Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  “Just the book?”

  Bernard’s taunt came back to me: What you think you’ve uncovered is happening in record numbers throughout our industry.

  “We’ll never stop the stealing,” I continued. “The least we can do is get the book back.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “That’s what Abe says all the time.”

  “That’s my priority.”

  The front office door crashed open. Freya strode in wearing a Ravenclaw sweatshirt and glasses even bigger than yesterday’s. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill,” she smirked.

  Delilah propped her hands on her hips and smirked back at Freya. “I get married, and you don’t even throw me a bachelorette party? There should be strippers here right now.”

  Freya snorted. “Let’s all picture Abe’s expression if he walked into the office and it was filled to the brim with strippers.”

  Delilah laughed fully—it was husky and very, very contagious.

  “Don’t you get donuts today?” I asked.

  “It’s a post-successful-recovery tradition. Although things are a bit different because we need to immediately start on The Case of the Missing Copernicus.” She unzipped her laptop bag, taking out a sleek, shiny computer. “I’ll start on the online forums, see if anyone’s dropping hints about dead astronomers.”

  Abe walked in with a bag of freshly baked Federal Donuts. The warm, cinnamon-sugar scent wafted through the office.

  “Your reward,” he said to Freya, laying the bag on her desk.

  She squealed, opening the bag and handing a donut to Delilah.

  “Cheers, partner.” They flashed goofy grins at each other before taking a bite at the same time.

  But then Freya’s eyes widened. “Henry, I almost forgot.” She handed me one—it was still hot from the oven, pieces of sugar crumbling into the palm of my hand. “You’re part of the tradition now too.”

  Delilah gave me a shy smile that I was eager to return. It wasn’t that Freya and Delilah had ignored me for the past few months, but we’d mostly been separated during my probationary period. They were often out in the field, trailing suspects or on long stakeouts while I was doing research for Abe or studying for my private detective’s exam. This—this silly tradition of donuts and coffee after a successful recovery—felt like my real first day at Codex.

  “That was some good undercover work on the fly last night,” Freya said.

  “Thank you.” I took a bite. “And this is delicious.”

  “Welcome to the dream team,” Freya said.

  “Speaking of teams,” Abe said, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk, “Delilah, I want you and Henry to get eyes on Victoria’s property tomorrow night.”

  “But Frey and I usually handle that,” Delilah said casually, cutting another donut in half and laying it on Freya’s plate.

  “I know. But you and Henry are partners on this case so I want you and Henry to go.”

  His voice indicated there was to be no argument.

  But Delilah’s head snapped up anyway. “It’s easier if she and I do it, though.”

  Abe’s lips pressed into a thin line. Some silent argument was happening between the two of them—and I had an inkling it was about me.

  “Henry, how much experience do you have staking out a private residence?” she asked.

  “Uh…zero.”

  “Good thing I’m sending him with my most experienced detective,” Abe replied, closing the door to his office.

  Freya slid off the desk, opening her laptop. “Delilah, it’s fine,” she said softly. “It’s just different, is all.”

  Delilah sighed and pulled a pen out of the other woman’s hair. “How many of these am I going to find in there today?”

  “One billion,” Freya shrugged. “This is no Bradbury case. This is the real deal.”

  “I’m a good student, I promise,” I said.

  Delilah re-crossed her arms, slowly assessed me from head to toe. “And I’m a tough fucking teacher.”

  10

  Delilah

  Victoria Whitney lived in a Tudor-style mansion out in the Main Line, the wealthiest suburb in Philadelphia. According to the plans Freya dug up from the County Clerk’s office, it had thirteen bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, a pool, a sauna, a tennis court and a garden designed as intricately as the Palace of Versailles. It was built of red brick, with charming arches and multiple gables and, of course, the lawn was manicured to perfection.

  “Do you see any evil henchman?” Freya’s voice crackled through my cell phone.

  “Negative,” I said. “All the henchman going in and out of Victoria’s house look perfectly reasonable.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she said. I glanced at Henry, who was looking out the window but grinning. There was a pause where I imagined Freya back at the Codex offices, typing away on her keyboard. “You two have eyes on the mansion. I’m going to gracefully attempt to ask a bunch of shady book dealers if they’ve come into any extraordinary merchandise recently.”

  “Are they responding to the code?” I asked.

  Victoria’s house was lit with ground spotlights—clearly indicating to any passerby that it was the biggest one on the block. A thick forest of trees wrapped around her property, mimicking the other mansions on this block that were granted privacy through large, extravagant bushes. A few other cars were parked on the street—a lucky break, since we couldn’t stand out. But I’d still parked us beneath a giant weeping willow whose branches almost touched the ground.

  “Nope,” Freya said. “I’m getting the impression that code is used for lower-level deals. Like a Ray Bradbury. For the Copernicus, everyone seems tight-lipped. And I can’t figure out if Victoria is one of the people I’m talking to.”

  “Victoria would pay someone to do this for her,” I said. “This is too dirty of a detail.”

  She hummed. “Well, I hope one of the henchmen walks past with a giant box that says Fragile: Stolen Books Inside because we might be on a wild goose chase.”

  I snorted—but a swell of nerves followed in its wake.

  “You go chase. Henry and I will watch for a bit.”

  “Over and out,” she said.

  When Henry slid into my car earlier, my eyes had landed on the swell of biceps his soft tee-shirt exposed, the muscles of his forearms, his big, strong fingers. Yesterday I’d watched him handle that book with deliberate intention—fingers caressing each page as if he were memorizing the words through touch.

  Switching off Freya’s voice had plunged us into quiet, while outside cicadas sang.

  “My only knowledge of stakeouts comes from reading thrillers,” he said. In the tight space of the car, his rough voice felt too intimate. “Should I have brought fast food?”

  “Depending on how long it goes, Freya and I usually bring French fries and tacos along.” Admitting that made me miss her, though we’d just spoken. It felt awkward in the front seat with Henry, whose body and cedar scent seemed to invade every inch of my car.

  “A wise choice,” he said. “What are we looking for exactly?”

  I waved at the windshield. “If Victoria recently stole a book with as much media attention as that Copernicus is currently getting, she would probably change up her routine. We want to see who’s going in and out of her place, what’s changed. We watch, take notes.” I held up my notepad. “Being a private detective is about perceiving the clues that exist in the most mundane exchanges. A late-night delivery, a deliberate word choice, a connection of eyes meeting across the room.” I heard the scratch of Henry’s pencil on his own notebook. “In my experience, both as a police officer and a detective, criminals want to get caught. And their subconscious slips up in a bunch of tiny but significant ways.”

  “When you were a police officer, what did you do?” he asked.

  “Burglary,” I said automatically. “Theft, that kind of thing.”

  “You loved it?”

  “Yes, I did,” I said, throat tight. “Ve
ry much.”

  “Can I ask why you left?”

  “Not right now.”

  I felt his eyes studying me in the dark, but thankfully he didn’t pry further. “What else are you teaching me tonight, Delilah?”

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—noted two probable neighbors out walking their three dogs. “Our assignment is to go undercover as newlyweds. We need to get our story straight. We need to live and breathe as the Thornhills so that Victoria will trust us with her dark secrets. Or make a mistake and say something she shouldn’t.”

  “Does Abe think if we appear passionately in love Victoria will take us to the book?”

  “That’s too easy,” I admitted, as much for Henry as for myself.

  “Then what?”

  Our eyes met in the dim light. “We need time with Victoria, to learn her weaknesses. To crack her open. It’s like putting together the clues of a book you’re conserving. Kind of like you were explaining to me yesterday.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “That makes sense. Victoria is a rare manuscript with no discernible history. We need to figure her out.”

  “Because my first guess would be to shelve her in the Egomaniac Wealthy Heiress section,” I said, “but in this line of work you learn that people are more complex than their labels.”

  He studied me for a moment. “You must have been an incredible police officer.”

  I shrugged. “I was pretty good.”

  “Do you miss it?” he asked. “Actually, never mind. I’m sorry. You told me you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “It’s fine,” I rushed to say. “We need to focus, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  It was hard for me to think about the police force without feeling a deluge of wrenching guilt and mortifying shame.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “we need to help you become a brilliant liar. Undercover work is about immersing yourself in the persona you’ve created. Which should be easier for you because Henry Thornhill’s fake career is technically yours. A lot of the base knowledge is there already.”

  A black sedan turned down the street, heading our way. “Get down,” I commanded, gripping the soft edge of his shirt. We ducked low and waited for it to pass, headlights crawling through the trees surrounding us. Our heads turned toward each other—both whispering as we waited to make sure the coast was clear.

  “Delilah?”

  “Yeah?” The windows of the car that had passed were tinted, which set my mind whirring.

  “You can let go of my shirt now.”

  I dropped it like it burned. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Won’t we have to get used to doing things like that anyway?”

  “Shirt-clutching?” I asked.

  “Touching each other.”

  “Uh, right,” I said. “We can sit back up now.”

  I craned my neck as I did, attempting to get a license plate.

  “Something off with that car?” Henry asked.

  My senses were waking up. “Maybe,” I admitted. “We’ll see if it comes back.” Lights began to flicker on in various windows of Victoria’s house. “Okay, back to training.”

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Think about the backstories you create for every mistake you find in a book. You’ll be doing that for Henry Thornhill. And constantly. You have to get into the mind of this man that doesn’t really exist. So that as Victoria asks you questions or digs into your past, you answer right away. Correctly. And, as a rule, if she asks us both something we haven’t discussed, I’ll answer for us first.”

  “So, for example, it doesn’t appear as if neither one of us knows how long we’ve been married?”

  It was funnier now, absent of that night’s tension. So much so that laughter threatened to burst from me.

  “I spent half of that conversation wondering if I should have sprinted for the emergency exit and run all the way home.” Henry grinned.

  That had me laughing for real—but when he caught my gaze, I dropped it just as quickly.

  “Focus,” I chided softly, a command more for me than him. “Have you given much thought to who Henry Thornhill is?”

  “Some,” he said. “I don’t feel ready for Saturday night though.”

  I was nodding—even as half of my attention was aimed at the mansion.

  “I’m Victoria,” I said. “Ready?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How did you and Delilah meet?”

  He was frozen, watching me.

  “How did you and your lovely wife meet?” I asked again.

  He dragged a hand over his mouth, mildly panicked.

  “Henry.”

  He blew out a breath. “How do you come up with ideas this quickly? I’ve already fucked up, and we’re only thirty seconds into the training.”

  I mentally backed up, tried to recall hours of instruction from the police academy, from Freya. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was the wrong way to start.” I went to touch his shirt again but accidentally grazed his biceps. It was hard as granite. “Close your eyes. Let yourself truly imagine Henry Thornhill as a person. All his likes and dislikes, his random memories.”

  He sat quietly for a minute, and I attempted to wrangle my impatience. But what other choice did I have? Abe had instructed us to partner on this case, and I was nothing if not a loyal foot soldier. But I was anxious to go, to hunt down Victoria, to respond to the seductive call of adrenaline that’d been thrumming in my bloodstream for two days.

  “Imagine a time you’ve been madly in love,” I continued.

  Henry cleared his throat. “What if I’ve never been madly in love?”

  I shifted in my seat, happy he couldn’t see me. The last time I’d thought I’d been in love was Mark, and digging through those memories felt like sticking your hand into the creepy, dark space under your sink: half-convinced it’s fine, half-convinced you’ll land on a web filled with spiders.

  “It’s like…um…an obsession. A craving that feels really good to give into. A sense of rightness. Completion.” I glanced at his profile in the darkness. “Does that help?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Does it matter that I’ve never been married?” He opened his eyes now, watched me carefully.

  “I’ve never been married either,” I said. “I guess we can talk to Victoria about…” I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know, how we always fight over who does the dishes more?”

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Right. I should definitely hate how loudly you snore at night.”

  “I’ve never gotten along with your parents.”

  “In-laws,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  We shared a brief, private smile.

  “But,” I said, stopping the game, “Henry and Delilah Thornhill eloped. They’re…passionate. Impulsive. True romantics. That’s what Victoria was responding to. Hold that at the center of your persona.”

  “I’m obsessed with you,” Henry said. “I mean, not real you. Fake you.”

  “Exactly. Let’s try again, okay?”

  He flexed his fingers like he was preparing to fight. “Go.”

  “How did you and Delilah meet?” I said again.

  “An art lecture, about five years ago. It was specifically on the topic of the feminine expression in twelfth-century—”

  “Too specific,” I cut in. “The more colorful you make the lie, the less believable it is. Plus we need to stay simple.”

  “You are a tough teacher,” he muttered.

  I arched my brow at him.

  “Go,” he sighed.

  “How did you and Delilah meet?”

  “At work. She used to come into the library. We’d talk about her favorite books.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, surprised.

  “Simple, to the point, not much to explain.” I switched back to my Victoria voice. “Why did you decide to become a consultant, dear? You’re obviously extremely talented.
”

  A low laugh rumbled from his chest. “Feels like I’m sitting next to real Victoria.”

  “Who would have spotted your lies a mile away by now.”

  He stared out the window, as if the answer lay tangled in the branches of the tree. “Tick-tock,” I said.

  “Bureaucracy. Too much red tape, you know?”

  I snorted.

  “You like that one?” he asked, face bright.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” I conceded. “Just make it one trillion times faster.”

  The black sedan flew down the block like a speed demon.

  “Shit,” we said in unison, sliding all the way down. My heart jumped into my throat.

  “Same car, second time,” I murmured. Two lost drivers who happened to have suspiciously tinted windows maybe? “Let’s stay down.”

  When I turned my face toward Henry, his was close.

  “My turn,” he whispered. “So Delilah, your husband is a talented librarian. What is it that you do again?”

  “Philanthropist,” I shot back. “I’m a trust fund baby.”

  His eyes flared in challenge behind his glasses.

  “I came prepared,” I said with a sly grin. His eyes dropped to my mouth for a split second, before headlights sliced across his face.

  “Lower,” I hissed. He dropped as instructed.

  “What made you propose to her like that on the spot, Henry?” I said, listening for boot steps heading our way. I wanted to push him to think clearly even in high-stress situations. I was wearing black yoga pants and my running shoes—I was more than ready to bolt if we had to.

  “I’d never seen her look more beautiful.”

  My head whipped toward his before I could stop it. It wasn’t really fair that he was a handsome librarian who also had a voice that sounded like fucking. Tangled-sheets, sweaty-limbs, headboard-shaking fucking.

  “What did you say?”

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Is that too personal?”

  “No. Not at all,” I said. But I felt slightly out of breath. “We’re pretending. That’s probably the kind of thing Victoria wants to hear.”