Looking down at myself, I can’t help my nervous chuckle over Roque’s comment that while onecoulddive in a drysuit wearing a full-blown tuxedo, there’d be no reason for anyone to be that stupid.
It turns out we’re that stupid.
Piling all my gear in one arm like it’s a misshapen greatcoat, I follow the path through the dead roses to the skeleton of the willow tree. Throwing the stuff over, I hold my breath until there’s a soft thud in the snow—no collision with my bike—then continue down the garden path while pulling out a pack of cigarettes. I push on the left side inside the pack, the filters glued together to hide the button which activates the worm I’ve tunneled into their system for months. It will shut down cameras and recording devices randomly, oneby one, all across the mansion, until every device is out of commission.
I’m pretty proud of this attack. But the only person I’d admit that to is inside right now. Telling her will have to wait.
I note the time, counting down to when the entire system dies and it’ll be safe to leave. Then, to make this all look more real, I light one of the loose cigarettes, dangling it between my lips without inhaling, the acrid scent disgusting.
By the time the shoveled path points me toward the door, the cigarette is half scattered ashes, and a guard is glaring at me with confusion. “Where’d you come from?” he asks, shifting his weight like he’s ready to attack.
“I came out of another door, got a little lost, and ended up here,” I say, stepping forward like I have a right to be here. God, this is hard. Sweat prickles at the back of my exposed neck despite the frigid air, whatever damp that clung to me from the lake now turned to ice. “I’m not a fan of crowds,” I add, remembering that truths make the best lies.
The guy goes to call it in while Trips’ voice in my memory explains that intimidation works just as well as a lie. Especially with the not-so-legal company his father keeps. So I take his advice and lean forward, snubbing my cigarette against the stones of the house, right next to his cheek. I’m taller by a few inches, and I use my height to make the man feel small and vulnerable.
I stare him down as I pull the carton from my pocket and slide the half-smoked cigarette in. “Waste not, want not,” I say, immediately wondering where the hell that random aphorism came from.
The man glares at me, but simultaneously gulps like I voiced a threat instead of something a grandmother would say while she folds used wrapping paper for later, his face turning a little green. He opens the door beside him. “Enjoy the party, sir,” he says, gagging a bit as I pass.
Against all odds, I’m in. Step two complete.
The heat burns my ice-cold skin, equal parts pain and comfort, but I keep my face locked in a frown. I don’t want anyone to chat with me. No one should remember me.A ghost in the crowd,echoes in my mind. It’s Jansen’s pickpocketing catchphrase, something he repeated as he taught us all to do lifts off the drunk revelers on their way back to their cruise ships.
I remember one competition he made up where we each would pick a wallet, take a single bill, then pass it back to him to drop back into the mark’s pocket. Whoever had the most bills won.
Of course that was Clara, but I’d been a solid second.
We made enough to buy our first motorbike that day.
Following the sound of the party, I find a ballroom gilded in opulence, crowds of men with expensive cologne and women drenched in jewels. I might not be as white as the average guest, but I’m not the only melanated person dressed to the nines, so that’s one worry mostly off my plate.
Trips promised if anything happened, at least half of the guests would feel weird about saying a black man was the problem, even if the other half would be the first to point a finger in my direction. In the end, we’d have to let the cops sort it out, but I don’t want to think about that possibility. Nothing can go wrong.
Not tonight.
So I weave between groups, nodding at anyone who makes eye contact, like maybe we know each other. I’m almost across the ballroom when a warm hand wraps around my arm, halting my movement. Oh no.
I immediately think about a particular piece of code that’s been troubling me, as Clara tells me my vacant stare when I’m stuck in my head is my most intimidating face, then shift my eyes to whoever’s caught me.
Only to find Summer Jones.
“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” she says, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Walk with me.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time. One of those girls you’re abandoning to rich pedophiles is my sister’s best friend.”
Bile collects at the back of my throat.
“Exactly. So, you’re going to tell me how likely it is that the cops will come sweeping in to rescue them before they vanish forever.”
We pass a couple, the man lifting a questioning brow at Summer, before glancing at me like he can’t believe she’s with me. We’re drawing attention. I tug her along a little faster. “First off, choose your words with care. Someone is always listening here.” I keep us moving, hoping that our conversation will be more difficult to weave together if it’s not all caught by a single microphone. “We’ve done the best we can, but we’ve only recently figured out what was going on. The cops have access to all the information I’ve found, and we’ve got a pet pig parked outside, but I can’t make guarantees.”
“Then save them.”
I shake my head, hating the motion even as I make it. “That’s not what we do, and you know that, Summer.”
She stops near one of the picture windows, the wind sending waves of scattered white across the yard. “But you could. If you really wanted to.”
