Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  I’d stopped myself time and again from asking Ivers to give her a message. I would move heaven and Earth to smooth the road ahead of us, but at the end of the day, she needed to decide that she wanted to walk down it with me. Charlie had to be all in for us to have any chance at a future. What would I do if she decided that disappearing again was easier than coming home? The thought sent me back to the bag. If I was too tired to move, hopefully I’d be too tired to think.

  Three more weeks later.

  The black Suburban inched through Manhattan’s morning rush hour traffic. Today was the first day I’d been permitted to leave the split-level in Staten Island where the FBI had stashed me. And I wouldn’t be going back. Because today I was regaining my freedom.

  Six weeks in a safe house was certainly no vacation, but given the alternative, I hadn’t voiced a single complaint. Instead, I’d signed every piece of paper the feds had put in front of me. With each signature, I felt a sense of justice being served. That I was righting my father’s wrongs. And that feeling went a long way toward helping me cope with the boredom. I’d been allowed virtually no contact with the outside world. No internet access, no phone calls and, other than my rotating teams of FBI babysitters and rare appearances by Ivers to ensure the feds were holding up their end of the deal, no visitors. I surmised that my lock-down was to prevent the possibility of any information being leaked about the recovery of the money.

  Regardless of the reason, once again I’d had altogether too much time to think. And as you might expect, Simon dominated those thoughts. And how could he not? He was the kind of man you waited your whole life to meet, even though you had no idea you were waiting.

  I’d had endless hours to replay the shock, disappointment, and betrayal that had flashed across his features as the press had hurled their questions like daggers, shredding my carefully constructed charade. It didn’t matter that I’d finally decided to come clean. All that mattered were all of the times I’d chosen not to.

  Simon wasn’t the kind of man who deserved to be dragged through the scandal that would always follow me. It wouldn’t matter that the funds recovered nearly exceeded what had been originally stolen when you added in the interest that had accrued. You could glue a broken plate back together, but you’d always see the crack. You’d never forget that it’d once been damaged.

  In my case, recovering the money wouldn’t wash away the fact that I’d always be the infamous daughter of the reviled Alistair Agoston.

  The Suburban pulled into an underground parking structure, and we traveled up a freight elevator that opened into a service hallway and the rear entrance of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. My escorts led me to a conference room where Drake and Ivers were both waiting.

  I took the chair next to Ivers, and Drake slid two documents across the table. My hands shook as I reached for them

  “As we agreed,” Drake said. I’m not sure if his words were for me or for Ivers, but I didn’t care either way. I was too busy staring at the signed and filed orders from a federal judge and a state court judge dismissing all charges against me with prejudice. These documents meant that neither the U.S. government nor the State of New York could come after me again for anything connected with my father’s crimes. They were giving me back my freedom. My future.

  Now that I had them in my hands and no one could take them away, I asked the question that I had been afraid to ask before. “What about the rest of the accounts? The ones that weren’t in my name? What about that money?”

  “They’re our problem, not yours.” Drake gave me a brisk nod of acknowledgment and stood. “I believe we’re done here. Have a nice life, Ms. Agoston.”

  I sagged back in my chair. It was really over.

  Ivers rose and shook Drake’s hand. “Could we have the room for another minute or two? I need to have a few words with my client.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  Drake shut the door as he left the conference room. Ivers reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced a piece of paper folded into neat thirds. He held it out to me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  His lips quirked. It was the first time I’d seen anything approaching a smile on his face.

  “Just take it.”

  I complied and unfolded it. It was a printout of an e-ticket. A flight from JFK to New Orleans. For tomorrow.

  I looked up, eyes wide. “What is this?”

  “I would think that’s obvious.”

  I blinked down at the e-ticket again. “But … why?”

  “I was asked by Mr. Duchesne to make certain you got it. I informed him that the dismissals would be filed this morning. He made the reservation for tomorrow as he thought you might need some time to wrap things up here before heading home.”

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  Home.

  I swallowed, continuing to stare at the piece of paper as if the flight information would somehow rearrange itself into a message from Simon.

  He wants me to come home.

  My mind raced with the possibilities. His motivations. The consequences.

  Just being near him, I would tar him with my notoriety. It wasn’t like I could keep pretending that I was Charlie Stone—that ship had sailed. Or maybe sank was more accurate. But even if my name wasn’t Charlotte Agoston, the tattoos covering my arms ensured that I would never look demure in a dress, standing behind him as he gave a rousing speech to a cheering crowd. I was political cyanide, and there was no doubt in my mind that he’d have to choose between his dream and me.

  I fingered the piece of paper in my hand. What the hell was I supposed to do with it? Be selfish or selfless? God knew I wanted to be with him. But how could I really choose to taint his future with the darkness that would always follow me?

  “There’s also a reservation in your name at the Waldorf for tonight. Everything has been taken care of; all you have to do is check in.”

  I looked back down at the e-ticket and double-checked the departure time.

  Twenty-four hours to decide.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. No pressure. Just a choice that would dictate the course of the rest of my life. Run to him or run from him?

  Ivers stood and offered his hand. I shook it. “Thank you.”

  He tilted his head slightly and studied me. It was like he was analyzing the chaotic indecision of my thoughts. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Agoston. Is there anything you’d like me to tell Mr. Duchesne when I speak with him? Will you be using the ticket?”

  There was a knock at the door, and I was saved from having to answer when Drake stuck his head in.

  “You have a visitor in the lobby, Ms. Agoston. One that has been very persistent over the last several weeks. Both here and at the FBI field office.”

  I scrunched my brow, trying to figure out who the hell would be trying to see me. “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  My mother? My hands flew to my hair, and I began smoothing it into place before I realized that just the thought of facing her had me falling back into old habits. I forced my hands down to my sides. There was nothing about my appearance my mother would find acceptable, so what was the point? I could hope she’d just be happy to see me. Right. I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  Moving slowly to delay the coming confrontation, I folded the e-ticket and dismissal orders and stuck them in my backpack. I hefted the duffle bag that the FBI agents had supplied to hold the extra clothes they’d provided me. More jeans and T-shirts to round out my wardrobe.

  “Thank you again for everything,” I said to Ivers.

  “It was my pleasure. Best of luck to you, Ms. Agoston.”

  I met Drake at the door. “Lead the way.”

  The paneled lobby of the U.S. Attorney’s Office was empty except for the receptionist and my mother. She was dressed in a linen pantsuit that she’d somehow managed to keep wrinkle free. No surprise there. Wrinkles were the enemy. Except it was clear that he
r current budget didn’t allow for regular Botox, because for the first time in my life, my mother had crow’s feet and looked very much her actual age. It reminded me that the last year hadn’t just been rough on me. My feelings toward her softened when I thought about her staying in New York and braving the gossip and ugly aftermath, while I’d chosen to run and hide. Whatever else she was, she was a strong woman.

  “Mother. How are you?”

  Her eyes raked me from head to toe, and any softness I felt faded. I could only imagine the flaws she was cataloging. The hair (which desperately needed a fresh dye job), the dozens of interconnected tattoos, the plain black tank and jeans, and my ratty old Chucks (which desperately needed replacing). I braced for her criticism, but it didn’t come.

  “I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, but they wouldn’t let me.” Her tone was aggrieved.

  Maybe … she’d missed me? It was possible that a year had given her some perspective about what was really important. Not money. Not status. Not influence. People. Family.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t really have any control over that.”

  She waved off my response with a flip of her golden bob.

  “Despite your … appearance … you seem to have done well for yourself in New Orleans. You are your mother’s daughter after all. Landed on your feet.”

  What the hell was she talking about?

  If she called over a year of lying to everyone and living under a false identity ‘doing well for myself’ and ‘landing on my feet,’ then we had very different interpretations of those phrases.

  And then her meaning hit me. Her reason for being here became crystal fucking clear. A cold rush of disappointment flooded me as her next words confirmed my thoughts.

  “The son of a former congressman? I didn’t think you had it in you, Charlotte. I was happily surprised when I saw it on the news. It’s too bad he’s decided not to run. They’re blaming it on his mother’s condition, and I’m hoping it’s not really because of you. It’ll be much harder to get him back if that’s the case.”

  His mother’s condition? Decided not to run?

  “What happened to Mrs. Duchesne?”

  “It all hit the papers at the same time. She had a stroke. Spent several weeks in a coma. She’s only been out of the hospital and home for a week or so now. I’ve been following it rather closely, given the circumstances.”

  I stumbled to a chair and sat.

  Oh my God. Simon.

  “She’s okay, though? She’s going to be all right?” I asked, my chest aching for him. For his father. Jesus Christ.

  “The extent of her recovery is unclear from the papers, and the family has released very little information. I came to bring you some things so you’d be properly attired when you rushed to his side to comfort him during his time of need. It’s just unfortunate it’s taken so long for the FBI to sort out this ridiculous mess.”

  Mercenary. Bitch.

  She crossed the lobby to retrieve a garment bag from the sofa on the opposite side of the room.

  “This is for you.”

  I eyed the bag like it held hazardous waste. If it contained trappings of my former life, that description wasn’t far off in my mind.

  “Keep it.”

  “But Charlotte, you need to—”

  I crossed my arms. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.” I fought to keep my voice steady, but my success was marginal. “You don’t know me. You never did.”

  Her gaze hardened as she straightened her already perfect posture.

  “You have a chance to pull us out of the gutter where your father dragged us.” She hissed the quiet words from between clenched teeth. “And you will not waste it. Do you hear me, Charlotte? If there’s a chance that man will take you back after all of the shameful publicity you’ve brought on yourself—You. Will. Not. Waste. It.” She reached down and grabbed my arm, her nails biting into my skin.

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  She glanced down and released her hold as if she was surprised to find my arm in her grip.

  Smoothing her pristine linen suit jacket, she attempted to tuck away the flare of emotion. It was probably the most honest reaction I’d ever seen from her. But she couldn’t quite hide the desperate look of a drowning woman. One who thought to use her daughter as a life raft. Well, Mother, I thought, I’m not even sure if I can save myself. But she needed to know that Simon wasn’t going to be her ticket back into the social circles from which she’d fallen. I wouldn’t let anyone use him. Not even my own mother.

  “My relationship—or lack thereof—with Simon, is none of your business. And it will never be any of your business. Please don’t come looking for me again until you’ve decided to act like a decent human being instead of a manipulative bitch. I have to go. Good luck, Mother.”

  She stayed frozen in place as I stepped around her to make my way to the elevator. As the doors shut, I wondered if it would be the last time I saw her.

  Although the papers had referred to it as ‘Club Fed,’ the razor wire, stony-face guards, and shifty-eyed inmates of FCI Otisville reminded me all too much of Rikers. A chill slid through me at the memory. If not for Ivers’s intervention at Simon’s direction, I might be spending the rest of my life in a place like this.

  I followed one of the guards to a large room filled with chipped, gray formica-covered tables and orange chairs, all bolted to the floor. I studied my surroundings as I waited for the door to open.

  My father still walked like a king, a man certain of his superiority to all of those in his domain. Neither prison, nor the khaki-colored jumpsuit, had diminished his air of authority. His silver hair had thinned on top and had lost the perfect style ensured by weekly five hundred dollar haircuts. His eyes widened upon entering the room. Apparently he hadn’t seen pictures of the new me.

  He settled into the chair across from me as the guard backed away.

  “You’ve got twenty minutes, Agoston.” My father didn’t bother to reply to the guard’s statement. His focus had shifted entirely to me.

  “Charlotte. Jesus, I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  I stilled. Parental concern was the last thing I’d expected from him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You disappear for a damn year, no word to anyone, and then you reappear out of the blue and throw yourself on the mercy of the FBI. Which, God knows, they have none. What the hell were you thinking? I thought you were smarter than that. I know you’re smarter than that.”

  Seriously? He was going to criticize me? I leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table.

  “Apparently I wasn’t smart enough to realize that my own father tried to frame me. Who does that to their own kid?”

  He blinked in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The notebook. The one that was hidden in my closet. The one with all of the account numbers and deposits. The one that linked me to everything you did. I’m lucky I’m not still sitting in a cell because of you. Why would you do that?”

  His jaw dropped.

  “I never … It wasn’t … You weren’t…” I’d never heard my father stutter before. I’d never heard him speak except with absolute, unwavering confidence. He cleared his throat, seemed to pull himself together, and leaned forward to whisper, “I was taking care of my family. You were supposed to use that damn brain of yours and get the hell out of the country. I knew your mother would never figure it out, but I knew you could. I left the book in your room so you’d have the means to get your hands on resources to look after yourself and your mother when everything fell apart.”

  This time my jaw dropped. My grip on the table tightened almost to the point of pain. Of all of the motives I’d attributed to my father over the last weeks, this one had never crossed my mind.

  “Holy shit.” I hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud.

  “Indeed. But you blew that plan out of the water. I thought … for over a year, I thought that you were being taken
care of. That you’d managed to figure everything out. But then I find out you were scraping by, living hand-to-mouth, and then you go to the FBI?” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re a smart girl, Charlotte. I expected more from you.”

  “You expected more from me? I expected more from you!” My temper flared hot and fierce. “You ruined thousands of lives—including mine—and you expected more from me?”

  “Keep your voice down.” His tone snapped with impatience.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you.” I had the answers I came for. They weren’t the ones I expected to get, but I had them all the same. “I almost ended up in prison for the rest of my life because of your goddamn contingency plan. So don’t expect me to thank you for doing me any favors.”

  “None of that would have happened if you’d just used your brain, found the money, and kept your head down. But you had to try to fix things. You should’ve just left well enough alone. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you. You’re not the daughter I thought I knew.”

  I pushed up from the table. Once again, I was done.

  “Well, thank God for that. Goodbye, Dad.”

  I studied the outline left by the stylized A that used to grace the marble exterior of the Agoston Investments building on Madison Avenue. Eighteen months ago I’d thought that this place would be the center of my world. Standing on the sidewalk after my emotional rollercoaster of a day, I could see how cold and empty that existence would have been. Countless hours spent worshipping at the altar of the almighty dollar. Superficial friendships based on social capital and influence. And probably a loveless marriage born of parental and societal pressure. Now, just the thought made me shudder.

  I’d lied to my father earlier about one thing: he hadn’t ruined my life. He’d saved it. His actions had forced me out of my comfort zone and taught me to live.

  I deeply regretted the hardships his victims had faced, but his insatiable greed had flung open my cage door. When I’d left New York, I might have been trying to get lost, but I’d found myself instead.