by Julie Cross
“And has a father with a very dangerous job,” Harp says. “I know all of this, Ellie. I’m not stupid.” She levels me with a look. “I’m also not willing to give up my chance at a real life just because of things our parents did. I’m too young and too optimistic to throw in the towel already.”
Yeah, we don’t share the optimist gene. I’m about to put up a better, bigger argument, but my senses become alert to something behind me, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. Footsteps. The sound of clothes brushing against skin. It’s dark on the street, but the well-manicured lawns around us reduce the possibility of a threat. Or they should, at least.
I glance sideways at Harper. Even in the dark, she catches my eye and moves close. She felt it, too.
“Who?” I whisper. She shakes her head.
“Ellie!” someone shouts from behind.
Harper lets out a short scream. My heart jumps up to my throat.
The shadowed figure shouting my name moves close enough to identify. I clutch my chest with one hand and slap his shoulder with the other. “What the hell, Bret?”
He lifts up his hands in surrender, like he did in the equipment closet the other day. I’m beginning to think it’s his signature move. The I-didn’t-do-it face is well crafted. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“Well, you did!” Harper snaps. She gives my arm a protective squeeze. “Jesus.”
“I went by your place,” Bret says. “And the big guy who answered the door told me where you were… I figured I’d catch up to you—” He looks between the two of us, his forehead wrinkled. “Are you two always this jumpy?”
“Do you always creep up behind people in the dark?” I ask.
He laughs. “You guys were seriously freaked out? In this neighborhood? Nothing happens here.”
Harper and I take a few seconds to come down from our adrenaline rush, and then we continue to walk home. Bret decides he’s forgiven enough to walk beside us, though Harper continues to glare at him.
“What do you need, Bret?” I finally ask as we’re approaching the apartment complex. “And what’s wrong with texting? I hear all the kids are doing it these days.”
He looks a little embarrassed—very out of character for him—when he turns to me, one hand gripping the back of his neck. “I was hoping maybe you could help me with the English assignment. I’m barely pulling a C and Lance worships you…”
I’m actually impressed that he’s got a C in the class. Especially since he’s busy helping to coach field hockey and planting drugs on fellow classmates. Hard to keep up with The Great Gatsby with all that going on.
But as the saying goes, keep your friends close and make your enemies fall for you.
Harper’s looking at me like, Who the hell is this guy and do you need me to get rid of him?
“It’s fine,” I tell her. Then I say to Bret, “I don’t do other people’s homework.”
“I don’t want you to,” he insists. “Just help me. That’s all.”
Then tell me what your car was doing in this exact spot last June.
If only it were that easy. The key to undercover operations is to gain trust. Even if doing this makes you want to vomit up kosher meat.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” I say finally.
We walk between two of the buildings to the courtyard and pool. Even though it’s dark out, the lights around the pool and in the water make it easy to see a guy swimming laps. I’ve become familiar with Miles’s butterfly stroke. It’s smooth and perfect—the tempo, the ease with which his arms continuously rise out of the water like they’ll never tire.
An older man I don’t recognize is seated in a lawn chair, a cigar in his mouth, the newspaper spread out in front of him. “Hey, kid, give it a rest,” he shouts at Miles.
“Is that Beckett?” Bret says. “Look at him, training for our next race. That shithead. He acts like he’s never swam before in his life and then he’s kicking everyone’s ass.”
Smoke from the cigar wafts this way, and my stomach turns. I hate that smell.
“Hey, kid!” the guy shouts louder. “Enough.”
Miles stops, and his feet hit the bottom of the pool. He tosses his goggles off to the side and glares at the guy. “If I keep my head underwater, maybe I’ll avoid damage from your secondhand smoke.”
The man snorts, but he does put out the cigar. Is that Miles’s uncle? The one who leaves envelopes full of cash labeled “food money”?
“You’re gonna wear yourself down to nothing,” the man says to Miles. “You’ve done at least a hundred laps. What are you training for? Olympics are over.”
When Harper heads up the stairs to our apartment, Miles finally looks around and notices Bret and me. He morphs back into the cool kid he was at the yacht party. He hops out of the pool, shakes off the excess water—which is quite a sight—and grins at Bret. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
I’m so busy admiring my shirtless neighbor I barely hear Bret when he says, “What do you think, Ellie? Are you up for a threesome?”
I snap around to face him. “What?”
Bret laughs, but Miles stiffens and heads over to grab his towel from a table nearby. “He means to study.”
Clearly I missed that part. “You’re not in our class.”
“But he’s reading the same book,” Bret says. “And he’s in honors.”
“That’s right, Miles the honors student,” I sing.
He turns around to face me, the towel now around his neck. “And Ellie the…” He scratches his head. “What exactly are you, Ellie? Party girl? Field hockey star? Saver of wet clothing?”
We stare at each other, something flowing between us, something that says the trust I built the other night might be gone. But it can’t be that. Not completely. He would have told Harper about the drugs.
“Teacher’s pet,” Bret says. “That’s what Ellie is, and I’m using it to my benefit.”
I force a smile. “Come on upstairs.”
In the apartment, I leave Bret at the kitchen table with Harper, who is all too willing to continue to glare at the guy who freaked us out on our walk home. I find Aidan waiting for me in the doorway to his and Harper’s room.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say before he gets a word in. I lower my voice to a whisper. “Just let me do this, okay? You want to know what he was doing in the parking lot the night Simon died, and I can find out.”
Aidan tenses, cracks his knuckles. “Or I can have a little chat with him one-on-one and find out right now.”
“Yeah, and lose your job.” I press a hand to Aidan’s chest, holding him back. “Plus, he’s been questioned by the FBI already, remember?”
“Ellie,” Aidan whispers. “As your legal guardian, I can’t let you hang out with a kid who carts around bags of drugs.”
“They were Dominic’s drugs,” I lie. “And I’m not doing drugs. I’m not doing anything illegal with him. Right now, we’re studying.”
“Okay,” he concedes. “But I’m keeping a close eye on that kid.”
I grab my books from my room and head back to the table to join Bret. Seconds later, someone knocks on the door, and Aidan lets in Miles along with the cigar-smoking guy. Aidan shakes hands with the older man. “How was the traveling, Clyde?”
So it is Uncle Clyde.
“You know, same old.”
Aidan offers him a beer, and the two of them head out to the balcony. With Aidan not so secretly watching us, I slide my chair an equal distance between Miles and Bret and open my copy of Gatsby.
“So, Mr. Lance assigned us—”
“Dude,” Bret says to Miles. “Justice is going nuts ’cause you haven’t called her. You going somewhere with that?”
I lift an eyebrow at Miles. He refuses to look me in the eye. “Not sure. Just trying to get by right now, you know? New place, new school…”
“Yeah, I get it. But seriously, she’s freaking. And Justice freaking is likely to make you the one to—” Bret’s eyes wi
den. “Okay, I see what you’re doing now. Well-played, man.”
I lift up the hardcover book and drop it onto the table, allowing the loud thud to echo through the room. “Hello? I thought we were studying, not conducting a meeting for Asshole Kings of the Universe.”
“Sorry,” Bret says, and then he makes an effort to lean over and look at the chapter in the book I’ve just opened.
Miles, on the other hand, ignores me. “Can you let Dominic know I’m gonna do the boat rental thing sometime this week if he’s still up for waterskiing.”
Dominic. Miles is hanging out with Dominic. I glance down at the book, thinking of something. “Hey, why don’t you ask Dominic to study with us? He’s in the class.”
“Good idea.” Bret picks up his phone and appears to text someone. He turns to Miles again. “Dominic’s got a bad rep with the boat rental places. He’s banned from all the ones around here. He got wasted, had a bad wreck over the summer. His dad got him off with barely a scratch. He knew a judge,” Bret says like this is normal. “He was kind of messed up for a couple of months, but he’s cool now. Just don’t let him drink and drive.”
Both Bret and Miles laugh like we weren’t just conversing about breaking some pretty big, important laws. I look at Bret, seeing his presence in my life as an even bigger opportunity. He’s a gossip. Or at least he is with Miles.
“Oh, I heard about that,” I say as casually as possible.
Bret lifts an eyebrow. “Really? From who?”
Uh… “Justice, I think…or maybe it was Chantel.” I shake my head. “I can’t remember.”
“Justice, probably.” Bret rolls his eyes. “She’s always hot and cold with Dominic. And when they’re cold, she’s all about telling his secrets.”
Good to know. Maybe there’s a way to induce the cold phase so she can fill me in on some of his secrets. Like the envelope of Simon Gilbert articles.
I smile at both guys. “I think this group study thing is gonna work out great.”
CHAPTER 13
It took nearly two hours to get to this tech store in Georgetown, so I had no choice but to skip school this afternoon to arrive before closing. I’ll have to make up an excuse for missing class. Aidan and Harper will be on me as soon as I get home because my school sends these automated phone calls whenever anyone misses a class and a parent or guardian doesn’t call it in.
I’ve changed out of my uniform into a yellow cotton sundress by the time I walk into Tech Gear Unlimited. The store is tiny, no customers shopping at the moment, and the girl behind the counter is reading a comic book, her black boots tossed up onto the counter. This is supposed to be the best place for confidential consultations regarding all things tech gear. Hopefully that piece of marketing holds some truth, because I went through a lot of trouble to get here.
“What can I help you with?” the girl asks. She looks about Harp’s age, maybe a little older. Her dirty-blond hair is tied in a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a Star Wars T-shirt, a name tag that reads Connie attached to the front.
I set my purse on the counter and then lean against it, my elbows resting on top. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
Connie points to a sign on the wall that says: Technically challenged? No worries. This is a judgment-free zone.
“It said on your website that you can identify any electronic or technical gear…” I bite my lip, giving the appearance of nerves, then I slowly remove the St. Felicity’s Shelter pen from my purse. “So…my BFFs Sarah H.—that’s Sarah with an H plus an H for her last initial—and Sara C.—”
“H or no H?” Connie interrupts.
“No H,” I say. “We were eating lunch on the bleachers because that’s the best vitamin D spot and Sarah H. is deficient. I guess it’s causing depression, and three pieces of her hair fell out yesterday, so we’re trying to help her out. Her cook always makes sushi for us on Wednesdays—not the easiest thing to eat outside, but whatever. I was dipping my spicy tuna when I spotted this pen in the grass. I knew there was something strange about it because none of us had ever even heard of St. Felicity’s Shelter and Sarah H. was baptized Catholic so she would totally know.”
“Totally,” Connie agrees, looking amused. It seems the sign is true. This really is a judgment-free zone, because I would have kicked myself out of this store by now.
“I pulled off the cap…” I uncap the pen and reveal the bug hidden inside. Connie leans closer to get a good look. “And this came out. Obviously it’s some kind of computer chip, but why would you hide it in a pen? It has to be top secret. And then Sarah H. and Sara C. got into an argument over whether it belongs to Russian or Chinese spies. Sarah H. says Russians. But Sara C. claims the Chinese are the ones to worry about right now and that Russia is so 1980. I didn’t know who was right, so I volunteered to get some help figuring it out.” I grin at her. “So here I am.”
“Here you are.” Connie looks up at me. “It’s a listening device.”
“Wait…” I fake shock. “So it is a spy thing? Spies use these, right?”
“Sure,” she says. “Or private investigators, FBI, CIA…”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, the CIA is in our school! I think I know who it is—this one guy in my American lit class is always on the phone speaking Turkish or Lithuanian. Holy cow, I have to tell my parents. They’re going to freak. They’re so big on privacy.”
“The CIA is just one example of who might use a device like this,” Connie reassures. “From what I know, clandestine missions in American high schools aren’t a primary focus of the CIA. How about we do a little research on the manufacturer?”
I play with my phone and examine my nails while Connie moves a laptop onto the counter and types away, searching for answers. After a few minutes, she says, “This manufacturer definitely has a government contract. It looks like that’s their only customer at the moment.”
This is exactly what I’d been hoping to learn today. If I can find out who owns this device, I might be able to figure out why that owner wants to spy on Dominic DeLuca.
“Whoa.” I lean in closer. “Seriously? This is so Bourne Identity. Or maybe Skyfall. Have you seen that movie?”
“Sorry, no.”
That makes two of us.
“Wow…” Connie says to her laptop. “This is the real deal. Top quality. Probably a few thousand with the receiver.”
“Receiver? Oh, like the thingy you use to listen in?”
Connie looks impressed. “Exactly.”
“So they just stuck this spy chip in some random pen?”
“No.” Connie’s face fills with excitement like I’ve brought her a technical feast. “I think St. Felicity’s Shelter might be a code name.”
“For what?”
“For a government office or a special division of an existing investigative branch…” she rattles off while scrolling through a web page. “But everything I’m reading is theories other techies like me have posted online. No proof or facts to validate them.”
Okay, this shit’s gettin’ real. Exactly why I need the rich-airhead-girl cover. I don’t want her tying me with any government agency in any of her own techie theories. “This is so crazy. I mean, what if we, like, had lunch inside yesterday? This never would have happened.”
Connie glances at me again, longing and apprehension on her face. “Any chance you might be willing to leave the pen with me for a while so I can look into it more?”
I shrug. “What good is it to me? I mean, not without the receiver thingy… Now if I had that, I would definitely plant it on Sara C.’s boyfriend. I know he’s cheating on her with Gwen Saxton, but she doesn’t believe me. She’s in denial because she’s so in love with him.” I stop talking and sigh. “Except my BFFs will kill me if I don’t bring it back. They almost didn’t want me coming here alone, but Sarah H. had a bio quiz and Sara C. has already skipped P.E. eight days this month for PMS, so she’s over the limit.”
I can practically
see the wheels spinning in Connie’s head, while she digs for a way to get me to let her keep this device for a while. I’m hoping for something better in return. God knows I’m too broke to buy any spy gear.
“What if I make you a deal?” she says.
“You mean like money? That’s not really going to help.”
“I mean I can loan you a similar, though way-less-interesting-to-me device, with a receiver,” Connie says. “Your friends won’t know the difference and you can nail Sara C.’s boyfriend—” She closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. “I’m always doing that. Picking the worst possible wording. I should have said, gain proof or catch him in the act.”
“Good, because I would never do that with him. I only date guys who are at least six one and he’s five eleven. Plus he’s, like, Sara C.’s boyfriend.” I’m really beginning to hate my imaginary BFFs. They’re assholes.
Connie smiles; she’s excited but trying to hide it. She gestures toward a door behind the counter. “Step into my office. That’s where I keep all the top-secret gear. I’ll show you how to use it and everything.”
Connie spends a good forty-five minutes giving me a thorough lesson on how to spy on someone via audio invasion. And despite the fact that I’ve planted plenty of bugs and searched for them, too, this one is a bit more high-tech than what I’m used to, so I’m glad for the step-by-step instruction.
Before I leave the store, I give Connie my cell number and promise her I’ll check back in next week.
...
The second I walk through the apartment door—my new toy buried in the depths of my backpack—I know I’m in trouble. Aidan and Harper are sitting at the kitchen table, their voices low and serious. Both of them stop talking and look up at me.
“What the hell, Ellie?” Harper says. But I hear relief in her voice more than anger. Which makes me feel like an ass. “Where were you?”
“The automated message said you missed sixth, seventh, and eighth hour?” Aidan says.
For a second, I let myself enjoy this scene. They’re worried about me. For missing a few stupid classes. All the years I didn’t even go to school, the times I’d take off with a friend or, well…one particular guy who wasn’t a friend…and not come home until the next day—my parents never even batted an eyelash.
