His arms are still folded and he says nothing. My husband cuts an imposing figure—tall and muscular, his hair already gone silver in his early thirties. But he’s never been the confrontational sort. He doesn’t say whatever he’s thinking—a sentiment I’m sure isn’t agreeable or kind. He only watches as I turn and head for the door. I stop to kiss Collette on the head, pull out one of her earbuds, and tell her I have to meet with a client for work, listen to your father, no iPad after nine p.m.
Once I’m out on the front steps, I wind my scarf around my neck to guard against the autumn chill.
“Wait.” Waylen is sprinting after me, and he squeezes past the door before it closes. He turns me to face him. All the anger is gone from his features. “Be careful.”
“It isn’t anything dangerous—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “But some of these people you meet up with leave a lot to be desired.” He tucks my hair behind my shoulder and his fingers brush against my neck, warm against the cold night air.
We play the part of a normal, happy couple so well that I don’t know where the truth and the facade intersect anymore. I love him, and that much is true. The rest—I’m notsure. This house is too big for us, and we spend a fortune on garden care. The rooms are painted in neutrals, decorated with faux antiques. I could leave it all tomorrow, go back to how it used to be in our tiny apartment with a shower that only gave us five minutes of hot water and only one working burner on the stove.
The house in the suburbs was Waylen’s idea, once we were both making enough money to afford it. He thought that if he could give me a perfect life, I would ditch the vigilantism, but all it’s done is give me a good front.
Still, he loves me. He sees who I really am, and that’s worth something.
I push forward and kiss him, and I feel his muscles relax. “I’ll be safe,” I tell him. “Save me some dessert.”
If I told him about my past—about the fire, and that Mr. X is my brother, he might understand. But he also might not. I don’t like to entertain situations where I can’t easily predict the outcome, so I clam up.
So many times, I’ve wanted to tell him why I do this, and why I continue my work as a spy. It’s not for the paycheck. It’s the act of piecing together a puzzle and watching a situation finally make sense. It’s getting to the truth, which is always objective once it becomes clear. It’s about feeling like I’m doing something good with my present and my future, to make up for all the things I can’t go back in time and change.
Most likely, Waylen would tell me the fire wasn’t my fault. He’d want us to go to couples therapy or something. He’d want to fix it. But I don’t want to be a person who needs fixing—I want to be the one who fixes things.
—
I’m meeting my new partner at a commuter lot off the highway. It’s well lit, close enough to the gas station that someone would hear me scream if I had to, but there are no security cameras. Mr. X sees to all the details, and I just oblige. I call him to let him know when I’ve arrived.
Before he started this Bosley vigilante gig, he was top of his class at MIT. He dropped out in his senior year, even though he was on track to graduate with honors. Never talked about why, but he isn’t the sort who does well under pressure, and he’s not one for structure. He does much better when he’s free to go fully rogue.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him in person, though sometimes I catch a glimpse of a car passing by, or the back of a familiar head in a crowded place, and I know that he’s nearby. Watching out. Making sure I’m safe.
I lie when Waylen asks what I’m looking at. He’s always found Mr. X’s presence to be intrusive.
“Your new partner is pulling up now,” Mr. X tells me. “The white Mercedes.”
Like clockwork, the pristine SUV pulls into the lot. The windows are tinted, and there’s aBallerinas Do It on Their Toesbumper sticker on the rear.
“You’re sure this is your genius?” I ask.
“Don’t judge,” Mr. X chides. “You hate it when people underestimate you. Don’t underestimate her.”
“I love being underestimated, actually. Makes it easier to strike.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke. He only tells me, “Goodluck,” and disconnects before I can even ask my new partner’s name.
Waylen always worries for my safety on these missions, but I have a lot of faith in Mr. X’s measures to keep all of us protected. Myself in particular, given what we went through in our childhood, after our parents died. I know that he’s somewhere out of sight, watching everything. I know that he will know just what to do if things go south. That’s if I don’t stab any wayward assailants with the retractable knife I keep in my pocket first.
I step out into the night and rap a knuckle against the tinted window of the Mercedes. I never know what to expect from Mr. X’s finds—Mira Hart had surprised me by being so unassuming and soft-spoken. Before that, a brawny home care worker who could lift you over her shoulder with one arm. And of course, Waylen, the one I ended up marrying. So, when the window rolls down, I’m prepared for anything.
Anything, that is, but the perfect blond curls and well-made-up face of Elodie Blevins.
She’s just as surprised to see me, judging by her gaping expression. “Yes?” she says, perhaps thinking this is some sort of mix-up. I’m not the partner she’s been told to expect—I must be here out of pure coincidence, she’s thinking. Maybe I moonlight as a meter maid.
In response, I give her a timid wave, reminiscent of what Collette does when I drop her off at a classmate’s sleepover party she didn’t really want to attend. A wave that saysI’m doomedandPlease save meall at once.
Her gaze flattens. “You?” she says.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen. A text from Mr. X reads:Play nice.
