I nodded. “A good accountant would notice. They’d see that something had corrupted the data.”
Uncle Max, putting his axe through Benford’s Law—along with Yvonne, Tobias, Tillie, Zach, Katie, Olive, and Ramsey.
“The other families noticed, before I left college,” Arabella said. “I never got to pass on the sacred traditions.”
A whole academic year had passed between her graduation and my arrival with Sebastian. A year with no Mortons at Helshire—the first such gap since the Great Influenza’s long shadow across the 1930s.
“The Lindqvists still ask about the cousins,” I said.
Arabella brought me to a halt. “How friendly is Sebastian with them?”
I shrugged. “He and Xavier don’t like each other.”
“Probably your fault,” she said, and checked her phone again.
I wondered which sacred traditions Arabella meant, and why she was asking about Sebastian and the Lindqvists.
She changed the subject. “Urban surveillance. Have you done much?”
“A few trips to Albany with Aunt Veronica. New Haven once.”
New York City was a different beast. On a Saturday at lunchtime, the sidewalks were thronged. A dozen people gathered at every crossing light, hundreds within view.
“This seems easier,” I said. “Plenty of crowd to hide in.”
“It goes both ways,” she said, pointing. “Follow him.”
I looked at the man she’d indicated—mid-forties, in a white shirt and dark trousers, a blue tie, sunglasses, a blazer slung over his shoulder. He stood out among the summer shorts, T-shirts, and sundresses.
“Easy,” I said, turning back to Arabella, but she’d slipped away. The orange hoodie she’d been wearing sat in a trash bin by the curb.
My phone had a message from her.
The real trick is to spot me following you.
I set off after the target, who was walking south. The sidewalk was narrow, and the restaurants had tables out. I got stuck behind three men staring at their phones, and went out into the street to pass them, dodging bikes and a delivery truck.
One problem with the crowds: losing my target.
I crossed the street and drew ahead, tracking the man’s blue tie in my peripheral vision. At the next red light, I checked behind me: no Arabella. What had she been wearing under the orange hoodie?
When the lights changed, my target headed across a park. Another obstacle course—artists selling paintings, bicycles coasting at walking pace, gears ticking.
He came to a sudden halt, looking at something on the ground. Hewavered a moment, drifting closer to a food cart. But he didn’t order, just peeked around it. Lurking, hiding from someone.
Arabella hadn’t picked him at random. I pulled out my phone.
He’s tailing somebody too?
Correct, she replied.Now figure out who.
I swore under my breath. Arabella following me, following him, following someone else. What kind of test was this?
The crowd ahead was mostly tourists and shoppers. We were in the fancy part of Soho where Thomas had shoplifted food on my second nightwalk—ham sandwiches, oranges, a piece of shortbread that wasn’t as good as Aunt Bea’s.
I drew closer to the target, trying to track his eyes. But the crowd ahead was a jumble, and from this close I was too exposed. The man glanced back at me once.
Fucking Garrett, making me dye my hair blue.
