who used children to commit his crimes. Flanders used Artemis to lure girls.

“At least I don’t hurt girls. You and Mr. Brood.” “Watch yourself.” “No, I think you’d better watch yourself. I know where the bodies are buried, quite literally.”

The draw of the game—the thrill that your next hand will be the big one—doesn’t care about race, religion, or socioeconomic status. This Los Angeles crowd doesn’t look so different from those who come to GA meetings in West Virginia.