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  Copyright © 2019 by Disney Book Group

  Designed by Marci Senders

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Cover art © 2019 People: Natalia Sheinken/Shutterstock –

  Broken Arm: TotemArt/Shutterstock – Wig: Bariskina/Shutterstock –

  Crutches: Demja/Shutterstock – Toolbelt: Quarta/Shutterstock –

  Roller skates: BOBROV2016/Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published by Freeform Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Freeform Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04389-2

  Visit www.freeform.com/books

  To the Wolfpack: Nadine, Julia, James, Jen, and Brad

  CONTENTS

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Beltway Bulletin – November 23

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beltway Bulletin – December 19

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Beltway Bulletin – December 24

  Chapter Forty-three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Let them eat bread and circuses.”

  —THE POSTMAN

  POLITICS—US Edition

  November 23, 08:32 am ET

  The Battle for the Presidency

  by Adrienne Quiñones

  In case you’ve been living in a cave for the last two weeks, let me get you up to speed.

  It has been thirteen days since the House of Representatives passed H.Res. 1334, adopting six articles of impeachment against the president of the United States on grounds of high crimes and misdemeanors, as well as the highly controversial charge of treason, in accordance with Article II of the United States Constitution.

  Despite the urging of his closest advisers, the president has not resigned from office à la Richard Nixon to avoid trial and probable conviction by a two-thirds Senate vote, which could, in the estimation of several hundred legal pundits, lead to criminal charges. Instead, sequestering himself inside the West Wing like a child who refuses to accept punishment, the president stubbornly clings to what little power he retains.

  While there is little doubt that the current presidency won’t survive the impeachment trial, several key facts in the Alcatraz 2.0 investigation remain nebulous. Authorities still have not released the identity of The Postman, Alcatraz 2.0’s mastermind, ringleader, and presiding warden, fueling speculation that no one—not even the NSA—knows who he really is. Or was. Because no one can confirm whether The Postman is actually dead or alive.

  Internet theories on The Postman’s identity are as vast and numerous as the stars in the cosmos. Every media billionaire who hasn’t been seen in the last two weeks has been tapped as the potential mass murderer. As of yet, no credible evidence has been produced in favor of any one individual.

  Who might know The Postman’s real name? The president, for sure, but he’s probably not spilling the beans anytime soon. The former attorney general refuses to name names until his demand for immunity has been accepted, but most insiders think the ex-AG is bluffing. But the House managers who will be prosecuting the impeachment trial seem pretty confident in their case, as evidenced by the inclusion of the treason charge. Could it be they have a couple of surprise witnesses up their congressional sleeves?

  And then there’s Dee Guerrera, along with fellow “Death Row Breakfast Club” survivors Nyles Harding and Griselda Sinclair. Could the Alcatraz 2.0 whistle-blowers know the identity of The Postman? The trio did have access to sensitive information during their final hours on the prison island, but far from being forthcoming with the media, the Alcatraz 2.0 survivors have gone into hiding as legions of The Postman’s rabid fans, self-dubbed the “Postmantics,” attempt to hunt them down.

  To complicate matters, another group of anti-Postman activists are gaining in number, and while the Postmantics’ goal is to make the Death Row Breakfast Club pay for their supposed crimes, the Fed-Xers (get it?) are stalking funerals across the country, searching for the real identities of the deceased Painiacs.

  One thing is sure: between the impeachment, the Postmantics, and the Fed-Xers, the American people are going to learn more about Alcatraz 2.0 than they ever wanted to know.

  Set your DVRs and stock up on salty snacks. This doozy of an impeachment trial is set to begin December 17.

  Please send feedback to the author @TheRealaquinonesBB.

  BECCA WINCED, SQUINTING AGAINST the bright flash of midmorning sunlight as it reflected off the impossibly shiny surface of her mom’s coffin.

  There should be some kind of law against sunny days and funerals.

  Ten feet away, Reverend Hamlin’s understated monotone droned on and on about God and servants and souls, and though Becca should have been grieving or mourning or at the very least recalling all the cherished memories of her dead mom as the polished brown casket was lowered into the ground, all she could think about was how stupid it was.

  Why bother polishing the casket? That thing was literally getting buried in the ground where no one would ever see it. And the plush interior? Did the bloody, mangled remains of her mom’s body give even half a shit that they’d splurged for the tufted velour lining over the base-model crepe?

  “Earth to earth,” Reverend Hamlin recited. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  To her left, Becca’s younger brother, Rafa, sniffled and swallowed while he gazed woefully at the giant hole in the ground, attempting to conceal his sorrow behind a mask of self-imposed manliness, which was probably what he thought dudes were supposed to do at their mom’s funeral, even though he was only ten. Becca reached down and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. She wished she could shield him from this misery.

  Behind them, Becca could feel Rita’s convulsive yet silent sobs as she watched her partner of almost twenty years laid to rest, her hand gripping Ruth’s sapphire-and-white-gold wedding ring, which now hung around Rita’s neck on a chain.

  Her mom and brother were mourning. Because that’s what normal people did at funerals. They cried.

  Meanwhile Becca was trying not to stare at Reverend Hamlin’s nose hairs as they fluttered in and out of his nostrils with every breath.

  What the
hell was wrong with her?

  It wasn’t that Becca didn’t love her mom or miss her mom or desperately wish the car crash that took her mom’s life hadn’t happened. She had no idea why she was unable to cry, which only added to her guilt. Because Becca had looked forward to her mom’s semi-regular trips to Arizona to help take care of her best friend Tabitha, who was battling cancer. It meant three days indulging in the things Ruth didn’t approve of, namely plaid miniskirts and ripped tees, nacho cheese sauce eaten straight from the jar, and uninterrupted access to The Postman app. Her mom’s number-one pet peeve.

  Can.

  Not.

  Hang.

  Ruth loved to lecture Becca on the dangers of violence and young minds and yada yada yada. Becca would smile and pretend to listen…and keep watching. In secret.

  Which is exactly what she’d been doing—alone in her bedroom, obsessing over the fallout of the Alcatraz 2.0 shutdown—when the phone had rung with the news of her mom’s accident.

  Guilt burrito, anyone?

  “When our earthly journey is ended…” Reverend Hamlin’s nose hairs quivered dramatically as he brought home the final prayer. “Lead us rejoicing into your kingdom, where you live and reign forever and ever. Amen.”

  Amen, Becca mouthed.

  The mourners began to disperse, voices low and mumbling as they offered final condolences to Rita, then picked their way around the granite slabs that marked the uniform rows of graves. Becca’s best friends, Jackie and Mateo, arms wrapped around each other for comfort, flashed Becca a tight smile before disappearing hand in hand down the hillside. Becca recognized other faces in the crowd—people from church, people from her school, parents who had known Ruth from the PTA. It looked as if most of Marquette, Michigan, had turned out for the funeral.

  “Your mom loved you both very much,” Rita said, her voice steady.

  Rafa heaved. “I miss her.”

  “I miss her too,” Rita said, pulling Rafa to her side and squeezing his shoulders tightly. “But she’ll always be with us. I promise.”

  Becca reached out and tousled Rafa’s wavy black hair. She may have been crappy at this mourning thing, but she was good at being a big sister. And Rafa needed her right now.

  Rita smiled as she watched her children. Her warm brown eyes, though red-rimmed from crying, lit up her face. Her dark skin was luminous, her curly hair bounced around her ears, and Becca was struck by how beautiful her mom was, even in the face of tragedy.

  “You look so much like her,” Rita said, eyes fixed on Becca’s face.

  Becca fought the urge to cringe. Secretly, Becca had always wished she’d gotten Rita’s genes like Rafa, instead of the pasty white skin and plethora of freckles she’d inherited from Ruth. No such luck.

  “Believe it or not,” Rita continued, reading Becca’s mind, “you’re more like her than you realize.”

  Don’t call your mom crazy. Don’t call your mom crazy. “Really?”

  Rita nodded. Her eyes drifted to the open grave, glassy and unseeing, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded far away. “There was more to Ruth Martinello than you knew.”

  Becca wasn’t about to contradict her mom five minutes after she’d buried her wife—even her penchant for deflective sarcasm had its limit—but she couldn’t bring herself to agree. There was more to Ruth Martinello than you knew. For reals? If there was one person on this planet who was exactly what you’d expect her to be, it was Ruth Martinello. From her warm, ever-present smile to her sensible L.L.Bean cropped chinos and buttoned-up pastel cardigans, Ruth was the epitome of the friendly, supportive stay-at-home mom. She was the kind of person who helped everyone—neighbors, strangers, even her high school best friend in Arizona, who was dealing with chemo treatments for breast cancer. Ruth was always the first one to reach out with selfless altruism, which made Becca embarrassed of her own snarky edge and self-serving attitude.

  While Becca was pondering Rita’s comment, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Just a quick flash, like sunlight glinting off the side of a coffin. She turned as her mom led Rafa to the car, and saw a figure standing near a sprawling oak tree about fifty yards from the grave site.

  It was a girl, Becca could tell by the outline of her body against the bright blue sky, even though she was wearing pants and a boxy black jacket. Her dark hair was cut into an asymmetrical bob—the left side shorter than the right—which hung loosely in front of her face, and she was holding a video camera in her hand.

  Why was this pervy chick filming at a cemetery? Who gave her permission to document Ruth’s funeral? And who still used a video camera? What was this, 2009?

  Before she could even speculate as to the answers to these questions, the girl slipped behind the tree and hurried off down the hill.

  “What the hell?” Becca said out loud. She took a few steps toward the rapidly departing girl and shouted, “Hey! Stop! What are you doing?”

  “Becca?” Rita called from the car. “Come on. We need to get home. People will be arriving for the reception.”

  Becca paused. She desperately wanted to sprint across the lawn after the weird chick with the lopsided hair and demand to know why she’d been filming Ruth’s funeral, but as she stood indecisively, a car rounded the cemetery drive. Becca saw the long side of the girl’s hair flick toward her as she turned her head from the driver’s seat. Their eyes met for a split second; then the girl made a hard left at a fork in the path and disappeared down the hill.

  GOING BACK TO SCHOOL after your mom died was the fucking worst.

  “Hey, Becca. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Becca, I am so sorry about your mom.”

  “It’s Becca, right? Hey, tough break.”

  Can.

  Not.

  Hang.

  Becca hardly knew these people, didn’t believe the sincerity of their comments for half a freaking second, and it took literally every ounce of self-control not to answer with “Fuck off!” each time. Like the true asshole she was.

  The only thing that would get her through this day from hell was her friends.

  “Hey,” Jackie said the moment she saw Becca in the hall. Her bright smile contradicted the concern in her eyes. “How are you?”

  Becca shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  Mateo, always by his girlfriend’s side, folded his arms across his chest. “You guess?”

  “That’s less ‘typical teenage avoidance strategy’ and more ‘I honestly don’t know,’” Becca replied. “Emotions are hard.” She appreciated that her friends were worried about her, but they should know her well enough by now to realize that a main course of genuine emotion with a heaping side of sincerity was not on the Becca menu.

  Jackie’s smile relaxed. “Hard for you.”

  Becca rolled her eyes as she dialed in her locker combination. Jackie had been studying psych books ever since her parents’ divorce and loved nothing more than “helping” her friends with nonprofessional diagnoses. “Yeah, yeah. I’m stunted. We know.”

  Mateo gave his girlfriend a look that said Maybe not right now, Jackie? “You don’t have to talk about any of it. We’re just here to support you.”

  “Of course.” Jackie nodded in agreement. “You know we love you.”

  Becca was grateful for her friends. Grateful that they’d offered to come over the second she’d told them about her mom’s accident, even though it was the night Jackie’s mom worked the late shift at the hospital, which meant she and Mateo had most definitely been in some stage of sexy times when Becca had texted. She was grateful that they’d both been at the funeral, and she was grateful that they hadn’t made her talk about any of it. Until now.

  “Okay, Dr. Phil,” Becca said with a sly grin. She needed to nip all this sincerity in the bud. “I’ll let you know if I feel anything less than one hundred percent supported. Or maybe ninety percent? I think I could probably handle only feeling ninety percent supported by you guys. But if we drop to eighty-five, I’m fucking o
ut of here.”

  Jackie shook her head, her long blond ponytail swinging across her back like a pendulum. “Smart-ass.”

  “Always.” Becca clicked her locker door closed. “Come on, tell me something fun on the way to Bio.”

  Jackie slipped her hand into Mateo’s as they threaded a path through the horde of students. “Apparently, Kasie McInerney’s boyfriend brought a new girlfriend home with him from college for Thanksgiving break.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said. “He never even broke up with Kasie. They were together three years and he’s only been down in Madison for three months.”

  Becca tried not to glance at her friends. Would their relationship survive the trip to college next fall? Becca doubted it. And then what, would she be forced to choose between them a year from now when Jackie brought a new boyfriend home from college? This is why I don’t date.

  But Jackie clearly didn’t see the potential parallel as she barreled on with the post-Thanksgiving-break gossip. “And Darlene Ahlberg has been telling anyone who’ll listen she’s visiting her aunt in LA for winter break again.”

  Becca arched an eyebrow. “What agent supposedly wants to sign her this time?”

  “Worse than that,” Jackie said. “She wants to audition for that new game show Who Wants to Be a Painiac?”

  “Becca!” some rando sophomore boy in an oversize flannel shouted as he passed her in the hall. “I feel you, girl!”

  “I could have you arrested for that,” Becca called out in response, then turned back to her friends. “What’s this about Painiacs?” she said, feigning ignorance.

  “I forgot you’ve been unplugged,” Mateo said. “Some production company is crowdsourcing a game show based on the Painiacs from Alcatraz two-point-oh.”

  “Oooh,” Becca said. Only she didn’t need Mateo to explain Who Wants to Be a Painiac? to her. She knew exactly what it was. The members of her Postmantics Facebook group had been discussing it nonstop since the Instagram post went live Saturday morning.

  The day of your mom’s funeral.

  She really didn’t want to admit to her friends that she’d been obsessing over her Facebook group feed instead of processing her grief, so it was easier to just pretend she had no idea what they were talking about. “Interesting.”