31
If I thought I was conflicted before about this undercover operation, that was nothing compared to now. With Miles playing 007 with the league of both good and bad assassins, plus Dominic trying out for a spot in the Zanetti family, my mission to turn this con upside down suddenly holds a lot more consequences.
This makes me a bit jumpy at my next open audition, which of course my dad quickly notices.
“What’s with you today?” he asks moments after I chewed out Uncle Milky for tapping my shoulder to get my attention. “Is it your boyfriend?” Dad’s gaze wanders to Dominic, who’s standing across the big agency audition room, chatting with Bruno. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure those two are hooking up.”
I bite down on my lower lip and say nothing.
Dad shifts his attention back to me, studying my face. His eyes narrow. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“How could I not know?” I shrug, playing it cool. “Like you said, it’s pretty obvious. Plus, it’s not like we were ever serious.”
“Serious enough to leave your family and run away with,” Dad reminds me.
Right. Forgot about that part.
“I didn’t run away to be with him.” I did it to be with my sister, and you ruined everything.
My father gives me a long look, all amusement and deception gone from his face. “I know that.”
Then he walks away, leaving me in the wake of that cryptic message. I gape at his back, relieved he can’t see my face. What’s that supposed to mean? Why does he think I left? And why is this just coming out now? He’s the one who’s brought up the ran away with a guy scenario so many times when discussing my long absence. For a moment I panic that maybe he knows about the FBI, more specifically my involvement with them. But if he knew or even suspected any of that, he would have never let me near this con.
Needing some company and a distraction, I move across the room toward Dominic, hoping to strike up a conversation. But he sees me approaching, shoots a hard glare in my direction, and crosses his arms, ending his conversation with Bruno abruptly.
Okay, so he’s still pissed at me for last night. For calling him an idiot.
In the wake of everything else that happened with Miles after Dominic left, I’d forgotten about this fight, and since we’d arrived here separately, well, this is my first reminder. I turn and head out the door to the stairwell. Parents and their triple-threat darlings will be arriving soon for more open auditions, but my head’s not in this game today. I just need to walk, to think. I shoot my dad a text so he won’t get suspicious.
ME: grabbing some food a few blocks away. U want anything?
HAYES: sure. Pick me out something.
I thunder down two flights of stairs to floor twenty-one, open the door, and stride down the hall with enough confidence that no one in any of these offices will ask me who I am or where I’m headed. As if on autopilot or mechanical mode, I walk the entire floor and head straight for the stairwell opposite to the one I used to get here. My pace quickens as I trot down the next flight of stairs, my feet creating a soothing rhythm. I think my body was secretly missing all the cardio training I’d been forced to do as part of my self-defense program in the weeks prior to coming to New York. I hadn’t realized the calming effect such a mundane, repetitive task provided.
Of course thoughts of self-defense quickly lead to thoughts of Miles…of our fight last night, of everything he revealed. I’d woken abruptly at five this morning, sweaty and panicked, having had a nightmare where Connie, my friend who owns the tech shop in DC, handed me a stack of photos. Each picture had been identical. Miles lying in a pool of blood, the tattoo etched to his left hip exposed for everyone to see. St. Felicity’s mark. What did it really mean to be part of that group? How could he have just dived right in without thinking about it, without planning or considering the consequences?
Without asking me.
But it’s not like I could have really stopped him. Our relationship was new, fragile. Built first on lies and then on some pretty shocking truths. Still, Miles was supposed to be the careful one, the planner. I’m the impulsive one. Except I’m not so sure that’s true anymore. Because all I want to do is restore what little I had before Miles took off on his vacation to Turkey and spent ten days in Romania’s capital doing God knows what.
“Excuse me, young lady,” a voice calls out from inside a large office. A familiar voice.
I stop and take in my surroundings, realizing my little impromptu workout has led me all the way down to the fifth floor. I backtrack and read the sign on the office door: arthur academy of classical theatrical studies.
I lean against the doorframe of the office and smile at the old man behind the desk. “Classical theatrical studies? Is that even a thing?”
Grandpa Barney returns the smile, then drops his feet from the desk and stands. “Let me guess. The Johnson Whitman Agency sent you? They have a real eye for talent.”
“So I hear.” I step inside the office and stand beside a chair that rests across from the desk. To my left is a door, half-glass, that leads to a small classroom. The desks have all been pushed to one side, and a bright-blue rug covers much of the generic tile floor.
After Barney walks around the desk, I’m able to fully see a sign resting against the wall that reads: s&s school of driving. He catches me looking at it and shakes his head. “Shame how they got caught up in that scandal, offering fake driver’s licenses to noncitizens.”
More like someone got this driving school caught up in the scandal. Maybe the unidentified Jojo the Zanettis claimed they and my dad blackmailed. This means Jojo must be someone who can either create fake accusations toward a small business or bring to light legitimate accusations. Regardless, it has to be a person with a lot of eyes and ears around this city. Maybe a prominent lawyer or a district attorney. Or someone in local politics or government.
“I thought you said you were the star of the show?” I ask, eyeing Barney skeptically. No one is even here for acting class or whatever this scam is.
Barney spreads his arms wide. “That’s right. Star of the show, front and center. And if you work as hard as I have, you can be in the spotlight just like I was in my time.”
Oh, I see. We’re in character now. Not sure who we’re in character for—no one around here—but whatever, I’ll play along. Workout those con muscles.
“I’d love to hear about the lessons your studio offers.” And so would the FBI. “You came highly recommended by Johnson Whitman Agency.”
“Because I am the best,” Barney says simply. He gestures toward the chair for me to sit and returns to his spot behind the desk.
After we’re seated, he slides a fancy brochure in front of me. I scan it quickly, committing the outrageously priced classes and one-on-one sessions to memory. Though the cost might be market price for Manhattan—a city filled with parents willing to pay forty thousand a year for kindergarten.
“This looks great,” I tell him, staying in character. “I’m especially interested in the Monologues for Medical TV Dramas workshop.”
Barney smiles. “You’ve definitely got a face for television.”
We both laugh at that, and then a comfortable silence falls on us. I sit for several seconds, content to not do or be anything specific. But then I watch Barney’s face change from enthusiastic and theatrical to lined and worried.
“How is Sally doing?” I ask, then add, “My dad told me about the hospital. And the cancer.”
“She’s…” His shoulders sag a bit. “She’s feeling pretty lousy. But chemotherapy will do that to ya.”
My insides twist with concern and guilt, but guilt over what? Being healthy? Not being around my family when this illness hit? What am I really guilty of?
“I can’t imagine.” I clear the lump from my throat. “I’m just so used to Sally’s relentless energy and enthusiasm, it’s hard to think of her any other way.”
“Then don’t,” Barney says firmly. “Keep her exactly that way in your heart.” He studies me for several seconds and then says, “What about you? You look like someone who just found out the world is a giant circle. What’s on your mind?”
Scary how close that is to the truth. I trace a line on the desk with my thumbnail, stalling, debating. “Do you—I mean hypothetically—have you ever wanted to go legit? Be a regular guy who goes to work every day, gets paychecks twice a month, spends thirty years paying a mortgage?”
“Well technically I’ve been that guy many times,” Barney jokes.
I roll my eyes. “I mean for real, not an identity created for a con.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Like your sister?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, not wanting the conversation or his thoughts to drift too close to Harper, since no one in my family knows that I live with her. “That’s what she wanted, right? She told me that once when I was little.”
“If that’s what she truly wanted, then I hope to God she got it,” Barney says, completely serious. “But for me, this life is what I know. I’m not a kindred spirit who needs to roam free. I hate change and new ways.”
Funny, I’ve always thought of my family’s ways as free-spirited, the constant moving, the high of a new con. But at the same time, it is a restrictive life, allowing only so much mobility, and many of our cons are the same thing over and over, just with different colors and other interchangeable elements.
I tell Barney that I’ve been gone too long already and need to get back, but before I go, he leaves me with some pretty surprising parting words.
“I’m not too old or close-minded to know that our way of life isn’t the only way,” Barney says. “Your mom and dad live their life following their heart, and if you do that, they’ll be proud of you no matter what path you choose.”
But that’s the thing. Do I even want my parents to be proud of me? Or would I rather have Harper and Aidan proud of me? Or Miles?
Miles and Aidan. A couple of noble assassins. Maybe I don’t need their pride.
But those words don’t exactly feel right. Especially not where Aidan is concerned. I mean, I know him. The way he loves my sister unconditionally, the way he takes care of both of us. It isn’t like any of that can be dismissed. And before he worked for the Secret Service, Aidan was a marine. A soldier. Someone who took an oath to die for his country if need be. From the little he’s told me about his time in the Marines, I know he was part of a special ops unit. A group that could potentially be sent in to rescue hostages or take out a guy like Osama bin Laden. How is that different from what St. Felicity’s does? And why am I more willing to accept Aidan’s loyalty to that organization than Miles’s?
Because Aidan likely made the choice to join before he knew my sister or me, a voice inside my head says. Miles left you. He picked them.
The truth hits like a brick to my stomach. He picked them. And he will continue to choose them over me, to choose finishing the job Simon began in the past over moving forward with me. And I’m not about to toss my heart out there only to be shattered into pieces. A good con always has to know when to bail, when the risk is too high to be worth it. I might have a million different flaws, but I’m a damn good con, and I definitely know when to bail.
Miles has definitely become a risk too high to be worth it.