Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix)

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  A train rumbled past in the opposite direction, and Marcus abruptly pressed his lips to mine, his hands cupping my cheeks. Pinpricks flooded my skin and washed away every ache and fear I had. I gave in. I knotted my fingers in his hair, kissing him back, forcing myself to focus only on his lips, our breath, his touch. He pulled me closer, and it was as if the buzz that was always between us had moved directly into my body. My breath stuttered at the sensation, and I suddenly realized how Keira could lose herself like this. I held him tighter, kissed him harder, until every painful throb in my body was forgotten. For once, I stopped fighting.

  Until it was time to board our train.

  Rome was waiting.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I spent the ride to Rome making travel arrangements with Urban’s assistant. Currently, we had proof that three former “chemical engineers” were erased from a crime scene photo with a dead Italian prime minister: my two parents and some man named Allen Cross. I didn’t know what that meant with regards to the Dresden Chemical Corporation, but the engineering connection seemed an uncanny coincidence. Still, I had to hope that Randolph Urban, my only pseudo family left on this planet, wasn’t a pathological liar too, that he really did love me, that he wanted to help, and that he wasn’t involved in my parents’ alarming top-secret lives. I couldn’t lose everyone.

  And it wasn’t like I could get far in Italy with fifty euros in my pocket.

  So I accepted his offer to stay in a five-star hotel near the Spanish Steps. I even agreed to a “gelato date” with his granddaughter, Sophia. Apparently, she’d recently moved to the ancient city, and while I didn’t have time for a social visit, she might be the only person alive who knew whether Grandpa Urban’s generosity was based purely on compassion. The man raised her, after all; if she didn’t have insight into him, who would?

  We sped over cobblestones past rows of intricately carved sienna buildings with classical arched doorways and hunter green shutters. Dozens of Roman mopeds whizzed around our taxi like immersion therapy for a person with a fear of motorized vehicles. I scrunched my eyes in the back of the cab, my seat belt locked against me.

  “You okay?” Marcus asked.

  There was sweat on my brow. “Just tell me when we’re at the hotel.” A car honked as tires screeched beside us.

  “You take on deadly spies, but you’re afraid of traffic? Interesante.”

  The car slowed, and I gradually opened my eyes to see an ornate swirling fountain spraying water in front of a wide marble staircase, more than a hundred steps high, full of couples joined at the face and teens chugging wine. We sped alongside, then stopped in front of a massive, decoratively carved building that could double for a palace.

  “Wow, Urban has good taste,” I muttered as I tossed the driver our fare.

  Marcus followed me into a gold-plated lobby befitting an heiress—glossy marble floors, rich gilded molding, and scarlet museum-quality drapes. If you added our ages together, we’d still be the youngest people in the hotel by a ridiculous margin.

  “Checking in,” I said in Italian. “Anastasia Phoenix.”

  The man behind the mahogany desk tapped his keyboard, eyes peering suspiciously as if expecting me to shoplift a vase from the lobby. After a few clicks, he held out the plastic key cards, almost begrudgingly, as if we didn’t deserve to touch them. And it wasn’t until we slogged over to the mirrored elevators that I understood his reluctance—we looked like extras in a late-night zombie flick. Our hair was matted from the motorbike ride down the side of a mountain, our eyes were bloodshot from a heaping dose of wind and fear, my arm was bloody and bandaged, my neck was bruised, and my shirt had a giant brown coffee stain from the two-hour train trip.

  “We look hot,” I joked as we entered the elevator, and Marcus snorted a laugh. We rode to our floor in silence, then thumped across the floral carpet to our adjacent rooms, pausing at our doors.

  “So tomorrow morning, Allen Cross?” Marcus confirmed.

  I nodded, not meeting his eyes, as an awkward pause fell between us. We’d kissed a lot at the train station, like a lot, then we spent the entire ride to Rome acting like it never happened. Instead, we focused on Keira, travel plans, and our date with the professor. Only every time our arms touched on the armrest, one of us jolted like we were hit with an electrical current.

  That same buzz was building between us now as we stood in front of our hotel room doors, and it felt not only awkward but inappropriate. I had no right to feel good about anything, ever, until I found my sister. I had to focus.

  “See you in the morning,” I said abruptly.

  “Sí. Hasta leugo,” he replied, but I’d already entered my room and was closing the door.

  I needed time alone. I needed to think.

  I fell asleep in my clothes.

  ...

  I awoke the next morning to a text from Charlotte detailing her itinerary. She’d be arriving in Rome tomorrow, and she wanted me to delay my visit with Allen Cross until after she landed. But I couldn’t do that. According to his online schedule, Cross taught at the University at nine o’clock this morning then wouldn’t be back on campus until next week. This was my chance to confront him and, if it were a trap, I’d rather have the bad guys spring it at a very crowded collegiate institution during regular business hours. Let Cross tell me what he knew about my parents, my sister, and a potential DNA test while there were lots of presumably well-educated witnesses lurking about.

  Marcus and I took the subway to the Sapienza Universita di Roma, a campus that reminded me so much of BU—with red and white flags lining the bustling city streets and boxy, modern architecture—I almost expected to see a T train rumble past.

  “Cross is teaching International Business Law,” I told Marcus as we walked toward the marble library at the end of a grassy quad. The street bordering the school was called Via Aldo Moro. Honestly. Our jaws dropped when we saw it, as if the universe had put my family madness in motion when it laid out the Roman street grid.

  We entered a flurry of chatty students, and I couldn’t help but notice how we blended with the crowd. We were the right age, wearing the right clothes, doing what kids our age should be doing—going to class. I suddenly hated them; I so wanted to be them. I wanted their problems. I wanted to go to Poli-Sci too hungover to take a pop quiz.

  “Reminds you of Boston, right?” said Marcus, echoing my thoughts.

  All I could do was nod as we stepped toward the architecturally uninteresting Business School, slicing through bored, pouty Italians crowded by the entrance texting through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was in Room 102, and as we neared, I heard a deep voice bellow from inside the classroom. The voice was familiar, and suddenly a memory sprung to my brain. Only it wasn’t of Allen Cross, but of a man named Aleksandr.

  I was crawling under a Christmas tree, a party underway in our living room. My parents were home for the celebration and had invited all of their friends from the Los Angeles area to spend Christmas Eve in our home. We rarely celebrated holidays on their actual date, so in an effort to make this the most perfect Christmas ever, I insisted we display the nativity scene my parents kept tucked on the top shelf of a hall closet. They agreed, and I was lying on my stomach under the tree, pine needles pricking my black velvet dress, smelling of sap as I tried to arrange the display—Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, three wise men, an angel, and an array of farm animals. One sheep was missing a leg, and as I attempted to prop it against the manger, a man walked in.

  I recognized his socks—bright red, sticking out from under his gray wool trousers. I knew without looking that they’d match his bow tie. Uncle Aleksandr always had matching socks and bow ties. He’d been a part of our family for as long as I could remember. We didn’t see him much, on account of our constant relocations, but he usually visited twice a year, bringing armfuls of presents that spanned the globe—a shadow puppet from Bali, nesting dolls from Russia, soap from Paris, chocolate from Switzerland, and corn husk figures fr
om Prague. Only, before I could slide out and ask what he’d brought me for Christmas, he and my parents began to argue.

  He was begging for help, and my parents refused. They sounded cold, hardly uttering a word as he pleaded, and finally he started to threaten. His voice grew deep, and he switched to another language—Russian, maybe Czech—as if he were so heated he couldn’t be bothered to translate his thoughts from his mother tongue anymore. I tried to crawl off, but my mother spied my black patent leather Mary Janes jutting out from under the branches, and everyone immediately stopped talking.

  I never saw Uncle Aleksandr again. I hadn’t really thought about him much, either. Maybe that was why I didn’t recognize his image in the crime scene photo. Because if I was right, and it was him, he was probably in his twenties when the picture was taken. I doubted I would have recognized anyone but my parents with that many decades of change on their faces.

  I peeked in his classroom, and his figure confirmed what his voice already told me—there stood Uncle Aleksandr with black plastic glasses and a liver-spotted bald scalp above a ring of wiry hair (a bit grayer than I remembered). He wore a royal blue bow tie, which I already knew would match the royal blue socks protruding from his slightly too-short pant cuffs.

  “I know him,” a voice whispered in my ear.

  For a second, I thought I was talking to myself, but I felt Marcus squeeze my shoulder. “In London. I’ve met him before,” Marcus continued.

  “What?” I hissed, glaring at him with a twisted expression.

  “When we lived in the UK, a couple of years ago, my dad got me a part-time job as a cycle courier. I used to deliver packages to that man. I didn’t recognize him in the photo; he had hair when he was younger, looks different now. He was a professor at the London School of Economics, and he got a lot of Dresden mail. Only I thought his name was different…”

  “Aleksandr,” I confirmed. Marcus eyes snapped to me, wide with the revelation.

  “Sí.”

  “I knew him, too.” Nerves twined in my gut. “He was close to my family for years.”

  “I guess Charlotte was right,” Marcus noted. “If Keira was in touch with somebody in Rome, someone who could help with information on your parents—”

  “This would be the guy,” I finished for him. “Luis said he’d be more receptive to me. I think I should go in alone.” I looked at Marcus. “The two of us showing up at the same time, it might seem suspicious. And we still don’t know if it’s a trap. I need you out here.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be your lookout, but I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know.” Our eyes held for a moment, and I realized Marcus was here, really here, with me. I wasn’t alone in this. He had my back. I trusted him.

  It was an unfamiliar feeling.

  Only, before I could express it, students began pushing past us, shuffling into the classroom. They dropped book bags onto the floor and gave their phones one last check. The lecture was about to begin, and without another distracting thought, I slid inside with the masses. Cross was at the board, erasing the previous class’s notes, his short arm reaching up, tufts of white hair dotting his splotchy pale hand. I sank into a desk in the back, dropping low behind the horizon of students, but he immediately paused—his arm halted as if locked in an outstretched position.

  Maybe it was a sixth sense, or maybe I was paranoid, but I swore he already knew I was there. The class settled down, growing quiet as they waited for the lecture to begin, and slowly Professor Cross turned his head. He didn’t scan the room. His gold-hazel eyes seemed programmed on me like a missile. He drew a quick breath, recognition clear on his face.

  “Studenti, tranquillo,” he began in Italian, silencing any lingering chitchat, his eyes set on me and the eraser clutched in his hand like a weapon. “I assume you read the chapter on contract law; today we’ll be discussing termination rights…”

  He flowed into his lecture in Italian as if I weren’t there. Students feverishly typed on their laptops as Uncle Aleksandr conducted the ninety-minute session with utter professionalism. No one acknowledged my intrusion.

  It wasn’t until class had ended and the room had emptied that his eyes finally turned my way once more.

  “You’re not in this class,” he said in English with barely an accent.

  “Nope,” I confirmed, rising up from my metal desk. “But I think you know who I am.” I was trying to sound confident, but really my hands were shaking.

  “Anastasia.” He greeted me with a gentlemanly nod.

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “I have a good guess, but I’m not discussing anything right now.” He rearranged some papers, stuffing items into a scratched leather satchel as if this were an ordinary conversation about an upcoming chapter reading.

  A fly buzzed past my ear, and I swatted, more aggressively than the insect deserved. If this man fed my sister information, then he was partly responsible for what happened to her. He pulled her into this mess, likely knowing the danger that my parents’ pasts possessed. Though I wondered if he shared his knowledge of that danger with her.

  “I’m not leaving without answers. My sister, Keira, has been kidnapped. So I’m gonna get right to the point—there are people who think she was being fed information about my parents from someone in Rome. Was it you? Because these men went through a lot of trouble to get me here, and I need to find my sister fast. So if you know anything, start talking.” I was done with cryptic conversations.

  He shifted his weight, eyes scanning the room as if a band of assassins might descend from the ceiling. “Who have you spoken to exactly?” He cautiously looked out the windows.

  “Salvatore and Luis Basso. It was Luis who admitted Keira was alive; that was before he nearly choked me to death. He said his partner, Craig—”

  “Stop. Talking,” Cross said forcefully, rushing to my side and gripping my elbow. “I’ll tell you what I know, but not here.” He glanced at his watch. “Meet me at five-thirty at Santa Maria’s Basilica in Trastevere. It’s across the river.”

  “They wanted me to find you. Why? How are you involved in this?”

  “I’m not your enemy,” he said curtly.

  “And I’m just supposed to trust you? I’m supposed to go somewhere alone with you?”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust anyone. But Santa Maria’s is about as crowded as you can get. Five-thirty. Now go.”

  He pushed me to the door, and before I exited, I stopped, looking back.

  “Fine. I’ll meet you there. Don’t be late, Uncle Aleksandr.” I couldn’t be sure, but his eyes seemed to lighten when I said the nickname, as if he liked it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Seven hours. That was how long I had to wait. Really, Cross might as well have told me he’d be happy to set up an appointment to discuss my kidnapped sister two months from next Tuesday, because that was how long the wait felt.

  So Marcus and I ate pizza—when in Rome, right?—then left to meet Sophia Urban, hoping she could offer insights into the lying criminal adults in our lives. The gelateria was set near the Trevi Fountain, which was a bit like meeting someone for a hot dog in Times Square; it wasn’t exactly an intimate setting, but Sophia and I weren’t intimate friends.

  “Aren’t you prompt?” she greeted as she approached us outside of the store’s ancient mustard facade. The rustic exterior clashed loudly with her designer outfit—a tight white dress and black stiletto heels so high she deserved a Fashion Medal of Valor for making it across the cobblestones.

  “It’s been too long,” I said with a fake grin before gesturing to Marcus. “This is my friend Marcus.”

  “Dipping into the Spanish well. Not bad.” She smirked, eyeing him like a prize show horse. She swished her strawberry blond hair behind her shoulder—it looked professionally blow-dried.

  “Good to see you, too.” I grunted, and headed into the quaint shop, my Converse sneakers squeaking on the cracked tile floor. A large crowd
hovered in front of the teal and cream marble bar, surveying the colorful bins of Italian ice cream.

  “When did you get to Rome?” she asked, clutching her Italian leather bag as she scanned the gelato selections.

  “Yesterday.” Though I was pretty sure she knew that. “Didn’t your grandfather tell you why I’m here? Keira’s missing—”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard. The tub,” she moaned, pumping her plucked eyebrows. “That must’ve sucked.”

  I gritted my teeth, my hand clenching into a fist so tight, Marcus had to grab it before I could act. He massaged my palm open with his thumb. “Tranquilo,” he whispered in my ear. Only he wouldn’t be telling me to calm down if he knew exactly how overdue this girl was for a good smack to the teeth, starting with the day my parents were buried.

  The post-funeral brunch was about as over-the-top as one could imagine. Randolph Urban insisted on “celebrating my parents’ lives” by inviting the entire Dresden Corporation, all three-hundred-plus employees, to share memories while sipping mimosas and dining on seafood. There were enough Maine lobsters for every guest to have two. There were crab cakes brought in from Maryland, sea bass from Chile, salmon from Alaska, enough caviar to fill a dump truck, and even a sushi station.

  My parents preferred steak, but I kept this to myself.

  I leaned against the polished doorjamb to Urban’s mahogany-paneled dining room. His mansion had eight bedrooms, a servants’ wing, an eight-car garage, and a pool that would make Michael Phelps drool. The brunch was being held in the West Wing, (yes, it had a “West Wing”) and, despite the massive crowd promising that, “their prayers were with me,” I’d never felt more alone.

  Keira was so much better at this. She circulated the room in her black tea-length dress with her hair in a low bun accepting condolences like she was the second coming of Jackie Kennedy. A tear never fell, not even when they lowered their bodies into the earth. She just hugged me repeatedly and said, “Everything will be all right.” Sometimes I believed her.