2
A shirt-size box wrapped in red paper printed with Santa heads all over it lands in my lap.
“That’s from us, Ellie,” Mrs. Beckett says, resting a hand on her husband’s arm.
My face warms, though I don’t know why. Guess I’m not used to people just giving me things with no strings attached. I tear the paper carefully and slide the lid off the box. Inside is a very old book, worn from years of existing and likely multiple readings. My fingers brush lightly over the leather cover. I’ve assessed enough valuables in my lifetime to guess that this is a first edition. It’s also a story so familiar to me, if I close my eyes and draw it from my memory, entire sentences will leap out at me.
“‘I could tell you my adventures—beginning with this morning,’” my mom read from the worn book in her hands, the paper cover hanging by a thread. “‘But it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’”
“Like us,” my five-year-old self said. “Yesterday Daddy had a mustache and you had black hair.”
Mom laughed, the sound ringing with truth and etching itself into my memory. “Yes, just like us.”
I rub the goose bumps on my arm, willing them away. It felt real. Her voice in my head. I haven’t heard it in nearly a year.
“Saw you admiring that book when you and Miles came for the weekend,” Mr. Beckett says, referencing the two-day vacation Miles and I took last month at his beautiful house in the woods near Baltimore. I’d almost refused to go. The idea of meeting CIA parents freaked me out a little. Especially since my own identity and criminal past had still been a secret then. Now Miles, his parents, and his uncle all know. But not anyone else, like the kids I go to school with.
“We’re gone more often than we’re home,” Mrs. Beckett adds. “Figured we should find a safe spot for some of our valuables.”
“Who better to keep your precious items safe than a skilled con artist?” I tear my eyes from the book and look at Mr. and Mrs. Beckett. “Sure you don’t want to rethink that?”
They both laugh. So does Clyde. My sister, Harper, looks like she’s not sure how to react. I’m not the only one who’s still adjusting to the idea of people knowing our family secrets.
Miles, who had been in the bathroom, returns to the living room and glances around, picking up on the weird tension. “What’d I miss?”
He plops down on Clyde’s couch, beside me. I offer him the box, and he lifts the book from it. “Wow, guess I know who my parents are leaving all the good stuff to. Clearly not their only son.”
My face flushes again, even though I know Miles is joking. He’s not at home much, either. His school, Marshall Academy, is a military boarding school. One he’s been attending since the sixth grade.
With Simon Gilbert, I can’t help thinking.
As much as I try not to think about Simon, it’s hard whenever I see Miles. Simon’s death was the reason we met. Long before I came to Holden Prep and became Simon’s friend, he and Miles were best friends and roommates at Marshall Academy for three years.
Miles’s hand brushes my shoulder, and I try to shake off all thoughts of Simon. Miles and I did what we’d set out to do—prove that Simon’s death wasn’t a suicide. Now I just need to figure out how to put it all behind me. Would probably be easier without the revenge of the Government Agents Gone Bad hanging out in the near future.
But it’s Christmas. It’s only December tenth, actually, but we’re celebrating Christmas. Which means I need to shove all that future crap to the side for now and enjoy the last few hours I get to spend with Miles until the middle of January.
My sister offers the Becketts and Clyde the tins of cookies we made for them. Well, mostly Aidan and I made them and assigned Harper as many fireproof tasks as we could think of to keep her busy.
“I have a present for you.” Miles leans in closer, his lips resting against my temple. “Leave your window unlocked, okay?”
I turn my head toward him and whisper, “I’ve kept it unlocked since the first time you climbed up my balcony.”
He grins at that memory, but the smile fades quickly. “You should definitely lock it. After I leave.”
The happy Christmas bubble pops. My stomach twists and knots all over again.
After we leave Clyde’s, after Aidan and Harper turn in for the night and I’m left alone with thoughts of agents gone bad climbing into my window instead of Miles, I turn to my gift from the Becketts for comfort. I flip to a random page, then drop into my desk chair, allowing the small built-in lamp to illuminate the words. My insides warm more and more with each familiar name or place. But then I remember that the person who brought these words to life for me is currently locked up in prison, and the warmth turns to cold dread.
It wasn’t supposed to be her. When I made that deal with Agent Sheldon and the FBI team, it was supposed to be him…my dad. The man who kept me from seeing my sister for five years. The man who wouldn’t allow even so much as a mention of Harper after she left. A small part of me is still stuck there, in that bank parking lot with half a dozen FBI agents.
“Eleanor,” Sheldon said, approaching me slowly. “We had a deal. One that involves you handing over that piece of evidence.”
“This evidence?” I pressed the point of my black heel deep into the flash drive resting beneath it on the bank parking lot. “These files are important? I had no idea.”
One of the two male agents behind Sheldon drew his gun. But Sheldon stopped, turned to the guy. “Seriously? She’s a sixteen-year-old armed with a pair of heels. Put away your service weapon.”
“This was not what I agreed to.” I lifted a finger, pointing in the direction in which the unmarked car had just fled. “Bring my mother back and the evidence is yours.”
Agent Sheldon shook her head, her tightly woven dirty-blond bun never slipping. She reeked of by-the-book agent, from her hairstyle to the pressed button-down white blouse and black dress pants—not the outfit I’d wear to take down a bank investment fraud operation. Before I’d seen it with my own eyes mere minutes ago, I’d have never been able to conjure an image of this woman throwing someone like my mother to the ground, straddling her, yanking her arms practically out of their sockets behind her to get on those cuffs. My legs shook, tears threatening to form.
“So you didn’t know?” Sheldon asked. “That they switched?”
“No, I didn’t know.” Had she thought I was playing her? That I’d rather send my mom to prison? I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the image of my mom’s face, pressed against the tile floor of the bank. She’d turned to me, trying not to make it obvious, since she believed I was playing the part of an innocent bank customer. The look she’d given me said, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” She was worried about me. After what I’d done. And like a coward, when she’d mouthed, Run, seconds later, I did just that. Though unfortunately, the FBI had the place surrounded and needed the evidence my mom had slipped me earlier.
Sheldon held perfectly still, studying my face, my body language, clearly trying to decide if I was lying. If I had actually known who I’d really be turning in.
“Okay…okay,” she said finally. “Let’s sit down and talk this through, you and me.”
“Your case is thin without this evidence,” I reminded her. “Bring my mom back, and I’ll tell you exactly how to find my dad. I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my family.”
A hint of greed flickered in Sheldon’s eyes, but it vanished quickly. “The testimony of an undocumented con-artist teenager is hardly hard evidence for a real case. And you’re dealing with the law, Eleanor, not some rich businessman you can coerce. Even if I wanted to bring your mom back, to let her go free, I can’t.”
It was in the air between us—truth—but I didn’t want to believe it yet. “You’re letting me go free—why not my mother?”
“You and I made a deal,” she said. “We put it in writing beforehand that you entered the crime scene as our informant under the direction of the FBI.”
Guilt burned in my chest. What had I done?
“How long before she’s released?” I whispered, afraid my voice would shake.
“That’s difficult to predict—”
“How long?” I demanded.
A hint of anger or frustration finally broke into Sheldon’s robot face. “Twelve to fifteen months.”
“Will she know?” I asked. “That it was me?”
“Not if you don’t want her to,” Sheldon said, still in her unkind manner but also sounding truthful. “Now can I have the flash drive?”
“Put it in writing.” I made sure my heel continued to hold the flash drive captive, threatening her entire operation.
“Here?” Sheldon said, looking mollified by the suggestion.
“It should say that she won’t be sentenced to more than fifteen months and…” I thought carefully about what I needed to feel better about today. “And that I have permission to see her before she gets out.”
“I promised your sister that you wouldn’t be allowed to—”
“Allowed to see my father,” I corrected. “Those terms are invalid now.”
The three FBI agents all exchanged looks. I tapped my heel against the drive and said, “What are you waiting for? Grab a pen and paper.”
I open the desk drawer that I installed a false bottom into and remove the folded McDonald’s receipt Agent Sheldon had scribbled our contract on, promising my mother no more than fifteen months in prison and promising me a visit with her the day before release. My plan that day in the parking lot with the flash drive and the FBI had been to tell my mom the truth right before she got out and to convince her to come live with us—though Harper would likely have many objections to this—but life was so different with Harper and Aidan. Everything was good. And then I got caught up in Simon’s death and Miles. For a while, I thought I could just let it go, move forward, and not look back. But with the one-year mark approaching and lots of feelings stirred these past few weeks, I’m not sure I can do that.
Needing a break from these thoughts as well as the Agents Gone Bad worries from earlier, I tuck the book away and go in search of a tin of cookies I hid way, way in the back of the freezer. But when I reach the kitchen, I spot Aidan’s broad shoulders, his head buried in the freezer.
“What are you doing?”
At the sound of my voice, he jumps, banging his head on the freezer, but quickly emerges, cookie tin in hand. “Look what I found way in the back.”
I snatch it from him and open the lid, admiring the peanut butter fudge I made yesterday. After I take a few pieces, I finally offer him one.
“Miles not here yet?” Aidan says, his back to me while he grabs two glasses and the carton of milk.
I stuff my mouth full of fudge. “It’s after midnight. Why would Miles be here?”
“Why indeed?” Aidan leans against the counter, watching me. The teasing grin falls off his face. “What’s wrong?”
It used to be only Harper who could do that—read me without trying—but now Harper has taught Aidan some of her tricks. I slide onto the counter and balance my glass of milk on my knee. Believe it or not, there are some things I can talk about with Aidan that I can’t with my sister. Our mother is one of those things. “Where’s Harper?”
“Passed out.” He reaches for another piece of fudge. “Lost count of how many glasses of wine she had.”
“Clyde just kept pouring and pouring,” I agree. Then, after taking another bite of fudge, I brave the Mom topic. “Have you heard anything from Agent Sheldon? Anything about the sentencing?”
He hesitates and then nods. “Yes, but not about the sentencing. It hasn’t happened yet as far as I know.”
“I can’t believe it takes this long,” I say, shaking my head. “But they’ll do that time-served thing, right? All these months count?”
Aidan nods again. “Agent Sheldon says they’re moving her next week.”
“Where?” The fudge tumbles around in my stomach. Texas is already far enough.
“Near Raleigh,” he says.
I look up at him in surprise. “Raleigh? That’s only, like—”
“Less than a four-hour drive,” he finishes.
For several seconds, I don’t know what to say. Next week, my mother will be only a few hours’ drive from me. It feels like a sign, like she wants me to come and see her.
Aidan leans closer, his voice low. “I get why Harper feels the way she does, but you aren’t your sister. I know you worry about your mom, wonder how she’s doing. Maybe it would be easier if you just…saw for yourself?”
Nerves course through me. And excitement, if I’m being honest. Yes, it would be easier, Aidan. You’re not wrong. But what would I tell my sister? What would I tell Miles? Remember my criminal mother? The one whose case you studied in your white-collar-crime course? I’d like to see her again and maybe keep in touch, but don’t worry, I know you’ll love her.
Sure, that’ll go over well.
Aidan is busy wiping down the stove with a sponge, deliberately not looking at me when he says, “Harper has the ski trip early next month.”
Harper is a nanny to toddler twins during the week and sometimes travels with the family or stays overnight at their house when the parents are gone. This plan is quite devious for Aidan, doing something so big behind my sister’s back. It should make me feel guiltier, more reluctant to say yes, but it doesn’t. If Aidan is willing, he must believe that it’s okay, maybe even a good thing for me to see my mother.
I don’t get to offer a response because the bedroom door flies open and my sister bolts like an Olympic sprinter toward the bathroom. Aidan drops the sponge and takes off after her.
“I’ll get water and Advil,” I call after him. “Let me know if you need the mop.”
I set water and two pills on the nightstand in Aidan and Harper’s room before heading back to my own. I pace back and forth for a few minutes, processing everything that Aidan told me. Mom won’t be all the way in Texas anymore. That felt like a gazillion miles to someone who has never flown on a plane, only used cars, buses, and trains to get around. Not like I could have snuck off to Texas without my sister finding out. But a less than four-hour drive…it’s very possible.
And without telling Aidan, without even forming an official answer in my head, I know I’m going to do it. In January. While Harper is off being Ski Nanny in Vermont or New Hampshire, I can’t remember.
I shake out my arms, my hands already trembling just thinking about this plan. And I still have to decide what to tell Miles. If anything.
The only problem is that Miles wants honesty. He needs it, actually. It’s kind of his thing, when it comes to us anyway.
Telling him might mean his telling me not to. Or losing his trust. I did promise him that I was done with my criminal family. My past has already put a thorn in our relationship. Visiting my mother in January could mean the end of Miles and me.