Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  I had the composition book open, and I was trying to identify patterns so I could attempt to apply the code-breaking methods to the mess inside. So far, I was failing miserably. After further study of the notebook, I realized that my father had probably been using it for years, if not decades. His handwriting changed over time. It was subtle when you flipped through a page at a time, but when you compared the initial notes to those toward the back, it was obvious. This discovery confirmed my suspicions: this scheme had been going on for much longer than anyone had guessed. It was likely my father had spent more time covering his tracks and hiding the money than he ever had on legitimate investments. Once again, I was ashamed to be his daughter.

  I looked back down at the notebook, thinking of all the lies I’d been fed since childhood. For several years, I’d been pulled out of school so much that my parents had hired a tutor to travel with us. We’d spend time at the house in Switzerland, the yacht in Monaco, the villa in the Caymans. And then back to New York for a few weeks before jetting off to more exotic locales: Mauritius, Seychelles, Singapore, and the Cook Islands. It had been equally frustrating and exciting to me. Frustrating because I’d just wanted to go to school like a regular kid. But exciting … well, for the obvious reasons.

  Holy shit. I was such an idiot. I flipped through the pages to a series of letters and numbers that kept drawing my eye. My heart raced and my breathing accelerated as I skipped to the pages in the back.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I’d assumed the book held valuable information, because otherwise it wouldn’t be in code, but this … I shook my head. If I was right, I wasn’t just holding some of the clues to the puzzle; I had the keys to the kingdom.

  I let out a long, slow breath.

  My technophobe father had recorded the dates and locations of his illicit deposits in a fucking composition notebook that he’d hidden under the tissue paper in the shoebox of my Chucks. And the FBI had missed it in their search of the penthouse. Holy shit.

  I still had to crack the code, but at least now I was pretty damn sure what I was looking at: the first two numbers in each of the sequences, when decoded, would most likely give the country code where the account was located. And I had to believe some of those accounts would be located in tax havens like Switzerland, Monaco, the Caymans, Singapore, Mauritius, Seychelles, and the Cook Islands. Places where my father could have easily made physical, untraceable deposits for years—all under the guise of a family fucking vacation.

  The only one of those country codes I knew for sure was Switzerland: CH. We’d learned about International Bank Account Numbers, or IBANs, in one of my international finance classes. All of the examples in our textbook had involved Swiss numbered accounts. I needed to get back to the library tomorrow, so I could do more research. I needed the other country codes. There was no telling what kind of encryption my father’s twisted mind might have deemed necessary, but at least I had a clue about some of the contents of the book. There were several paragraphs of letters and numbers that had way too many characters to be account numbers, but those could wait.

  Hope blossomed within me. I might really be able to figure this out. And if I didn’t … well, the stakes just got higher, and the consequences of taking the book became severer. I was withholding real, vital evidence. I should have turned the damn thing over to the FBI as soon as I’d found it. But I couldn’t change that now. My year of silence would equate to a year of guilt in the eyes of the feds. So I had to be smart. I had to get the information where it needed to go without letting them figure out it was coming from me. Anything less, and I’d probably either find myself in prison or protective custody—neither of which worked for me.

  But I wasn’t going to borrow trouble just yet. First, I needed to solve the cipher, and then I’d worry about how to deliver the information.

  If I could pull this off—really pull this off—I might have a chance at a semi-normal life. And that life could possibly include Simon. Except, even if I were able to wash away the worst of my father’s sins, when the dust all settled, did we really have a shot at a future? One that was out in the open, in front of cameras and God and everyone? I didn’t see how that was possible. I’d still be a liability to his political ambitions.

  But there had to be some middle ground.

  And I would find it.

  I just had to break the damn code first.

  When my mother asked why Charlie hadn’t joined us for our family dinner on Friday night, I’d told her the truth: Charlie had to work. What I didn’t mention was I hadn’t invited her. I hadn’t wanted Charlie to be subjected to my parents’ interrogation tactics and spend the entire evening helping her awkwardly dodge every question. Because I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t give a straight answer to any of them.

  It was starting to piss me off. How could I ever really get to know someone who wouldn’t share even the most basic information? I didn’t know how old Charlie was, where she was from, if she’d gone to college, why she was keeping a low profile, or any of the hundred other things I wanted to know about her. The discussion that had started in the parking lot of Jack’s clinic had never been finished.

  I hadn’t pushed it for the same reason I hadn’t invited her to dinner.

  The most screwed up part: I didn’t need to know any of those things to start to fall for her. The little I did know was enough. I’d kept our interactions over the last week fairly casual, but even with all of the unknowns, one thing had become very clear: I wanted her. I wanted whatever it was we were still figuring out. And I was done with casual.

  I’d had six solid nights of sleep without nightmares. I was far from “cured,” but I was taking those six nights as a victory. I was being selfish, but I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Spending the night with Charlie would be taking a huge risk, and I hoped it didn’t burn me. Or her. I knew I should wait, but the urge to try was stronger. If she showed any hesitation though, I’d back off.

  Forks clinked against china as I tuned back into the dinner conversation my parents were having. I was happy my active participation was not required.

  “You absolutely will not be trying to climb on the boat until at least a month after your surgery! I forbid it.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Maggie. I’ll be fine.”

  I added my two cents to give the appearance of paying attention. “Why don’t you just wait and see how you’re feeling? I’m sure your body is going to tell you what you can and can’t do.”

  “Nice of you to join the discussion, Simon. But you can stay out of it if you’re not on my side.” My mother shot me an annoyed glare as she reached for her wine.

  My father chuckled. “Gotta love a woman with spirit. Speaking of which, your mother mentioned that she met a young lady in your kitchen the other morning. I understand she’s working this evening, but I’d like to know when I’ll have the pleasure of meeting her as well.”

  I curbed the urge to shove a giant forkful of poached salmon into my mouth. “Probably not until after you’re back from Maine. She’s very busy.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a receptionist and works as part of the sales staff at a boutique.” I cringed inwardly. I didn’t know why I’d felt the sudden need to pretty up what Charlie did. Because I didn’t give a shit. I cleared my throat and clarified. “At a tattoo parlor and a vintage clothing store in the Quarter.”

  My father’s fork clanked loudly on his plate as it slid from his grip.

  “I could have guessed the tattoo parlor part. She does have quite the collection. And her hair was quite fun as well. Black and red and purple, wasn’t it?” My mother kept eating as if this revelation was as mundane as the weather. I could’ve kissed her.

  “I thought we talked about this, Simon. You need a woman who is going to be an asset—”

  I cut him off, not wanting him to finish the sentence I’d heard too many times before. “Is that why you picked Mom? Because she’d be an asset
to your career?”

  My father’s expression turned sharp. “I married your mother because I was so crazy about her I couldn’t see straight. The second she said yes, I dragged her down to the courthouse so she wouldn’t have a chance to change her mind.”

  My mother dabbed the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. “Yes, it was all very scandalous. Your grandmother and grandfather threatened to disown him for marrying beneath him, but your father told them to go to hell. Which is exactly what you should tell your father.” She sent my father a warning look before turning back to me. “I just want you to settle down with someone you can’t live without. But sooner rather than later would be fabulous. I want grandchildren while I’m still young enough to enjoy them. And if Charlie makes you happy, then I’m rooting for her.”

  My father opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and took a bite of rice pilaf instead. I seized the moment to bring up another subject that had been weighing on my mind. I gripped the edge of the linen-covered table with both hands.

  “I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist to … discuss some things that happened while I was in the service. I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD.”

  My mother laid her hand over mine. “Is this about the nightmares?”

  I shot her a look. “You knew?”

  “I’m your mother. Of course I knew.”

  In response to my obvious confusion, she explained, “It was the month you stayed in your old room before the guesthouse renovations were finished. Did you think I couldn’t hear you pacing the halls every night? I didn’t want to push you, but hoped you’d find some help when you were ready.”

  “Well, I did, and actually … I’ve been looking into starting a nonprofit to help people like me. Vets, who, for whatever reason, don’t want to go to the VA for treatment. Who don’t want to be medicated and sent home to wonder if that’s their only option. There are a couple in other states, and I’ve been talking to some people about what I need to do to start one here.”

  My father reached for his wine. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Voters will love it. It would also set you up well to become a member of the Armed Services Committee. Southern Cross will make the first donation.”

  I forced a smile to mask my disappointment. I’d wanted my father to understand that this was a personal mission, not something to be exploited for political gain. But lately it felt like he scrutinized everything for that purpose. I suppose that was what years in politics did to you. Always had you looking for an angle. The thought made me lose my appetite. I pushed away my plate.

  “Now about this girl—” my father started.

  “Why don’t you save your opinion until you actually meet her, Dad?” I fought to keep my tone even, but I wasn’t sure my temper would hold if he said something negative about Charlie.

  Before he could respond, my mother jumped in with some amusing anecdote about the neighbor’s escape artist of a dog, and my father’s attention was successfully diverted.

  I looked down at my watch. It would be hours before Con or Delilah would drop Charlie off at home. She’d promised that there would be no more walking alone at night, but only after I’d buried my inner caveman and at least gave the appearance of letting go of my issue with Con Leahy. Knowing that Con was nailing Charlie’s other boss helped me become guardedly confident that he wasn’t going to steal my girl. To Charlie’s point, if she wanted to be with Con, she would be already. It hadn’t been an outright declaration that she wanted a relationship with me, but for now, I’d take what I could get from her.

  The remainder of the evening’s conversation was filled with my father grandly reminiscing about his days in Washington. I stayed silent, drank another glass of wine, and started to wonder if the only reason he wanted me to run for office was so he’d have a chance to move back into the circles that he’d slowly faded out of over the years. I hated to attribute a motive like that to him, but couldn’t help but consider it. If I officially threw my hat in the ring this fall and decided to campaign, it would be because it was my decision. Not my father’s.

  Harriet’s artistic eccentricities easily made her one of the most fascinating women I’d ever met. Her big heart and open-armed welcome made it impossible not to fall in love with her instantly. She was the grandmother I’d never been allowed to have, and she’d filled the hole in my life previously occupied by Juanita. My mother had pretended her own parents were dead until she’d found herself homeless, and my father’s address had become the federal penitentiary. My paternal grandparents had both passed away before I was born, so grandmotherly figures were few and far between in my life.

  Harriet had emerged from her studio shortly after Con had dropped me off, and she’d uncorked a bottle of champagne. When I asked why we were celebrating, she’d simply said, “Because we can.”

  I followed her into the garden oasis, more than ready to fill my glass. I told myself it was because I had a full day off tomorrow, but part of me wanted to get just drunk enough to not miss seeing Simon today. Yesterday we’d grabbed dinner at a little hole in the wall gumbo place, and he’d been charming as hell. Playing with my fingers, feeding me bites of his food, and basically ensuring that I’d need a change of panties after dinner. If it had been the type of restaurant to have tablecloths, I would have considered crawling under it. But it wasn’t. And that sneaky bastard knew exactly what he was doing. He gave me a chaste peck on the cheek when he dropped me off at Voodoo; I was ready to maul him in front of God and everyone. When I’d asked him if he’d have time for dinner on Friday during my two-hour break between shifts, he’d said he was busy. No other explanation. Just busy.

  After the newspaper incident, I didn’t think he was going to any kind of event with Vanessa, but I could feel my claws coming out at the thought of all the other things he could be doing. I was off kilter all night. Trying to give change to someone who paid with a credit card. Double booking an appointment and having to call one guy back to reschedule. It was like the Simon Duchesne effect had sucked forty IQ points straight out of my brain. Sneaky. Bastard.

  All through my Friday shifts at the Dirty Dog and Voodoo, I’d stared at my cheap cell phone and willed it to ring. I checked the balance of my minutes four times. Yep. Had plenty now that I wasn’t calling the clinic every five minutes for an update on Huck. No word from Simon. I wanted to text him, but of course, my piece of shit phone was barely capable, and I hadn’t been willing to pay the extra fee for that particular feature. So now I was guzzling Harriet’s second bottle of good champagne like it was Boone’s Farm and ranting about how men were sneaky and manipulative—getting you all wound up and not putting out until you spilled all your deepest, darkest secrets.

  Harriet was doubled over laughing at my tirade, paint smeared shirt flapping in the night breeze. Through the cackle of her laughter, I heard a clanking sound coming from the iron gate. What the hell? I stumbled out of my chair toward the narrow corridor and saw a large form blocking the light from the street lamp.

  “Who is it and what the hell do you want?” I yelled in the direction of the gate, still coming off my rant.

  “It’s Simon. And I thought I’d made it pretty clear I wanted you. I’ll even put out, with or without the secrets.”

  Fuck. My face heated. I hadn’t tried to keep my outburst quiet, but I had no idea that I’d been so loud. Maybe there was a chance… “I was that loud?” I asked Harriet, hoping I’d misheard him.

  “I’m pretty sure they could hear you a block away, dear.”

  “Shit.”

  “Who’s out there?” Harriet asked me.

  “A friend,” I replied as I stalked down the corridor to the gate, mumbling to myself. “The sneaky, manipulative guy who won’t put out.”

  “I already said I would, babe.”

  Fuck. He heard that too?

  “Yeah,” Simon replied, smile spreading across his face. Dammit. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “I’m too drunk t
o deal with you,” I said.

  “Let me in, Charlie. I missed you today.”

  I melted against the wall of the narrow passageway, soaking up his words—the exact ones I’d needed to hear. I twisted the lock, and Simon swung the gate open and shut it behind him. He crowded me against the wall and cupped my face with both hands. I barely registered his intent before he bent to kiss me. Not a chaste peck this time. An all-consuming, devastating, soul-stealing kiss. I clung to his shoulders as he slid one hand down to cup my ass and pull me closer.

  “Well now,” Harriet interrupted. “Seems you might have to retract your complaints, dear.”

  Simon’s head jerked up, and I fell against him. He tucked me into his side and held out a hand to Harriet.

  “Simon Duchesne, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Harriet clasped Simon’s hand with her paint-smudged one. “Likewise. I’m Harriet Sullivan. And I believe this is my cue to head back inside. Charlotte, darling, I’m happy to keep an eye on Huckleberry tonight if you decide to stay upstairs. I’ll even let him out in the morning.”

  I sucked in a breath. I wasn’t drunk enough to miss the fact that Harriet had just called me by my real name. Simon stiffened. He hadn’t missed it either.

  “Umm … thanks. Good night, Harriet.”

  She shuffled away, and we didn’t speak until we heard the back door close.

  “I like Charlotte, but I think Charlie suits you better.” In the dark corridor, I couldn’t make out Simon’s expression, but he didn’t sound angry. My drunken self needed to know conclusively.