Devon had watched that house as religiously as Mama had watched Victor Newman inThe Young and the Restless—never missed a second. He studied who came in and out, he made sure I was aware of every camera so I had the least amount of screen time, and he identified every person who came for the painting.
When the painting was delivered and my fee had been deposited, it was time to move on, but I couldn’t stop wondering about the others who showed up and failed. I couldn’t shake my curiosity about who they were and whether they wanted more from life than moving from job to job like I did.
Because Devon is Devon, he sent me exactly what I wanted almost before I had to ask for it. He didn’t even make me feel weird when I said I wanted more than screenshots of them from the video feed, I wanted names and addresses. Mr. Smith sent six of us into that job, and I wanted to meet them all.
That was the first time I had ever been that close to learning who else worked for him, and I didn’t want to waste this opportunity. I knew it was possible that not all of them would want to talk to me, but I was hoping to get to speak to at least a couple of them.
We may have been competitors on the Tate job, but why couldn’t we be allies going forward? This was not the first job that I realized the value of having someone on my team who answered only to me. And this time, I would have been one of the failures if it hadn’t been for Devon. Iconvinced him that it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to them. We could combine resources. And brainstorm strategies.
We could build a community.
At the end of the search, Devon could only give me one name and address. I drove all the way to Cape San Blas, Florida, between jobs. Walked up to the cutest little pink house, where half a dozen wind chimes hung from the front porch and the doormat had a drawing of the sand and surf, and the wordsAll we do is beach, beach, beachprinted on it.
That search for the others who attempted the Tate job and the conversation with the one person I did manage to talk to changed everything for me.
For the first time, I wanted to quit this job, this way of life. Flee and start a new life, one with purpose, like Andrew Marshall spoke of that morning in South Carolina. The shiny gloss of this life had worn away, leaving all the scratches and dents behind. But it isn’t a job where you turn in your two weeks’ notice. Not if I ever wanted to go back to being Lucca Marino and everything else that meant.
So I stayed. I kept taking the jobs he offered like I had an option to refuse them.
When I was sent to Louisiana and given the name Ryan Sumner, I thought I was prepared for the job ahead of me.
In theory, it’s easy to believe I could handle whatever he threw at me.
In reality, there was no way to prepare myself for what he did. Mr. Smith struck where it hurt the most.
It’s too late to run, so I need to see this through.
I finally arrive at my destination and find a spot to park. After I throw some quarters in the meter, I duck into a CVS to buy a prepaid phone, asingle-dose pack of Advil, and a bottle of water. There’s a headache building behind my left eye that I need to get in front of. Leaning against the back of my car, I balance the phone against my shoulder once I hit send so I can use both hands to throw back two pills and chase them with water.
Devon answers on the second ring but doesn’t say a word in greeting.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Twenty-One C hotel in one hour. Coffee shop in the lobby.”
“Number?”
“Five fifteen.” And then he ends the call.
It’s a short drive to the hotel, and thankfully I find a parking spot around the corner from the front door. In addition to this being a hotel, 21C is also home to a museum, so the lobby is teeming with people and I’m forced to weave through the crowd, dodging rolling bags and swinging briefcases, until I get to the coffee shop that sits to the right of the main entrance. A huge banner hanging over the hall that leads to the convention rooms catches my attention.
Reelect Andrew Marshall—Promises Made, Promises Kept
I skip the long line for coffee and find a small table where I have a good view of the lobby.
Forty-five minutes later, a smile stretches across my face when I see Governor Andrew Marshall stride through the front door. There are quite a few people with him, two who I recognize from my short time in his employ. Early polls show he’ll win his reelection by a landslide, and his name is already being batted around as a potential presidential candidate.
I leave my jacket on the table, so no one takes my place, and walk toward them. He spots me when I’m about ten feet away, and I can see recognition dawn on his face even though I look different than I did six years ago.
He separates from his group and closes the distance between us.
“Mia?” he asks.
“Yes, Governor. It’s me.”
“How have you been?” he asks. I can tell he wants to reach out in some way, to hug me or shake my hand, but neither seems right under the circumstances, so he ends up shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’m good. I’ve been following your career. I couldn’t be prouder.”
