Trust Me, I'm Trouble (35 page)

She laughs. “Yes. Even after holding my plumber at gunpoint. There is one condition, though,” she says, sobering. “It can’t be ‘Mike and Angela’s house’ anymore. You can’t call it the guest room. It’s your room. It’s your house.”

“That’s it?” I say.

“That’s it.”

I pretend to mull it over. “I can live with that.”

• • •

It’s weird sitting in the New World Initiative waiting room. Any second now, I expect Joseph to saunter around the corner, giving me busywork, or a pearl of wisdom, or a hug. I can’t help but layer con man Joseph over my memory of NWI Joseph, and the juxtaposition is jarring, to say the least. For the first time, I wonder if that’s how other people see me. But it’s a heavy thought, so I set it aside. I’m not here about grifters. I’m here to see a guru.

I thumb through an issue of
Car and Driver,
because obviously.
“I read it for the articles,”
I hear Dani say, and then ignore the sharp tug in my chest. I focus on being annoyed that the damn thing keeps sliding off my lap. Every time it does, I jerk my arm instinctively to catch it, and a jolt of pain shoots from my left shoulder into my arm and chest. But I suppose I’ll take pain over the alternative. The doctor said I almost lost use of the arm entirely. Mike loved hearing that one, let me tell you. He brings it up every chance he gets.

“Ms. Dupree?” Brigitte says, as if she doesn’t know me. Though, to be fair, I think she looked at me twice and never once spoke to me the whole time I was at NWI.

“Dr. Raktabija will see you now.”

I follow Brigitte’s rigid back to Duke’s—I mean, Devi’s office. Brigitte shuts the door behind me, and I have to take several breaths before I can force myself to step more than a foot into the room. My gut is churning, and I’m not sure I won’t hurl all over the gorgeous new Berber.

“You remodeled,” I say, trying to distract my nightmares.

“It’s okay, Julep,” Devi says as she comes out from behind the desk. “It took me a while to get over it, too. Let’s go somewhere else.”

I follow her back the way I came, but instead of going down to the lobby, we go through a side door I hadn’t paid much attention to before. We emerge on a balcony overlooking the city. The cool evening wind brushes my shoulder with a consoling caress.

“So what did you want to see me about?” Devi asks. “The report you gave the police was pretty detailed. Was there more?”

“Yes,” I answer truthfully. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

She waits patiently for me to continue. I clear my throat, gathering my thoughts.

“First, I wanted to apologize,” I say. That’s not quite what I mean, though, so I tackle it from a different direction. “I wanted you to know—though it’s too late now, really—that I get it, what Duke was all about. I respect his aspiration.”

Devi reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You carry so much sorrow, Julep. The world is not a weight one person must bear alone.”
“Let someone else watch the world while you sleep….”
Tyler’s voice this time. So many ghosts, so little left of me to carry them. “Besides, it is never too late to come home.”

I give her a pale shadow of my usual smile.

She gestures to an upholstered armchair next to a small bistro table. She folds gracefully into the chair on the other side of the table. I follow her example, clasping my hands in my lap.

“I also wanted to thank you for getting Mr. Antolini out of holding and into a good care facility.” I still feel awful for him. His brain damage is permanent. Therapists are working with him, but there’s no guarantee he’ll regain even a tenth of his abilities.

“The paperwork still isn’t finalized, but we’ll take care of him,” Devi says. “He is one of us. Like you.”

My heart thumps painfully at that. Devi might consider me family, but it doesn’t mean I belong here. Maybe I don’t belong anywhere. Any time I get close to belonging to someone, I lose them.

Devi leans back in her chair, reading on my face what I haven’t yet said. “You didn’t come here for just a heart-to-heart, did you?”

“No,” I say, laying my metaphorical cards on the table. “I came to ask a favor.”

• • •

The “L” rattles me from the Loop through Near West Side and North Lawndale. I stare out the window without seeing the buildings blurring by. I’m empty. Numb. There’s nothing internal left to witness the external. There’s barely enough to notice the lack of noticing. I think I should be sad about that. But I’ve been sad for weeks now, and it doesn’t seem to change anything.

My conversation with Devi went well enough. She said she’d consider my request, which is better than the gentle rejection I thought I’d get. She’s a tough lady with a tender heart. Unless she’s evil, of course. Though aren’t we all a little of both when it comes down to it?

The “L” shudders to a stop. My stop. The doors open and close again, and the “L” moves on with me still inside. I could tell myself I just missed it, but I’m not that good a grifter. The truth is that I can’t move. I’m stuck. I’ll be sitting on this hard plastic seat until the train stops running and the tracks rot beneath me.

You’d think it couldn’t get worse than being responsible for the death of someone you love. Turns out, it can. There are worse things than death, after all. And with Tyler, at least I have a grave to grieve beside. Dani’s just gone. The wind took her, and I don’t have any idea where to start looking. She could be in another country by now, or right next door. And it might as well be the moon, because even if I do manage to find her, I won’t be able to convince her that she’s worth fighting for.

The doors open and close. Open and close. People get on and off. Or maybe I’m the only one on the train and I just never noticed. I close my eyes.

Two or three or ten stops later, someone sits down next to me and takes my hand. I lean my head on his shoulder and breathe in his coffee-and-cedar scent, as familiar to me as my own. At least military school didn’t take that away. He pockets his phone, which he no doubt used to find me, and rests his head on mine without a word.

• • •

“I’m in,” Sam says from Murphy’s desk an hour or so after he finally peels me out of the train.

“Already?” I’m cradling a Ballou latte, sipping it slowly, because my stomach is grouchy with me.

“Wow, you really must have been hacker-slumming it while I was gone. It’s just the no-fly list.”

I give him a sour look and then open my mouth to say it’s his fault I’m not used to competence, when I’m interrupted by the bell above the door.

My heart leaps and dives in less time than it takes me to turn toward the sound. I know it’s not her, but that doesn’t stop my subconscious from hoping it’s her for the millisecond it takes my conscious mind to catch up and crush it. Stupid subconscious. There’s a reason
hope
is a four-letter word.

But even as the adrenaline fades, it kicks right in again when my brain finally registers who our visitor is….

Fake Mrs. Antolini.

Only this is not the woman I remember. This version is dressed in a starched and pressed steel-gray suit with blood-colored heels. Her posture is poised, confident. Her expression is cool and collected.

“Ms. Dupree,” she says, acknowledging me with a nod. “We meet again.”

“Who are you?” I say.

Sam must hear the fear in my voice, because he jumps out of his chair. He stops there, looking to me for direction. But I can’t tear my eyes off the woman who set me up.

“I am Helen Dare.”

“You work for my grandmother, don’t you?”

“No, I do not,” she says. “Do you truly think your grandmother is the only one with plans for you?” Then she turns to Sam. “Mr. Seward.”

She hands me an envelope, then nods again and leaves. I remember that night, about how she wept and cajoled me into taking the case. Who does she work for, and why is the blue fairy so important if no one knows what’s on it?

Sam looks confused. “Who was that?”

“That’s the woman who sent me after the blue fairy,” I say. Then a thought occurs to me. “Are you sure she didn’t send you after it first?”

He thinks for a moment, but then shakes his head. “Sorry, Julep. I wish it were that easy, but hers definitely wasn’t the same voice. The woman who called me, her voice had a slight rasp to it. Like yours.”

I sigh. We still have such a long way to go, and I feel so lost.

Sam reads my mood and nudges my arm. “Come on, partner. We got this.”

I smile gratefully at him, ignoring the sting in my eyes.

He gestures at the envelope in my hand. “You going to open that?”

The envelope she gave me is plain, but clearly from an expensive stationery set—ivory, side-seamed, heavyweight. Executive grade.

I lay it on my desk and push the flap open.

“Wait,” Sam says, taking a step closer but pulling himself up short, as if he spoke involuntarily. I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to know what that says? It could be anything. It could be bad.”

I trace the edge of the envelope with a finger. “What choice do I have?”

He takes a breath and holds it, as if preparing for a grenade to go off. He’s probably right. It probably is a grenade. But I’m right, too. I don’t have a choice.

I pull the single slip of paper from the envelope with unsteady hands. But it’s not a threat, or even a demand. It’s a check for a hundred thousand dollars. Enough to repay Mike and Angela for my hospital bills with a little left over. And I’d bet Bessie’s state-of-the-art surveillance system that the handwriting on this check matches the writing on the check I got last year to cover my St. Agatha’s tuition.

And just like that tuition check, this one has a note in the memo line. Only this note’s not in Italian.

Lodestar.

“What is it?” Sam asks, touching my arm.

“Another message,” I say. “Does ‘Lodestar’ mean anything to you?”

He thinks for a moment. “It’s a company. I think it provides IT services for the government.”

“Wait a sec,” I say, cogs clicking into place in my head. “Mr. Antolini worked at Lodestar. Fake Mrs. A mentioned it in our first meeting. But why put it on the check?”

“Holy shit!” Sam says, grabbing his phone from the desk and swiping its screen furiously. “Lodestar is special because it runs one of the country’s fastest supercomputers.
It’s the numbers.
”

“The numbers…?” And then I catch up. “The numbers! Sam, you’re brilliant,” I say as he pulls up the text I sent him after visiting Mr. Antolini in his prison cell.

That’s
who Aadila poisoned. Not Duke, not Ackley. Mr. Antolini. He wasn’t embezzling money for Joseph. He was decrypting the blue-fairy flash drive for Duke. The embezzlement was a frame job to cover up the truth.

“I’ve got it!” Sam says, setting his phone down and pulling the blue fairy out of the safe I’d had installed just to house it.

“When you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I say, though maybe I’m not. Duke died for whatever it is we’re about to open. It could just be a personal letter. Or it could be a threat to national security. The only way to find out is to use the encryption key Mr. Antolini paid for with his sanity to open the file for which Sam risked going to prison.

We each take a seat in front of the monitor, side by side as if it were any old job from the days before my life went completely off the rails. Sam types the encryption key in the password field and is about to hit Enter when I grab his hand. He looks questioningly at me, and I give him a half smile in return.

I’m still holding his hand when I press Enter.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If I thought creating a first book from scratch was difficult, repeating the miracle was an even greater challenge. I would not have been able to do it without the encouragement, enthusiasm, late-night Google chats, brainstorming sessions, coffee-club rescue missions, character vivisections, and ad nauseam reassurance from all my amazing and talented friends, family, and fellow writers.

First, I have to thank my tireless critique partners, who, on a moment’s notice, would read the entire manuscript and give me the precise feedback I needed within—not kidding—forty-eight hours. Marie Langager of the coffee-club rescue mission mentioned above—I owe you big-time. Thanks also to Alexa Donne, my late-night word-sprint buddy, who got me through my second draft; Rachel Potts, for a line-edit talent that is seriously uncanny; Laura Ferrel, my longtime BFF and the voice I always hear in my head, telling me the right way to grammar (my drive to do my characters justice, no matter how much time it takes, comes from her); Emily Lloyd-Jones, my soul sister of nefarious protagonists, who saved my plot-hole-riddled bacon with her devious brilliance; and Terry Bell, who I’m pretty sure shares my brain. To all of you: I hope that when the time comes, I can return the favor with comments as targeted and on-point as yours.

Next, I must express my undying love and gratitude to my publishing and agenting teams. I worship you all. Wendy Loggia is a joy of an editor. With this book, I took the envelope I was trying to push and set it on fire. Wendy gave me the time and space I needed to let my imagination run wild and naked over the moors, and then patiently helped me shape the story into what I truly wanted it to be. Laura Bradford, my amazeballs agent, continues to be beyond awesome and always in my corner. She’s just as crazy as I am but with a megadose of cunning that makes her invaluable to all her authors (but me especially).

I also want to thank (from the Delacorte Press team) Beverly, Colleen, Tamar, Stephanie and Ashley, Trish, Krista (!), Alison, and Ray (of the brilliant cover design)—y’all are all right in my book. And to the agenting team—Brandy Rivers, Taryn Fagerness, Natalie Lakosil, and Sarah LaPolla—I cannot thank you enough for your tireless efforts on my behalf.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to the larger community on several fronts, without which I’d be up the drafting creek without a paddle. April Henry, bestselling author and jewel of a person—half my local connections come from her (you rule, April!). The OneFour KidLit debut group has kept me sane this past year. Second Book Syndrome became Second Book Shazaam! thanks to these fine folks who shared their experience, their support, and their gorgeous books with me. Special shout-out to Michelle Krys, my editor sister, who dropped everything to answer my questions about the publicity end of the authorial life.