Lies That Bind

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  Sienna leaves fluttered by as we crossed the crunchy grass. It was fall in England, and while the country did enjoy the changing of seasons, the trees didn’t enjoy the same foliage as New England back home. There were no shades of ruby, amber, or canary, no hint of cherry or wine or lemon-lime. Just hunter green turned to dull orange or flat brown with some overgrown end-of-season gardens mixed in. Overall, the scene made me miss the city I left. No matter how many bad memories Boston held, it was still my last actual home, the last place I was me.

  “Omigod, you’re okay!” Keira greeted, jumping from a park bench as soon as she saw us. “I can’t believe Tyson’s funeral and Regina! I’m so glad you’re back.”

  I smiled at the sight of her, a perverse piece of me feeling relieved—Department D hadn’t killed her; they hadn’t killed my person. They’d killed Regina’s. It was a thought so dark, I tried not to let my mind float there longer than a flicker for fear the funk was lurking in the abyss.

  Marcus, Antonio, and Julian stood at her side, all with varying degrees of welcoming smiles.

  “Hola.” Marcus stepped toward me. No hug. Instead, he rubbed my arm in a friendly gesture that was not romantic, and I couldn’t help but notice that Antonio didn’t take his eyes off his brother, like he was studying our interaction. I wondered what they’d discussed while I was away, while the bitter girlfriend inside me whispered that I didn’t want to know. In all fairness, I had been talking about them, too—with Allen Cross, and I was betting our conversation was much more disturbing.

  “So what’s with the outdoor meeting?” Keira asked. “What’s next, coded messages in parking garages?”

  “Don’t laugh. It’s possible,” Charlotte warned, none of them realizing how serious she was.

  “I assure you they didn’t find a single listening device in my flat,” Julian insisted, his navy cashmere scarf tucked into the neckline of his wool coat in a way that made him look like a millennial catalog model.

  “I know. I believe you. It’s just…” Charlotte peered at me, then back at the group. “This is big.”

  They all turned their attention my way, and I felt the urge to stand on an apple crate, except this ominous speech required a whisper.

  “Okay.” I wrung my freezing hands together. “As I said on the phone, Tyson wasn’t mugged, he was murdered by Department D. And that message to Regina, it wasn’t just to us.” My stomach cramped so badly I worried I’d have to run to the bathroom if I didn’t spit this out soon. “Cross thinks they were sending a message to Mom and Dad.” I looked at my sister, eyes soft. I hadn’t wanted to say this over the phone. “Keira…they’re alive. He confirmed it. It was them you heard in Venice.”

  Keira stumbled back a step, and Antonio caught her wrist, steadying her. She gazed at him, and he rubbed his fingers against her arm, comforting her in a way that brought me back to surveillance footage of Boston, to images of Keira with Craig Bernard, consoling her about our parents, right before he kidnapped her. Antonio looked exactly the same.

  “This involves you, too,” I said sharply, watching him touch her, his lips whispering so closely, the teal green ’80s hoop earring she was wearing jiggled. Then he kissed her ear. Gross. I wanted to rip every follicle from his hipster beard and make him eat them one by one.

  “Cross thinks your parents killed Tyson,” I blurted.

  The painful gasp that expelled from Marcus made me instantly regret my words. This wasn’t what I’d planned to say or how I planned to say it, but seeing his brother touch my sister so soon after their parents tried to shove me into a car triggered an involuntary reaction.

  I dropped my head toward my scarf. “I should have said that differently,” I muttered, wishing I had stopped for a second to consider Marcus’s feelings. He wasn’t Antonio. He wasn’t his parents.

  “So you didn’t mean it?” he asked.

  I peered at him. He and Keira wore matching expressions—mouths open, eyes wide, waiting for me to make this better, to take it away. I couldn’t. But I could tell my story. So I did, from the baby picture I received from Randolph Urban, to my confrontation with Regina, to the photo of Marcus and me, to my clash with the Reys at their corporate headquarters, to Allen Cross’s theories about Tyson’s death.

  “To be clear.” Antonio cocked his head, brow furrowed. “You think our parents are evil people who slaughter children for financial gain?”

  “If it makes you feel better, I also think my parents were evil,” I rebutted.

  “Are,” Keira corrected. “Present tense. They’re alive.”

  “It seems that way.”

  “I can’t believe it.” She stared at a fountain, as though the large-mouthed fish with water trickling out of its flared nostrils was now somehow very interesting and not at all disgusting. But it was better than looking at one another. “They weren’t abducted. They weren’t held hostage. They left us. By choice.”

  “Yes.” I refused to plead our parents’ case or offer hypotheticals that might make our abandonment seem justifiable. The only thing that got me out of bed this morning was not a Buddha-like understanding of their actions, but a burning need to avenge Tyson and any connection his death might have to me. I owed my parents nothing.

  “Unfortunately, I have a passing familiarity with profound parental disappointment,” Julian interjected, the epitome of manners. “My condolences.”

  “You really saw my parents?” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, his voice sounding bewildered. Then he looked to his brother, dark eyes begging for answers, for behind-the-scenes Dresden information. “You worked there. Do you think they could have had something to do with this?”

  “No.” Antonio barked like Marcus was stupid for asking the question. Then his nose wrinkled. “Are you really going to listen to her? I hear no proof, just opinions from Allen Cross, who is a liar. Do not believe them.”

  Seriously? Them? I was a “them.” With a few sentences, Antonio placed me on the opposing side, as if I were a bad guy, as if I wanted to say any of these things. Of course, I didn’t. It hurt me too, but that didn’t stop my sister and Marcus from shifting away from me, inching closer to Antonio, the soggy grass between us growing more expansive by the second.

  “I’m sorry I have to tell you this. It’s awful. I know that,” I apologized helplessly.

  Marcus tugged harder on his neck, and I could practically see the knots growing; I felt them in my own shoulders, a headache brewing.

  “Antonio’s right,” Marcus replied. “Cross has been lying since day one. He didn’t tell you that your parents are alive. He didn’t tell you that Urban is your father. Now he’s claiming my parents are murderers. I don’t believe him.”

  I probably wouldn’t, either. But they weren’t in that car. They didn’t see Cross’s demeanor, how different he seemed from our encounters in Rome. He was no longer the stoic spy relaying half-truths. He was emotional. He cared. It wasn’t like before.

  “Cross swears that whoever ordered Tyson’s hit had to be very high up in the organization, because his death was designed to hurt me, and whether I like it or not, I’m the child of the three Department D founders.” The words brought a bitter taste to my mouth. “Going after their kid would require someone with a lot of power, and he says your mom and dad are the only ones with enough influence to do that.”

  “Our parents are engineers!” Antonio sounded exasperated. “They have nothing to do with Department D!”

  “Yes, that’s what they said to me, too. But Cross says—”

  “Cross says, Cross says…” Antonio whined, mimicking my voice. “We don’t believe him!”

  Marcus nodded, agreeing with his brother. I had become the person who was accusing his parents of murder. How hard did I really want to argue this position?

  “I get it.” I stepped toward Marcus, closing the gap between us and growing a newfound sympathy for every messenger who had ever come before me in all of history. “You’re right, we don’t know anything for s
ure, and no one has to take anyone’s word for anything.”

  A middle-aged man on a bike peddled past, wearing shorts and a tank top in November, a little terrier trotting beside him off leash. I fell silent, afraid the dog might be bugged. That was my life now. Even inappropriately dressed cyclists were suspects. I lowered my voice. “I’m done being crash-test dummies waiting for the next disaster to slam into us. This has to end. So I agree with you. It’s time to get proof.”

  “How?” Keira asked, her face looking like I’d suggested we swim home to Boston.

  “We have a plan.”

  …

  We walked toward Kensington Gardens, fountains spraying unnecessarily as ripples of rainwater dotted their surfaces. The front of my jeans was soaked, my legs chilled in a way that only hot chocolate and a fireplace could help. It wasn’t that the rain was coming down hard, it was that it was misting in every direction to the point that an umbrella was useless. Like the rest of London, we eventually relied solely on our hoods, with my every step sloshing puddles onto my weatherproof boots.

  Marcus and Keira trudged beside me. Charlotte, Antonio, and Julian were a few paces behind. We were relaying our plan to mini groups—it felt safer than shouting it loud enough for a crowd of six to hear.

  “The whole thing revolves around the Dresden Kids,” I began, my breath making little frozen clouds in the air. “Think about it. They’ve thrown us together our entire lives. They made us each other’s only friends. They forced us on each other at every company party, after every move. Why? Because we have one thing in common—we are all the children of Dresden employees. Which likely means we’re all the children of Department D employees.”

  “So how does that help?” Marcus asked, his black leather jacket making a wet squeaking noise as he gestured between the three of us. “We’re Dresden Kids, and we didn’t know anything about Department D until a few months ago.”

  “Yeah, and supposedly our parents ran the thing,” Keira added, her feet dragging through the puddles, her shoulders returning to their slumped position. She knew Tyson, and now he was dead because of us. Who was next? Keira had a lot more friends in Boston than I did. She socialized with half the hospital. Would Department D really hunt all of them for sport?

  “That’s just it. Our parents, all of our parents”—I looked at Marcus, eyes pleading for him to see we were in this together—“are on the upper rungs of this ugly ladder. They weren’t personally destroyed by it.”

  “Urban put a hit out on Mom and Dad, and then they faked their deaths. Is that destruction?”

  “Yes, it is, and now we’re seeking revenge for that, which is exactly my point.” I flicked my finger her way. “Think of Dresden Kids like people on the Internet. Most only write reviews for things they hate, right? Well, the Dresden Kids are like that, like us. The ones who will talk to us are the ones who hate Department D. Remember Luis Basso’s uncle?” I grabbed Marcus’s arm, hoping to squeeze understanding into him. “The one my parents screwed over?”

  “You mean the reason Luis wanted to cut you open on the top of a mountain in Cortona? Sí. Recuerdo.”

  “Well, Cross says there are a lot more people like him. Tons of former employees, former allies, and regular people who were set up as patsies, locked in prisons, or had family members killed because of Department D. He thinks they’ll want revenge, just like I do for Tyson. He’s going to name names.” I shivered, from the air or the conversation I wasn’t sure. Nearby, empty rowboats rocked in the middle of a pond with fat swans swimming about. I’d imagine in a different season this place was idyllic and bursting with flowers and romance. Today, it was full of wet cement.

  “What are we supposed to do with these names?” Keira asked, digging her hands into her pockets.

  “We track them down and gather evidence.”

  “That’s the plan? Are you kidding me?” She rolled her eyes.

  Did she have a better idea? I didn’t hear anyone else offering suggestions, and I was done waiting for the next assassin. I was done being the victim running up the stairs and tripping clumsily on a sneaker. It was time to fight back, however we could.

  “What type of evidence are you talking about?” Marcus asked, sounding almost as leery as my sister.

  “Like Aldo Moro. We have that photo proving my parents were deleted from a historic crime scene, but that’s only one case, and we don’t have the original. We need more.” My speech accelerated. “We need to prove how widespread and lethal this corruption is. We need to tie crimes to all those world leaders Randolph Urban has hanging in his office, because Cross says they’re displayed as threats, not accomplishments. We need evidence, and Cross doesn’t have access to Department D files anymore, but he swears it’s out there, and he can help us find it.”

  “Oh, how kind of him to let us do all the work for him,” Keira griped.

  “Really, if these kids have evidence, why haven’t they used it yet?” Marcus asked.

  “Because it’s them against the world,” I said. “And we know how that feels.”

  Or maybe we didn’t. Marcus wouldn’t even look at me. Back in Italy, it felt like he was the only person in the world who understood me. Now, I missed him and he was standing right in front of me. It was starting to feel like not only me against the world, but me against all of them.

  “Why would they trust us?” Marcus ran his hands through his messy black hair, dampened in a way that made me want to touch it. Touch him.

  “Because we’ll offer revenge,” I said simply. “Alone, they know they’d accomplish nothing. Maybe some low-level flunky would be arrested. But together, with our help, we can burn that place to the ground.”

  “Sí. With my parents still in it.”

  I splashed to a halt. Kensington Palace loomed in the rainy distance, the windows of the first floor glowing with ocher light, its scale seemingly not much larger than Randolph Urban’s mansion. A statue of a queen stood before it. Low reflecting pools with fountains sprayed like starbursts at our sides. And the boy I’d come to care about more than any boy, ever, stood in front of me, scowling like I wanted to hurt his family.

  I was done being a “them.”

  I reached for his hands. We weren’t wearing gloves. I could feel his skin, cold and rough. I rubbed my palms against his, hoping to warm him as I stared into his near-black eyes, desperate to reconnect. When he finally met my gaze, he seemed so different from the carefree guy chugging beers with his brother. I wanted to be the one who put the dimples in his cheeks.

  “Marcus, I’ve thought about this a lot. I spent a good chunk of a transatlantic flight mulling this over with Charlotte. And we came to a conclusion—we have absolutely no idea who’s lying,” I stated plainly, willing him to feel me, feel how much I was on his side, our side. “Your parents claim that they’re engineers hoping to preserve a legitimate corporation in the event that Urban goes to jail. Cross claims they were almost as high up in Department D as Urban himself. My parents were dead; now they’re alive. Urban was a family friend; now he’s a bio-dad sending me baby pictures while trying to kill my parents. For a second time. Until we have evidence, it’s all theories, rumors, and somebody else’s version of events. That’s why we need to do this. These Dresden Kids might know who screwed over their families. They might be able to point the finger at someone specific. This won’t be information coming from Allen Cross or Craig Bernard. This will be eyewitness testimony from kids like us. Why would they lie?”

  Marcus closed his eyes, wincing like it hurt to think of his parents in this awful group. I closed the gap between us, and he leaned toward me, pressing his forehead to mine. It felt so good, so familiar. It felt like trust. We stood there, calm, breathing, as if silently praying our proximity to each other might ease all the chaos that put us at odds. I squeezed his fingers tighter. I wanted to bury my face in his chest, close the door, pull the drapes, and pretend none of this was happening. But I didn’t think there were drapes thick enough. You could
n’t black out truths that were coming from inside your head.

  “What if they aren’t innocent?” His voice broke. “What if my parents really are involved?”

  “Then we’ll deal with it. Right now, we don’t know,” I said, my forehead still resting on his, eyes closed, rain misting on our cheeks, our lashes. I could smell the wet leather from his jacket. I could feel the heat rising up from his skin.

  I didn’t want to hurt him, but I believed Allen Cross. I believed his parents weren’t simple scientists with toothy smiles and perfectly coiffed heads. But Marcus had the right to cling to hope until proven otherwise. I wouldn’t take that away from him.

  “So Cross is just going to give us a list of names?” Keira blurted, interrupting our moment. Achingly, I pulled back from Marcus, from the first time in days I’d felt connected to him.

  “Then what?” she continued, kicking a puddle, water spraying from her boot. “We’re going to run around the world tracking down random people? Hope they have shoeboxes under their beds labeled ‘Department D Evidence?’ Hope they don’t try to kill us, too?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Keira kept speaking.

  “Have you noticed that ever since Italy, you think you can do anything, that no one will question you. Especially me. Because I’m the victim, right?” Keira spat. “Did you ever think you found me because Urban wanted you to find me? These are spies, Anastasia, assassins. They’re playing us. Playing you. Do the rest of us even get a say in all this?”

  I shifted back on my heels. Gee, tell me how you really feel.

  Keira glared at me—head shaking, molars chewing her cheek—like we were back in Boston and I was in trouble for ditching school. She looked like the guardian she was, like she called the shots, and I realized somewhere along the way maybe that had changed.

  “Marcus, could I have a minute with my sister?” I asked.

  Keira squinted her eyes, recognizing my tone; it was the we’re-about-to-have-a-fight tone. Only I didn’t want to argue. I wanted a long overdue discussion.