P.G. tugged the wheel as the car veered toward the exit ramp in industrial New Jersey.
In the back seat, Salty glanced around, still lost. “Doesn’t feel like a flat.”
“Definitely is,” P.G. said, though both she and her partner knew that wasn’t true. “Titus, how much farther?”
“A few miles. Not far.” He was right about that. Fifteen minutes later, they were at Grandma’s Pantry.
75
Grandma’s Pantry
Five years ago
By the time they entered the warehouse, they’d told Salty the truth—or at least most of it.
“I gotta say, I thought both of yas was retards,” Salty said with a laugh. “God, I love being wrong.”
He was still in handcuffs and leg irons, shuffling down a wide aisle that looked like a meticulously clean Costco—though instead of being stocked with pallets of industrial-sized mayonnaise and six-pound cans of tomato sauce, this aisle was filled with tall, refrigerator-sized boxes. Salty was too excited to notice they were labeled Ventilators, each with a cord running out of the box to charge them once a month.
“What the hell is this place, anyway? Feels like a morgue,” he said, looking around and realizing they were the only ones in the entire building. He glanced up at the massive American flag that hung from the wide back wall. “Or maybe that warehouse in X-Files.”
“What’s X-Files?” P.G. asked.
“Like CSI, but with aliens and— Y’know what, forget it,” Salty said, trying to throw his hands in the air, though his cuffs were still connected to the belly chain.
“Salty, how about you stop running your mouth and start moving your ass?” Titus asked, giving him a shove from behind.
In truth, Salty had thought this meeting was going to take place a few days ago at the courthouse, where it’s usually done. When that didn’t happen, he assumed they’d set it up at the prison. But leave it to the Marshals to fake a flat tire and bring him to the one place no one would ever think to look.
“Should be unlocked,” P.G. said, pointing them to their destination, a metal door with a latch that looked like—
“A freezer?” Salty asked, his voice echoing through the cavernous room. “You made her wait in a walk-in freezer?”
“Relax, it’s not even on—still being installed,” Titus explained.
Salty nodded like it made perfect sense. In a warehouse this big, better to find a smaller space. But what P.G. and Titus didn’t mention was that the freezer was one of the only places in the building with no cameras.
“My kinda place,” Salty teased, pumping his shoulders with a little strut, like he was on the way to his own surprise party and already secretly knew everyone was gonna be there. In reality, Salty had no idea what was coming.
“How long’s she been waiting?” Salty asked.
“Ask her yourself,” P.G. said, grabbing the door’s metal latch and giving it a tug.
When you enter the WITSEC program, the first rule is simple: no contact. No contact with your relatives, no contact with your former neighbors, no contact with your previous life. They’ll tell you there’s no way around it, but as with any gatekeeper, they’ll make exceptions—for an elderly parent dying, a sick sibling, or, in the worst of all scenarios, if something happens to your child.
The freezer door swung outward, revealing a row of clear plastic slats that hung like vertical blinds. Salty squinted to make sure he was seeing it right. Through the slats, in an office rolling chair, was a scrawny woman—thirty-five years old, though she looked twice that, her pink floral leukemia scarf askew on her head. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, her skin so pale and brittle, she was practically see-through.