Did they know he’d taken her to that University Club party, last year? “I wanted it to be more but, you know, Avery is basically unattainable,” Watt quipped, and he could swear he saw a ghost of a smile on Campbell’s face.
Officer Kiles was less amused. “What about Leda Cole? Are you ‘just friends’ with her too?”
“What does my love life have to do with this, exactly?”
The young officer stared at him levelly. “I’m trying to understand how you became so intertwined in it all.”
Watt understood the subtext. How had Watt, a seemingly ordinary downTower guy, become entangled in the lives of girls from the 103rd to thousandth floors?
“I guess it just . . . happened,” Watt said inadequately.
The detectives exchanged a ponderous glance. Finally Officer Kiles lifted her hand, palm up, in an ambiguous gesture that might have meant good-bye or might have simply implied a lack of trust, as if she didn’t quite buy Watt’s story.
“Thank you, Mr. Bakradi. You’re free to go. For now,” she added ominously.
Watt didn’t need to be told twice. He stood as quickly as he could and hurried toward the door. Before he could reach it, though, Officer Kiles asked him one more question.
“By the way, Mr. Bakradi—do you know anyone by the name of Nadia?”
Watt felt a sudden chasm opening inside him, a black hole of fear so immense it seemed to have a gravity all its own.
For a single breathless moment, he considered confessing. Trying to cut a deal in exchange for telling them everything—that Mariel had been stalking all of them, that Leda had accidentally killed Eris, that she might have killed Mariel too, but he wasn’t sure; he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Before Watt got tangled up in all this, the world had seemed so simple, so binary, divided crisply into black and white, 1s and 0s. Now he knew nothing for certain.
But everything in Watt recoiled at the thought of hurting Leda. He stumbled back a step, hoping his face didn’t look as stricken as he felt.
“I don’t know anyone named Nadia.”
The instant they were outside the police station, he turned Nadia back on abruptly and filled her in on everything that had happened. We’re in trouble, he concluded, with a heavy, sinking feeling.
They don’t know anything except that the name Nadia was scrawled in that notebook, she reminded him.
But what if there’s other evidence? I’m terrified that they’re going to keep digging and digging, that they won’t rest until they find something. And we both know there’s a lot to find, he thought helplessly.
I’m so sorry, Nadia replied, which was ridiculous, since none of this was her fault. It was his.
Watt knew what he had to do.
There was only one way to find out for certain what the police knew or why they had questioned him this morning.
I’m going to hack the police station, he decided.
Nadia’s response was a swift NO, written in flashing red letters so large that they obstructed Watt’s vision. He ignored her.
It had been a long time since Watt had to go all James Bond and sneak Nadia somewhere for an on-site hack. Actually, the last time he’d done it was the day he met Avery—when he was working for Leda, trying to figure out who Atlas liked. It felt like a million years ago.
But Watt wouldn’t feel safe until he knew for certain what the police knew. And the only way he could find that out was from inside their infrastructure.
Absolutely not, Watt! It’s too dangerous, Nadia replied, and he could hear her silently shouting. This isn’t a tollbooth. This is the NYPD headquarters we’re talking about!
But Watt couldn’t handle this state of uncertainty anymore. It’s the only way for us to find out the truth, he insisted, trying to ignore the way the hairs on the back of his arms lifted with fear at the prospect.
I refuse to approve of this! If you get caught, you could end up in prison!
He set his jaw, determined. And if they know the truth about you, I’ll definitely end up in prison.
She stopped arguing after that, because they both knew that Watt was right.
AVERY
“I’LL GET IT!” Avery proclaimed when the doorbell sounded on the thousandth floor.
“Avery, stop! It’s the reporter,” her mom admonished, with a disappointed shake of her head. “And put your shoes back on.”
Right, because god forbid anyone find out that we walk around our home barefoot. “It isn’t the reporter; it’s Max,” Avery argued, though she dutifully pulled on the low-slung heels her mom had picked out. They matched her plum-colored dress, with a narrow waistline and cap sleeves. Which her mom had also picked out.
“You invited Max?” Elizabeth heaved a loud sigh. “Avery, this was supposed to be an intimate family brunch. With a photo shoot.”
Avery felt a stab of resentment. She knew exactly why her mom didn’t want Max here. Her parents genuinely liked him, but they had done their best to keep him away from anything election-related. Because Max, with his shaggy hair and mismatched clothes and dry sense of humor, didn’t fit the image Avery’s parents were trying to construct of their perfect all-American family.
“Yes, I invited Max,” Avery said curtly. She had been dreading this meal all week and wasn’t about to face it without Max.
Their brunch guest was a reporter from Modern Life, one of the most followed news sources on the feeds. He was currently writing a profile about Avery’s dad, one of those cozy at-home pieces about what the newly elected mayor of New York was like “behind the scenes.” It would be posted to the feeds later today, just in time for the inauguration ball.
Avery knew she was expected to sit there and smile like the well-behaved, photogenic daughter everyone thought she was. To tell a charming story that helped cast her dad in a relatable light. To act elegant but approachable.
She strode quickly down the entry hall, her multiplied reflections floating in the mirrors alongside her. Her footsteps echoed on the newly polished floors. Their housekeeper, Sarah, was preparing a “home-cooked” meal of omelets and pancakes, and Avery’s mom had deliberately left the kitchen door open, so everything smelled lightly of sugar and domesticity.
“Hey, there,” she exclaimed as she opened the front door for Max. She had offered several times to put him on the approved-entry list, but he unerringly refused. And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your beautiful face each time you let me in? he’d asked, to which Avery had no response except a smile.
He stood there now in a button-down shirt and khakis, his dark hair slightly less mussed than usual, a bouquet of fresh lilies in his outstretched fist. When Avery started to reach for them, Max laughingly shook his head.
“These aren’t for you; they’re for your mom,” he said. How typically thoughtful of him.
“You didn’t bring anything for me?” Avery teased.
“Just this.” Max leaned forward to kiss her, sending shivers down the length of Avery’s body.
“Thanks. I needed that.”
“Remember,” he murmured into her ear as they walked through the apartment with fingers laced. “You won’t have to deal with any of this stuff next year. You’ll get to run away with me to Oxford and leave it all behind.”
“I know,” Avery said, but her statement lacked its usual conviction. It wasn’t Max’s fault, she assured herself. Just that she was young and still entitled to change her mind about things . . . to live in the dorms, for instance. . . .
“Max!” Her father strode into the living room, closely followed by Avery’s mom, who gave a tight, mincing smile. Atlas was already sprawled on the couch, a coffee in hand. He stood up to greet Max, not quite meeting Avery’s eyes.
“Mr. Fuller. Thank you so much for inviting me this afternoon,” Max said politely, and held out the bouquet of lilies. “These are for you, Mrs. Fuller.”
“Thank you, Max. We’re thrilled that you could make it,” Avery’s mom told him, and Avery wondered once again
at what a good liar her mom was, because even she—who’d heard her mom complaining about Max a mere two minutes earlier—almost believed it. Elizabeth handed the lilies to Sarah, who whisked them off to deposit them on a table somewhere.
The doorbell sounded again. “That will be the reporter,” Avery’s dad said, looking around at each of them in turn like a general surveying his troops before a grand parade. “This is the biggest coverage of our family so far. Let’s make sure it’s positive, okay?”
The reporter’s name was Neil Landry. He was only in his late twenties, with slick dark hair and an eager smile. Very charming and personable, exactly what you would expect from someone whose career consisted of constantly making and uploading vids.
“Mr. Landry. Thank you for joining us on such an important, exciting day.” Avery’s dad shook the reporter’s hand with characteristic gusto.
“Please, call me Neil.” His smile was almost as blinding as Avery’s dad’s.
“Only if you’ll call me Pierson.”
Avery’s dad stepped behind the enormous bar, which was made of a slab of Carrara marble that, to his delight, had come from the twentieth-century headquarters of the New York Prohibition Agency. He opened a bottle of champagne for mimosas. “We’re celebrating!” he exclaimed in an ebullient mood.
Avery smiled and nodded and tried to follow along. Everyone else seemed to be doing just fine, even Max, who was clearly making a valiant effort for Avery’s sake. They all laughed, they flattered the reporter, they lobbed harmless jokes at Avery’s dad. It was all a perfectly choreographed dance, and Avery knew her part. She just wasn’t performing it.
Eventually they moved into the dining room, which was situated in a corner of the apartment, to take advantage of dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Even now the sun was honeycombing through the fluffy white clouds.
On the center of the table, where Max’s arrangement of lilies should have been, was a small bud vase containing a single red rose. An absolutely perfect rose, every line of its petals curved just so, its color deepening in precise degrees from the edges toward its center. It was the Avery Fuller of roses, the kind of rose that had been genetically designed for this sort of showmanship. The kind of rose that could never exist in nature. Avery imagined the florist placing an order for this maddeningly perfect rose, thinking smugly that it reflected reality.
She had a sudden urge to rip it apart. Or better yet, to collect dozens of misshapen, twisted, spotted roses, and arrange them in an enormous bowl for her parents, as a gift. A reminder that nothing in the world is perfect. That imperfection can be celebrated too.
As Sarah brought in the first few dishes, Avery’s mom met her eyes across the table and mimed sitting up straighter, her brows lowered in disappointment. Avery adjusted her posture. She hadn’t even realized she was slouching.
Maybe what Calliope had said the other day was starting to get to her.
She just didn’t feel up to it anymore. The constant pressure to get things right, to never make a single misstep. She twisted her superfiber napkin furiously in her lap. It was woven far too strongly to rip, so she just kept contorting it on itself, over and over.
“So, Pierson,” the reporter said, as Avery’s mom finished a story about how she and Pierson met at a church fund-raiser, which was so false that it was almost laughable. Avery knew that her parents had met through an i-Net dating site. “You said throughout the campaign that you would apply business sense to government. Is that still your approach?”
“Of course,” Avery’s dad said good-naturedly. “I want to run the city like a company. Make it efficient.”
“And who will take over your actual company while you’re helping this great city?”
“I have a very experienced board of directors in place. And my son, Atlas, is in town to help ensure that the transition goes smoothly.”
Neil’s eyes gleamed. “Atlas, you skipped college to go work for your father, didn’t you?” Before Atlas could answer, he had rounded on Avery. “What about you, Avery? Are you going to join the family business someday?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m hoping to study art history in college. We’ll see where that leads me.”
“And this is your boyfriend?” Neil added jovially, his gaze sliding to Max for the first time. “What was wrong with all the men in New York, that you had to go get one abroad?”
Avery knew he was just trying to be witty, but she couldn’t help reflexively looking at Atlas across the table, just for an instant.
“I guess I never found the right person in New York.”
“Which worked out in my favor,” Max cut in, trying to help. “I know how unbelievably lucky I am.”
“I bet New Yorkers weren’t too pleased with that!” the reporter boomed, his eyes still on Avery. Everyone at the table joined obediently in the laughter. “What do you think of what the press is calling you? The ‘princess of New York’?”
Avery’s hand closed around her water in its antique crystal glass, which was incised with a feathery, delicate design. She liked how fragile it felt in her hand. As if she could smash it against a wall and watch it fragment into a million beautiful slivers.
“It’s a little silly,” she admitted.
“Come on! What girl doesn’t want to be called a princess?” Neil persisted.
To Avery’s surprise, Atlas was the one who answered for her.
“I don’t think ‘princess’ describes Avery,” he said softly. “It implies that Avery didn’t do anything on her own, that she’s only worth knowing because of the family she comes from, while we all know Avery is remarkable in her own right. She’s brilliant, and thoughtful, and the most caring and selfless person I know.”
“What would you call her, then, if not a princess?” the reporter asked. Avery saw her dad listening, perhaps too intently.
“Unique,” Atlas said quietly. “Avery is never anyone but herself. That’s what the world loves about her.”
Avery felt tears burning at her eyes. It wasn’t lost on her that if someone was going to speak up on her behalf, it should have been her boyfriend.
The doorbell clanged, breaking the charged silence. Avery heard Sarah hurrying to answer it. There was the sound of low voices conferring and footsteps echoing down the hall. A moment later, a pair of police officers strode into the room.
Avery’s blood drummed furiously in her veins. She felt suddenly light-headed, because she knew, with a rush of nauseating certainty, that this was about her.
“Miss Fuller?” asked the older policeman, a man with a curling moustache. “We were hoping you would come down to the station and answer a few questions for us.”
“Excuse me, but what is this regarding?” her father cut in.
Avery knew that she should be afraid, but for some reason, the fear wasn’t hitting her yet. Instead she felt a curious sense of detachment, as if she were floating somewhere near the chandelier.
“It’s about the murder of Mariel Valconsuelo,” answered the police officer; and that single word, murder, echoed through the room like a gunshot. Avery saw Neil Landry lean forward, his nostrils flaring in anticipation. Well, of course. Perfect Avery Fuller being questioned about a murder might be the start of a very good story.
The police officer folded his hat respectfully in his hands. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Fuller. We would like to hear what your daughter has to say on this matter.”
“Out of the question,” Avery’s dad said smoothly. “She can’t talk, today of all days. It’s the inauguration ball! If you really need Avery’s testimony, you can come back with a subpoena.”
Avery found her voice at last. “I don’t mind,” she whispered, and rose to her feet, still holding tightly to the napkin as if it were a good-luck charm. “I don’t know anything about Mariel or about her death, but if there’s any way I can be helpful, I am happy to try.”
Pierson relented, though he still didn’t seem pleased.
“All right,” he conceded. “But let me get Quiros for you. You shouldn’t have to answer any questions without our lawyer present.”
Avery nodded and followed the policemen out the door, trying to project a self-assurance that she didn’t feel.
She had plenty that she wanted to keep hidden—about Eris’s death, her relationship with Atlas, and most of all, what Mariel had done to Leda that night on the beach in Dubai.
Soon enough, everyone might discover that perfect Avery Fuller wasn’t so very perfect after all.
CALLIOPE
CALLIOPE GLOWED WITH palpable happiness as she walked with Brice into city hall, pulling her gown to one side so it wouldn’t catch on her heels. It was a deep purple—the color of royalty, of course—made of a glorious lithe satin that clung to her waist before falling in dramatic folds down to her strappy black stilettos. Next to her, Brice looked brooding and aloof and devastatingly handsome.
“I’m so glad you decided that you could come tonight after all,” Brice said warmly.
At first Calliope thought there was no way she could come to the ball. It was too high-profile and conspicuous, too flagrant a violation of the rules she should be living by; and besides, Nadav and Elise would be here. Yet in a shocking twist of events, Calliope’s deliverance had actually come from Livya.
Livya had woken up this morning sick and clammy with a fever. She had begged her daddy to please stay home and take care of her. It made no sense to Calliope; everyone knew that room comps were equipped with a full suite of medical products, and could just as easily monitor a sick person or feed them soup. But of course, Nadav agreed to stay by Livya’s side all night, like the smothering parent he was.
The moment she knew for certain that Nadav and Elise weren’t coming, Calliope had messaged Brice. I think I can sneak out, if you want to go to the inauguration ball.
Sneak out! For shame, Brice had replied, and she could practically see the amusement glinting in his eyes. I’ve been a terrible influence on you, Calliope Brown, and you should turn me away while there’s still hope for you. If you can. I’m usually quite difficult to get rid of.
The Towering Sky Page 26
