14
JUSTICE: trying on THE most perfect dress at Prada, u have to come see!!!
I scroll away from Justice’s text, then pull up the address Oscar sent me and double-check. I glance up, way up, at a tall building in Midtown. The temperature is especially blistering today, and my abrupt halt in the middle of a busy sidewalk earns me a few accidental shoulder bumps. Everyone appears to be bundled up and hustling to get inside somewhere. And I’m lingering outside, attempting to pep talk myself into this building. Instead, I reply to Justice.
ME: can’t right now. I’m in coffee shop typing up my project proposal for Lance
JUSTICE: overachiever. Srsly. Have u seen Dominic?
ME: no, why?
JUSTICE: he’s being all stealth today. I think he’s meeting a guy. I watched him install Tinder app on his phone
Huh. Well, good for him if that’s true, but I can’t imagine Dominic not waiting until he’s alone to install a dating or hookup app. Okay, now I’m really stalling. Time to face the music. We’ve only got three hours free this afternoon.
Nerves flutter in my stomach, but I make myself reach for the fancy golden handle of the building door and step inside. A security guard is seated at a desk in front of the elevators.
“Where you headed today, miss?” he asks.
“Johnson Whitman Agency,” I recite. “I have an appointment at four.”
He scans a paper in front of him. “Name?”
“Amelia Kennedy.”
“Okay, Miss Kennedy.” He hands me a visitor badge dangling from a black lanyard. “Johnson Whitman is up on twenty-two—” He starts to rise from his chair, probably to call up the elevator for me, but someone approaches from behind me, stopping him. “Where you headed today, sir?”
“Same as this lady,” a familiar voice says.
I suppress a groan. Tinder my ass.
The security guard grins. “That explains the matching outfits.”
I turn to offer Dominic a pointed look and see that although he isn’t wearing a plaid skirt, his school tie matches my skirt. The guard doesn’t even ask his name, just hands him a visitor’s badge identical to mine and tells him to follow me.
Once we’re alone in the elevator, I spin to face him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to the twenty-second floor.” One eyebrow lifts, and then Dominic gives a slight nod toward the ceiling where a camera sits.
“I’m doing this alone,” I tell him under my breath. But it’s no use. He’s already punched the button for the floor, and I can’t exactly knock him out with a camera pointed at us and a security guard watching like a hawk downstairs. Maybe when we get out of the elevator I can shove him into the stairwell and lock the door? From the corner of my eye I catch him popping a couple of pieces of the white nicotine gum into his mouth. Good, he’s nervous. That’ll help.
I count along with the bar above the elevator doors until the number 22 lights up. I ready myself for a fight once those doors separate—I’ve been training while Dominic has been smoking. But instead of a hallway to pull him down, the open doors provide nothing but entry into a wide space.
And standing right in front of us, looking exactly as I remembered him, is my father.
For several seconds, I’m frozen, barely registering Dominic’s index finger pressing a button to prevent the doors from closing.
“I knew it,” my dad says, a huge grin spreading over his face. “The second I saw the name Amelia Kennedy on the appointment book.”
Before I can do or say anything, he tugs me from the elevator and I’m wrapped in his arms. But it’s over quickly, like he’s not sure exactly where we stand. And for a moment, I’m not completely sure, either.
“Let me see you,” he says, stepping away to look me over, and after, he moves on to Dominic. “This must be the boyfriend. But what are y’all wearing? It’s like a Catholic school on steroids. Don’t tell me you’re stealing from nuns; I raised you better than that, Eleanor,” he says with mock disappointment.
Before I can offer up an answer, Dominic says, “We swiped these from a couple of kids who left their bags unattended at Grand Central. Some ritzy prep school on a field trip. We’ve been following them all over the city.”
Okay, I guess I’ll go with his story. Dad might buy it better than the long con story I’d planned. “We’ve visited two museums, seen a Broadway show, and had lunch in Bobby Flay’s restaurant. Courtesy of Holden Academy.”
“Tomorrow we’re going to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty,” Dominic adds.
I press my foot gently to his, signaling him. Don’t push it. Over-the-top details are always a dead giveaway. Especially to my dad.
Dad taps a beat with his foot, his gaze bouncing between Dominic and me. “Surely he’s not the same boyfriend you took off with? That would be a long-ass time for you to—”
I give him my most sardonic smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t you love to know?”
With that topic off-limits, I step around him, surveying this large open space for the first time since the elevator opened. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining an entire wall offer a nice view of Midtown and the traffic below on Sixth Avenue. Wood flooring covers the large room and white beams are placed sporadically around it. To my left, the white wall reveals three different doors. Muffled voices emerge from the middle door, and the space at the bottom of it reveals two pairs of black men’s dress shoes shuffling around—an office maybe?
I stride toward the center of the room. “So tell me about this new business Oscar was going on about. Maybe I can help?”
“Running low on funds, are you?” my dad jokes. “Miss Independent needs Daddy’s help. That certainly fits your costume today.”
“Oh, I definitely need Daddy’s help.” My gaze lands on a black grand piano in the far corner of the room. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“It’s been months,” Dad says.
Eleven months, to be precise, but who’s counting? Apparently not him. “So that’s a no, then?”
“How do I know where you’ve been? Or if anyone followed you here? And I have no idea how rusty you are right now. All I know is that you’ve been cruising around the city with some prep school, stealing museum admissions; where’s the challenge? Skills aren’t meant to be left dormant. You’ve got to exercise your—”
“Con muscles daily,” I recite. “I was just reading about that in Be a Better You magazine. Inspiring article.”
Before he can answer, the office door opens and my “uncle” pokes his head out. “Thirty seconds to open calls, boss.”
Another man I don’t recognize steps out of the room, a stack of folders in his arms. He’s probably late twenties, stylishly dressed in nice jeans, a form-fitting T-shirt, and suit jacket, his dark hair slicked back.
“An investor scam?” I guess, but no, that doesn’t explain the fact that the security guard didn’t blink at two teenagers booking an appointment with the agency. “Trust fund administrators?”
This fits with Oscar’s concerns. Trust funds are a tough con to pull off because old-money folks seeking old banks with years of records usually open them.
Dad’s mouth twitches, fighting a smile. He’s got me stumped. “All right, how about we give you an audition today?”
The dude with the stack of folders laughs as if Dad’s told a joke. “What about the punk over there in the stolen blazer?”
“Me?” Dominic says, pointing to his chest and looking convincingly innocent, probably because his uniform isn’t stolen. “This wardrobe was a donation. Or at least it was right beside a donation bin—that counts, right?”
My dad quirks an eyebrow at me. “He’s not bad. Where’d you get him?”
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
Dad walks closer to Dominic. “How’s your German? Or Russian? Can you pull off Russian?”
When Dominic’s eyes widen just a smidgen, Dad has his answer. “Guess not.” He claps his hands. “Oh! Bruno, give me the Sydney Opera House folder.”
The folder dude produces the right one and hands it off to Dad, who thumbs through it quickly before pulling out a head shot of a spikey-haired teen with a scowl worthy of Dominic DeLuca’s very best efforts. Dad holds the photo beside Dominic’s face. “Yep, that’ll work.”
He’s right: the resemblance is undeniable. But who is the guy in the head shot?
“Lachlan Hudson, welcome to the agency,” Dad says to Dominic, then he hands him the folder. “Memorize everything in the folder today. It’s not leaving this room, got it?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Dominic nods, his nerves in plain sight. He’s seconds from popping more nicotine gum. “No problem.”
Dad snorts out a laugh, not sure if he’s being serious, then he thumbs through the other folders and hands me one. “Emma Canterbury.”
I glance at the photo of a brown-haired girl near my age. We aren’t a perfect match but close enough to blame differences on Photoshop. “Okay, but what are we doing? Funding a charity theater program for abandoned puppies?”
My dad spreads his arms wide while he walks backward toward the office. “You want in, you figure it out.” He turns to the folder guy. “If I cross my feet, give them the bailout forms, got it?”
He’s behind the door a second later, and I’m left with a folder in my hands for God knows what, trying to process seeing my father—the man who should be in that cell instead of my mother—for the first time in nearly a year. We didn’t even talk about her, not a mention. Doesn’t he care?
I feel Dominic move beside me. He raises the folder and whispers, “What the hell is this?”
Standing guard near the elevator is my “uncle,” a man who, despite having some top-notch conning skills, was always easy for me to manipulate. He refuses eye contact when I look his way.
“Come on, Milky,” I say. “Tell me what this biz is?”
He shakes his head, lips tightly closed.
“At least give me a hint…have I done this before?” I ask.
“Doubtful,” he says with a smirk. “Very doubtful.”
Great. Just great.
I elbow Dominic in the side. He’s just standing there like an idiot. “Read your damn folder.”
“Wait, he was serious about that?” Dominic says, panicked. “What about the Australian part?”
“You really need to stop following me.” I shake my head and open my own folder, quickly getting to know Emma Canterbury, a British actress who was recently in a West End production of Fun Home.
The elevator dings and Dominic jumps a mile. He hasn’t even opened his folder. “Oh God, I can’t remember my name—”
“Lachlan,” I tell him sharply. “Please don’t talk to anyone, and please don’t follow me again.”
His jaw tenses, a scowl takes over his face, but he stares at the elevator as the doors open and says nothing. There are at least a dozen people crammed in that elevator, and when the miniature mob exits, the group demographic becomes clear to both Dominic and me.
“Stage moms?” he says.
A little girl in a red dress and full stage makeup pushes past me. The heel of one of the tap shoes she’s holding clips me in the arm. She flashes me a giant pageant smile. “Oops, sorry.”
“Just hang back and observe,” I tell Dominic. “Until we know what this is.”
“I already know what this is.” He raises the folder. “It’s an audition.”
“I know that.” The pieces snap together. “Oh, like an audition audition.”
“We’ve got head shots.” He nods toward a mom now seated on the floor, spreading out photos of a preschool-age child. “Maybe it’s like those modeling schools. I’ve heard they’re a scam. Charge a shit-ton of money, too.”
“Maybe…” But that almost seems too easy. Why would Oscar be so worried about a modeling school scam? Seems fairly harmless, especially compared to the Dr. Ames con. With that con, we handed cash and fake IDs to countless drug-addicted teens and set them free of parents trying to help them. Kinda makes fake modeling school look heroic. As far as I know, Oscar never had any ethical concerns about the Dr. Ames con.
More moms and children of various ages with costumes and regular clothes pour out of the elevator with each ding. We haven’t really done cons involving kids, not little kids anyway. Maybe that was Oscar’s concern? Although the parents are the ones paying and getting ripped off.
I hear a kid hiss to his mom. “They’re auditioning with a School of Rock number. I have to change my song!”
Dominic hears this, too, while he’s frantically thumbing through his folder. “Actually,” he whispers to me, “Lachlan Hudson is in School of Rock. In Australia.”
“Professionals.” I nod. “To add credibility.”
This isn’t a quick hit job. It’s a long con.
I glance around the now half-full room. What are you doing, Dad? Why is Oscar so afraid for you?