I glanced at my watch, willing the day to end. I’d buried my parents. I’d thrown a white calla lily on each of their caskets. And I wanted the day to be over, finally over.
“Bet you can’t wait to get out of here,” droned a voice from behind me.
I turned to find Sophia Urban, sipping a bottle of imported spring water between her pearly front teeth.
“I’m surprised you came for this.”
“Didn’t have a choice. Grandfather made me.”
At least she was honest.
“When do you go back to London?”
“Hopefully tomorrow. Though a lot of people want to use the jet.” She gestured with a tiny porcelain hand to the crowds of Dresden staffers chatting about corporate projects. Many had traveled from Singapore, Germany, Japan, and Prague to be here.
“Well, at least you got out of school.”
“I like school.”
Of course she did.
I shook my head and skimmed the collage of photos that timelined Urban’s thirty year friendship with my parents. At ten years their senior, it was weird to imagine him ever having dated my mother, especially when she was just nineteen years old. But it was true, and if you looked carefully, you could see that there were more photos of my mother exhibited than of my father.
“You going to stay in Boston now?” Sophia asked, sucking another gulp.
“I guess. I think we were gonna move to Canada. You know…before…”
“Yeah, I guess that’s over now,” she said flippantly. “I still can’t believe they died in a car crash. Nuts.”
I set my jaw. Yes, Sophia, my parents dying in a mess of fiery wreckage was nuts.
I hadn’t seen her since that day. Actually, I hadn’t seen most of the Dresden family until Keira’s memorial. I guess Sophia didn’t think my sister’s “death” warranted a trip. Not that I would have wanted her there. She would have just continued with the insults. Like when I won the school science fair in fifth grade and she accused the teacher of awarding “mediocre talent,” or the Dresden company party I went to a year before my parents’ deaths when she said my dress made me look like “a little choir girl.”
Sophia Urban didn’t like me, and I didn’t like her in return.
“Yes, Sophia, holding a memorial service for my presumed-dead sister did sort of suck,” I spit before ordering the largest cup of lampone—raspberry—gelato they had. If I was going to be forced to talk to this girl, I was going to do it with a lot of ice cream.
“So what, now you’re here looking for her? Since when did you join law enforcement?” she asked flippantly before ordering a dish of pistachio fit for a toddler.
“She’s my sister. I’d do anything for her, which you wouldn’t understand, because the only family you’ve got is a grandfather who lives in a different country.” I cocked my head, eyeing her pointedly. If she could be rude, so could I. And really, this was a girl who lost her mother almost at birth and had a father who never stepped up to the plate to claim her. You would think that would make her a bit more sympathetic to my situation.
She clucked her tongue. “Yup. All I’ve got is the man who’s paying for your trip.”
I shut my mouth, and Marcus carefully guided us to a table, sitting between us like we were professional wrestlers about to reach for the folding chairs.
“So, I came with a purpose,” Sophia said more calmly as she pulled a small cream-and-white-checkered sack from her bag and placed it on the table before us. She nodded at Marcus. “You sure you want him here?”
“He’s a Dresden Kid,” I noted.
“Oh, I hadn’t realized. Welcome to the party.” Her tone was glib.
“Thanks.” He shot her a look.
Good for him.
She returned her gaze to me. “So, you were right. Grandfather told me about your little situation with Keira.” Just hearing her refer to my sister’s violent kidnapping as a “little situation” made me want to accidentally throw my fuchsia ice cream all over her white dress. “He said you know about the ‘enemy of the state’ thing that happened after your parents’ funeral.”
“You know about that?” My brow raised.
“He is my grandfather. Why do you think I’m here? He said you think the person who killed Keira—”
“Kidnapped Keira,” I briskly corrected.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” She didn’t look sorry, and I dug a giant scoop of hot-pink gelato onto my plastic spoon and aimed it at her dress like a catapult. Marcus grabbed my hand. “He said you think whoever did it might be involved in your parents’ secret spy missions?”
She fluttered her long lashes like the words were ludicrous, which they were. At least, that was what I thought a few days ago. Now, everything in my life seemed cloaked in espionage.
“Well, if that’s the case, I think I might know someone who has a grudge.” She opened the small cotton bag with her manicured hands and slid out a black and white composition book.
Instantly, I knew where this was headed. I recognized the handwriting. The front page read, “Operation Manual.” It was my father’s script.
I snatched the book, flipping it open. “What’s this?”
Sophia smacked her lips, casually picking up her pistachio cup and taking a tiny bite like we were chatting over Sunday brunch. “A few years ago, when I was at LSE, I dated this guy, Julian. We’re still good friends. His family’s super rich, owns all these media outlets…”
As she spoke, I thumbed through the notebook, viewing page after page of my father’s cursive handwriting. It looked like a blueprint—maps, diagrams, and text, all written in English, almost like the outline for a military operation.
“Julian spent a summer working at one of his father’s newspapers, the London Gazette. Don’t ask me why, he doesn’t need the money.” Of course Sophia would think this. “But he had this whole complex about wanting to prove he could write something other than an exposé on William’s and Kate’s latest fashion trends. So when this ‘source,’”—she put air quotes around the word—“approached him and said there was going to be a terrorist attack on the London Tube, Julian was a bit too eager to believe him.”
I scanned the book. The words “C4 Explosives” jumped from the page. My stomach turned. Suddenly, I didn’t like where this was headed.
“Anyway, Julian wrote a whole story about the supposed terror plot. It ran on the front page, claiming that a group of Islamic women were plotting to blow up thousands of subway commuters. He had a ton of evidence to back it up, but the biggest piece was an operation manual that he had translated from Arabic into English.”
She nodded at the book I was holding, and I dropped it like the pages were on fire.
“Obviously, it was bullshit. The ‘source’ who fed Julian the story was lying. The man who translated the manual was in on it. The whole thing was a setup. Only Julian didn’t figure that out until after the police raided the women’s apartment with riot gear and attack dogs.” She cocked her head, her eyes almost smiling. “Can you guess who translated the manual?”
She looked back and forth between me and my father’s handwriting with a teasing grin. She was enjoying this, and I wanted to punch her in the face.
“Anyway, it was a total mess,” she continued when I didn’t say anything. “Julian practically started race riots in the United Kingdom. Muslims from around the world accused Scotland Yard of roughing up innocent women. You didn’t read about this in the papers?”
If it wasn’t in Us Weekly, it was safe to say I was uninformed. I squeezed the muscles on the sides of my neck, staring at the book as if it might melt like a surrealist painting; none of it seemed possible.
“I remember this story,” Marcus said, aggressively biting into his thumbnail, his eyes edgy as he glared at the book. He seemed to grow paler. “I was living in London at the time…”
“So you know what a laughingstock Julian became. I mean, the Stones are one of the most powerful families in Europe. At least, they were.”
/>
My hands fell to the table. Julian Stone. That was who she was talking about? The Stones were the Rockefellers of England, only their money came from media conglomerates—newspapers, publishing, TV stations, entire cable companies.
My brain flashed to the tabloid I’d purchased at the airport, the one I’d read on the train to Cortona, the British “media heir” with the word “Wanker!” scrolled above his head.
That was Julian Stone.
“You think my dad was involved in this?”
“What do you think?” Sophia nodded to my father’s handwriting, then licked her plastic spoon clean and dropped it in her empty cup. “I didn’t realize it until a few weeks ago, though.” She shoved the composition book back into its sack. “Grandfather told me about Keira, and I went on Boston.com to read some of the articles. I was with Julian at the time, and he saw what I was reading. One of the stories had a picture of Keira right next to a photo of your parents and the crash. He totally freaked, recognized your dad right away.”
I remembered that article. It was one of the first features the Boston Herald ran on Keira. “Bathtub of Horror,” read the headline. It included a sidebar called, “A Family Tragedy,” with photos of my parents and their flaming car wreck. Now, I was picturing Julian Stone thousands of miles away gawking at it, making the connection.
Sophia stowed the manual in her purse, and I reached for her hand.
“Can I keep that?” I asked, my voice pathetic. It was the only solid evidence I had of my parents’ double lives, and I’d barely had a chance to glance at it.
“Sorry. I snagged it from Julian when he wasn’t looking. He’s probably freaking out by now.”
I rubbed my fingers against my tightening jaw. If what Sophia was saying were true, then my parents really were linked to an alleged terror plot against the U.S.’s greatest ally, just as the FBI had accused. Luis’s assertions that he and my parents didn’t work for the CIA rang in my head. What type of spies were they?
“So let me get this straight,” I replied. “You came here to tell me that you think your ex-boyfriend is responsible for what’s happening to Keira? Like, he took her from our bathroom out of revenge for something my dad did years ago?” It sort of shattered the DNA test theory.
“Oh God, no. Julian’s way too obsessed with clearing his name—kidnapping Keira and committing an actual crime wouldn’t accomplish that. But his father, that’s a different story. The man lost a fortune.” Sophia rose to her feet, pulling her elegant bag onto her shoulder.
“You think Phillip Stone’s behind this?” Marcus asked, his face growing paler.
“It’s a hell of a grudge.” She looked at her diamond-studded watch. “I gotta get back to work.”
Sophia swished her glossy strawberry blond hair behind her back, straightened her stark white dress, and patted the corners of her perfectly painted lips. Even in a massive, noisy crowd of tourists, she stood out—beautiful, porcelain, and fake. This girl never did anything that didn’t benefit herself.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because Grandfather said I had to.” She shrugged. “He wants to help you. Obviously. He’s bankrolling this little vacation of yours.” My left eye twitched. I wouldn’t exactly call a death match on top of a mountain in Cortona a vacation excursion.
“You work for Dresden, right?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but I saw a shift in Sophia’s face.
“Uh, yeah,” she snipped. “It is a family business. You used to know that.”
Yes, before I lost my family. Thanks for the reminder.
I cut the politeness. “Your grandfather is one of the richest men in the world, and probably one of the most intelligent. You really think he didn’t know what my parents were involved in?”
She paused, her gaze hardening. “You didn’t, and you’re their kid.”
I swallowed the truth like a ball of fire, and Sophia stepped toward me, her stiletto clicking on the marble tiles. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but as soon as I told Grandfather about Julian and the manual, he insisted we meet. He doesn’t want to withhold any information from you, but I guess this is how you repay his generosity.” She hiked her purse onto her bony shoulder and turned for the door, her strawberry hair swishing.
“He was their best friend,” I called after her. “How could he not know?”
She spun back toward me. “Because your parents were liars.” Then her gaze turned devilish. “Also, you should know, Julian may no longer be my boyfriend, but he’s still my friend. He got royally screwed by your dad, and I value my friendships.”
“Your point being?”
“Julian’s in Rome, and I gave him your hotel info. I’m sure you two will have a lovely chat.” She smiled smugly, then strutted out the door.
Great, like I needed another enemy in my life.
Chapter Twenty-Four
We walked to Trevi Fountain without saying a word, as if all the thoughts in our brains were too tangled together to separate a single sentence to utter. We stared at the tourists chatting simultaneously as they tossed coins over their backs, reenacting an old movie, and we watched as their wishes landed in an enormous ocean-themed Bernini fountain, water roaring from the masterpiece as it rose up in front of a giant palace.
All I could see was my father’s handwriting.
“Phillip Stone…” I finally muttered, not even realizing I’d said it aloud until Marcus’s head whipped my way.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Someone with that much money could hide Keira anywhere. She could be in a hut in Zimbabwe by now. She could be dea—”
“Then why would he take her?” Marcus interrupted my dark thought. “Whoever did this could have done worse right in your apartment, but they didn’t. They took her alive. There must be a reason.”
“Assuming Luis was telling the truth. We don’t know that for sure.” I stretched my legs as I sat on a marble step across from the water-spouting statues.
“Allen Cross—Aleksandr, or whoever he is—was not surprised to see you,” Marcus pointed out from beside me. “I think these people want something from you and your sister.”
“But what? It’s not like we have any money. I can’t pay Phillip Stone back whatever riches he lost.” I propped my elbows onto the step behind me.
“This isn’t about money. It’s been months. You would have gotten a ransom demand by now. But if you listen to Luis, this is all about potentially exposing your parents’ former cases. Maybe the Stones want to prove what your father did, that he set up Julian?”
“But wouldn’t DNA help their case?” I asked, thinking aloud. “If my father caused the international incident that damaged their family, there could be DNA connected to that crime that might prove his guilt. So why would they want to stop the test?”
“Maybe they didn’t. Luis claims he was hired to stop the test, maybe that’s the lie. Maybe he was really hired to retrieve the results,” Marcus guessed.
“But it’s just a DNA test! It’s not that hard to run, or stop, some lab work.” My eyes tensed with concentration as I glared at the puffy clouds. “I don’t get it. If they want something from us, then why don’t they ask? I’d give them anything to get Keira back. So why am I here? I just…I think there’s something else going on, something we’re missing.”
I looked at Marcus, whose expression was as blank as my own. I felt like a pawn, like there was some massive chessboard I wasn’t being shown, and a king or queen behind it playing ten moves ahead. For me, the endgame was finding my sister, but I was growing increasingly convinced that for them (whoever they were), checkmate was something else entirely.
Just then, a man not ten feet away dropped to one knee, ring box in hand. He held up a diamond and the crowd cheered as the bride-to-be nodded yes, tears in her eyes.
“Marcus, maybe it’s time you go find your brother in Milan?” I said, changing topics.
“What?” He flung a shock
ed expression at me.
“This whole thing with Keira, my parents—we had a gun pointed at our heads.”
“Do you really think I’d leave you here by yourself?”
“Charlotte will be here tomorrow.” I’d left her a message about Julian Stone, hoping she could verify what Sophia had said. But even if she did, it wouldn’t change much. From the Bassos to the Stones, my parents obviously had an impressive list of enemies. I couldn’t exactly track them all and accuse them of kidnapping my sister.
Marcus grabbed my hand. “I’m not leaving. Not until you do. Dresden Kids stick together.”
Only the look on his face suggested he had his own motives now. His parents and brother worked for Dresden, and if my parents were espionage superstars, it wasn’t a far leap to question whether Dresden was involved as well, whether Randolph Urban was involved—despite everything Sophia said to the contrary. Because if he was, it meant Marcus’s entire family could be as embroiled as mine.
Only we left this unsaid. Instead, I glanced at my watch. It was time to go.
...
I sat in a center pew. Incense filled the air. A priest stood at the altar reciting the rituals I recognized from far too many funerals, and I wondered how many Catholic services my parents had attended without me knowing. I already knew they sponsored a baptism.
I was raised by strangers, I thought as I scanned the aisles for Uncle Aleksandr, or Allen Cross. I had intended on waiting outside, feeling safer in the open, but then I realized how right Cross was, the throngs of tourists flooding the church were so huge it would be hard to kill me here. So I entered a quiet pew and left Marcus as lookout in the plaza.
When the parishioners stood, I stood, when they sat, I sat, all the while trying not to have flashbacks of mahogany caskets, memorial posters, and white calla lilies. I squeezed my eyes. God, if you exist, bring my sister home. Please. Don’t punish her for things our parents did, I prayed futilely. Then a hand shoved my shoulder.
I spun to see Allen Cross in the row behind me. He dropped a postcard on my pew—Michelangelo’s La Pieta, Jesus’s crucified body sprawled across Mary’s lap. Then he quietly walked out of the church.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 18
