by Julie Cross
“Sure.” I stand and reach for my phone pieces again. “And while I’m in there, I’ll make sure to explain to the guidance counselor how I learned that Simon Gilbert had a secret love who likely didn’t return the feelings…guess that could have pushed him over the edge.” I scratch my head. “Or maybe his feelings pushed you over the edge?”
Miles’s calm face morphs into a scowl, but he says nothing.
I shrug. “She’s a professional; she’ll know how to help me sort out the details. Good thing I snapped some pictures of that letter from Simon.”
Warm fingers curl around my wrist, holding me in place. “Sit.”
I give him a satisfied smile and plop back down in my chair.
“Baltimore,” he says, practically through his teeth. “And yes, boarding school.”
Truth.
Baltimore isn’t too far from here. It makes sense that Simon might go to school there if his family had already made the move from the West Coast to D.C. “How close were you two?”
The pain returns to his face, and he glances away from me at one of the photos pinned to the wall. “He was my roommate all three years before high school.”
Truth.
And okay, maybe he really is seventeen.
“What happened when high school started? You stayed at military school and Simon came back to Virginia?”
“Simon was there because—” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “We were both there for the same reason. To get into the honors program.”
“So you were competing against each other.” I take another bite of the banana. “What happened? He didn’t get in?”
“No, he didn’t,” Miles says. “He bombed the entrance exam.”
His jaw tenses like he’s angry with Simon for flunking a test. The Simon Gilbert I knew never would have flunked a test. Quite the opposite. I mention this to Miles.
“It wasn’t that kind of test.” He thinks for a minute, deliberating. “It was more…more applied skills than a written exam.”
Applied skills? Like climbing a rope or army crawling beneath barbed wire?
“Okay, so you gave up your spot in the honors program to come here so you can dig into what happened to Simon?” The thought of Miles avenging his death, needing to know what really happened in the same way that I need to know, leaves a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m not ready to be on a team with Miles. Maybe not with anyone.
“Something like that.” He won’t look at me. He’s studying the photos on the wall, and it’s obvious he’s gone too far with the sharing.
“And tracking the drug dealer—?”
“A hobby,” Miles says.
Lie.
This pisses me off. “I can’t believe you made me feel like such an asshole for being deceptive, investigating, throwing out drugs. Every word out of your mouth has been a fucking lie. And what the hell are you doing with your free time? Not flushing drugs, oh no. You’re fucking buying them from dangerous dealers! Do you have a bloated hero complex? Are you just incredibly stupid? Or are you still lying to me about why you’re here?”
His fingers curl around the edge of the table, his jaw tense again. “Maybe I can’t tell you why I’m here, Ellie. Did you ever think of that? That maybe, unlike you, I’d be happy to lay out all the facts of my life right here on this table for you to understand, but I can’t. So fucking deal with it or go do whatever it is you’re threatening to do, because you know what? I’m not as good a liar as you are, and that says something about my character. What does it say about yours?”
“You put a tracking device on me,” I accuse. “And you kissed me! For a lie!”
The quick shift in blood sugar appears to be bad for my impulse control.
“And you’re sort of dating Bret Thomas even though you’ve made it clear today that you hate the guy.” Miles stands, walks over to the wall with the most photos of me on it, and begins pulling out pins, shifting pictures around.
“So it really was fake?” I sit on that for a minute, a bit stunned he didn’t correct me. And disappointed, though I’m working hard to ignore that part.
“You tell me.” Miles glances my way, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve seen you in action. You can turn it on and get every guy to look your way whenever you want. But how do you know the reaction is real? That you’ve really lured and hooked?”
“Easy,” I say. “Change in skin color, pupil dilation, tension in the hands, fidgeting, momentary avoidance of eye contact.”
What the hell am I doing? Or does he already know about me? He knows my strict-preacher-dad story is bogus. But then I remember something he said when the gun was pointed at me earlier.
I thought you were just a lonely girl who lied to get her way and push people away.
No, he doesn’t know. Sure enough, Miles lifts an eyebrow and says, “Lawrence taught you some tricks.”
I shrug. “Aidan says I’m a natural Secret Service agent.”
“Lawrence is still pretty green.”
My eyebrow lifts up. “You’re an expert on the Secret Service now?”
“Wikipedia,” he says, tense again. “Heard all the kids are using it.”
Lie.
“Another lie,” I say, deciding to just call him out on it.
He glares at me. “You’re such a hypocrite. You’re the one with the skills.”
The anger on his face fades, and I sit there staring at him. Suddenly, or maybe finally, we seem to be on the same wavelength. He wants to tell me, but he’s not allowed.
If I’m reading correctly between those lines, he wants me to find out for myself.
“Look, I have to go meet someone—”
I sit up, suddenly energetic again. “Are you following the drug dealer? And seriously, what does he think you brought back from Switzerland? And what is this drug that makes you stay awake for three days or whatever?”
Okay, why am I suddenly interested in fighting the war on drugs? Maybe Miles is rubbing off on me. Or it’s Aidan’s investigation training games.
“I’m not following Davey.” He busies himself cleaning up my banana peel.
“Why not?” I demand. “At least turn on the other half of the tracker so we can see where he goes.”
“I don’t have it,” Miles mutters. Then he walks out with my glass and banana peel, returning them to the kitchen. “Besides, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I didn’t put a tracker on anyone.”
“Jesus,” I mumble. “Don’t get so defensive. You were screwed before I jumped in to save your ass. So you can turn off the courtroom-testimony act. We aren’t there yet.”
“I really do have to go.”
I roll my eyes. We’ve hit a wall. And I don’t have the energy at the moment to fight him through it. “Fine. Go to your secret meeting of the secret people.”
He sweeps the parts of my phone into his hand and has it reassembled by the time we’re out of the apartment. He drops it into my hand, but his fingers linger over mine. “Go eat something more than a banana, okay? And get some sleep.”
I study his face, my gaze drifting to his neck, noting the barely pink coloring creeping upward. He rolls his apartment keys around in one hand, and when I try to check his pupils, he looks away, above my head. Before he can catch me studying him, I walk away, into my apartment.
Now I need to learn a little more about this military school and about Simon’s long-lost friend. I head straight for my laptop and get to work, typing: military school Baltimore into Google.
CHAPTER 23
It’s two in the morning and I’m still awake. I could blame it on the half-painted fuchsia wall in my room, but this is the third or fourth night in a row I’ve lain awake until unreasonable hours. Every time I close my eyes, the room fills with water, the bed lifting off the floor, rocking back and forth.
I toss back the covers and hop out of bed. I can’t lie there any longer. The blue lights in the pool glow bright through my window. I lift the blinds
and spot Miles right away. It’s too cold for him to swim; he’s fully dressed, seated on the edge, his bare feet in the water.
But he must have felt me watching. He tilts his head up toward my window. I debate hiding, but it’s too late. He already caught me watching. I don’t know what reaction I expected, but I definitely didn’t anticipate him standing and then climbing up the balcony. He does it so fast I don’t even have time to unlock my window before he’s reaching over, knocking on it.
I scramble to pry it open and then back up while Miles basically jumps from the balcony through the window. He lands with barely a sound, crouched down on my carpet.
I stand over him, shaking my head. “I would have let you in the front door.”
“Didn’t want to wake anyone.” He glances around my semi-dark room, taking in the paint job and the furniture moved away from the wall.
“It’s a work in progress.” I can’t remember if I’m wearing the pajama pants with a hole in the crotch. Not to mention my lack of bra. I fold my arms over my chest. “What are you doing by the pool in the middle of the night? Surveillance?”
The second the word exits my mouth, everything I read online hours ago comes back to me. And it isn’t easy standing here with this Miles Beckett. The one who is likely good. What had I wanted to find out? That he was a reformed criminal like me? That would make it easier, I think. Easier for me.
He tenses and stares at me, searching my face. Reading me. “Odd word choice.”
“Probably not for you…?” I prompt. “Mr. Marshall Academy. How hard is it to get into this McCone honors program? How many experiential learners like you are out there right now playing teenage FBI for the semester?”
Miles smirks at me. “Conspiracy theories? That’s your source. I thought you were better than that, Ellie.”
“Investigators use conspiracy theories all the time.” I walk over to my desk where my list of notes rests beside my laptop. Despite my casual tone, it wasn’t exactly easy getting to this conclusion. The Marshall Academy checks out perfectly. Around two hundred years old, founded by a slave-owning dead president wanting to turn boys into men, then came the girls in the seventies…similar story to the nearly two dozen military boarding academies in our country.
“Yeah,” Miles agrees. “To find the nut jobs behind them. Conspiracy theorists are ten times more likely to commit terrorists acts.”
“I take it Terrorism 101 is on your honors course list?”
Eventually, while searching online, I started running into chat boards where something called the McCone honors program, where students are handpicked and groomed as future government operatives, military leaders, etc., was discussed at length. This program supposedly includes semester-long undercover field work. Teenage spies in the flesh. It sounded like B.S., like a TV show on ABC Family or the CW.
Since I’m not a genius or a tech expert, I employed the help of my good friend Connie from Tech Gear via anonymous email. My airhead persona she knows me as wouldn’t have fit with this question. With her magic tech fingers, she dug up some very interesting details. Turns out Connie is a lover of both conspiracy theories and the truth. Very helpful combination.
“Does the name Kathleen French sound familiar? Apparently you aren’t the first honors kid to blow his cover—or hers.” I look Miles over, trying to see if I hit his panic nerve yet.
“I haven’t blown any cover,” he snaps.
And because he did this to me the other night, I can’t help but say, “I think you just did.”
“Why?” He folds his arms across his chest, not even a little flustered, unfortunately. “Are you planning on turning me in?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” I glance over my page of notes. “Sounds like someone turned in this Kathleen French girl back in the early nineties. According to a report from the Boston PD, she was arrested for prostitution along with dozens of her fellow sorority sisters at Northeastern University.”
“Where did you see that report?” Miles demands.
I ignore his question and continue. “The Feds were able to take down a four-year-long prostitution ring started by a group of MIT guys who saw the future of the internet and decided sex tapes featuring prominent members of society might be worth a lot of money. Unfortunately, those smart MIT guys decided they weren’t going down without making a big splash. If they couldn’t release the sex tapes they’d collected, they were going to tell the world that Kathleen French was simultaneously enrolled at Northeastern University and Marshall Academy. And somehow had managed to vanish before any of the girls arrested went to trial. Before she could testify against her MIT pimps.”
I have to admit, it really is quite a story. If I weren’t on the criminal side of society, even I would want to join the FBI after hearing that. Least. Boring. Job. Ever.
Miles has his poker face plastered on, but he says nothing. What could he say?
“You’re not undercover as a prostitute, are you?” I ask.
“God, do you take anything seriously, Ellie? Or is it all a game to you?” Miles glares at me. “I’m not some weirdo hiding my dark past.” That makes one of us. “Unlike you, I have a job to do. And this shit is dangerous. If I’m keeping something from you, it’s because I don’t want you or anyone else to get hurt. You said Kathleen vanished before the trial. Do you know what happened to her?” I shake my head. “Well, neither does anyone! She either fled the country under an alias or she’s fucking dead.”
I take a step back, the force of his words coming at me like a physical attack. It’s true, I hadn’t thought of what happened to her. Figured she went back to her school, her life, but how could she have?
“Whatever means you used to extract that confidential document from the Boston PD is likely to have left a trail, and if by some miracle Kathleen French is alive somewhere, you’ve single-handedly exposed her again and put her at risk,” Miles says. “There are rules in place for a reason, lines we don’t cross because people die if you do.”
Goose bumps erupt on my skin. I rub my arms. I stare at him, horrified. “You practically told me to dig up this stuff. Why would you do that? If you had budged an inch from your disciplined self and crossed that tiny line and explained things to me, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Miles’s eyes widen, and then he backs up until he runs into my bed. He sits down and scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Ellie. You’re right.”
Okay, not what I’d expected him to say.
“I’m sorry,” Miles repeats. He drops his hands and looks up at me. “I’m just a little… Well, things have gotten messy, and I don’t do messy. Ever.”
“Yeah, I kind of guessed that.” I move closer, the tension lessening between us.
“I came up here to ask for a truce,” he admits. “Can we just be on the same side for a little while? I think there are holes in Simon’s investigation and I owe it to him—we owe it to him—to keep looking until we’re sure. Don’t you think?”
I nod, shocked by these words as well. I release a breath and close the distance between us, taking a seat beside Miles. “I can’t believe your school sent you here to investigate your own friend’s death.”
He looks down at his hands. “They didn’t. I’m number three in my class, so I got top pick for the internship. I have other work to do for school.”
“Like busting drug dealers,” I mutter.
He doesn’t confirm or deny this. Doesn’t need to. “I’m not doing anything illegal being here, looking into Simon’s life since he left Marshall Academy. If we find anything useful, we’ll go right to the authorities, and we’ll do everything by the book.”
By the book. ’Cause I’m a by-the-book girl. “We?” I prompt.
“Yeah.” He looks at me again and nods. “We. Both of us have done some digging and on our own we’re getting somewhere, but together…we could be highly effective, not to mention efficient, which is good, considering I’ve got only a couple of months left at Holden.�
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“Exactly what every girl wants to hear…together, baby, we’re just so efficient.”
He looks like he wants to give me another “be more serious” lecture but eventually cracks a smile. “I’m good like that. And you were right. I was doing surveillance. Thought maybe you could sleep, and I can keep an eye on things from in here.”
“You want to watch me while I sleep?” I snort back a laugh. “Creepy much?”
Miles rolls his eyes. “I’m just trying to help.”
Yeah, ’cause I usually like to fall asleep whenever I get a hot guy in my bedroom in the middle of the night.
Miles takes the pillows from my bed and moves them to the other end. “Here’s a trick I use sometimes. Switch ends, lay on top of the covers, keep it low commitment.”
I’m skeptical of this plan, but I sit on the new end of the bed and lean against the pillows. Miles plops down on the other end, his legs shifting to the opposite side of mine.
I have a vision of Simon and his reddish-blond hair and skinny legs sprawled out on my bed, like Miles is right now, from last June when we were cramming for the biology final.
A lump forms in my throat. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. “You sure you want to work with me? What if I’m bad luck? What if somehow I’m the reason Simon’s dead?”
Miles looks like he’s about to laugh, like I’m joking again, but I’m mostly serious. “I don’t know how or why—probably Agent Lawrence’s work—but you’re good at this. Look at how well you’ve done wedging yourself into the in-crowd’s world. You’ve got Justice painting your room, Jacob worshipping your genius like a new religion, and Bret Thomas’s about to ask you to homecoming. This is exactly what we need. Nothing better than information from the inside.”
“I agree with that last part so completely but…” I twist my hands together. “You know that whole near-drowning thing the other day?” He nods. “Well, Bret was about to kiss me, and I just couldn’t deal. I couldn’t get in the right head space to play along.”
“So you jumped in the ocean, at night, even though you knew you couldn’t swim well there?” Miles says.
