Part of what drew customers was incorporating big tourist spots like the Louvre.
“I’ll go back and explain,” I said. “I’ll apologize. I’ll write them a letter. I’ll get down on my knees and beg. I’ll scrub their floors for a year.”
The words tasted bitter on my tongue. The apology was only a habit. I always apologized, hoping to smooth over the tension in the house. Not that it ever worked.
“It won’t matter.” With a sigh, he closed the file folders spread on our kitchen table. After stuffing them into his leather briefcase, he stopped and studied me. “Are you that unhappy?”
“What?” And I thought I’d hid it so well.
He paused, and in that moment I could see the heartbreak written on his face. He missed Mom just as much as I did.
“Because I can’t have you working for Spy Games if you can’t take it seriously. I know you mock some of the clients. I know you slack off at times. I’ve overlooked a lot of it, but as my daughter, how you treat the job in front of the staff is a reflection on me.”
Oh, the shame! How do parents know everything? He must have planted bugs in the rafters, in my bedroom, in the kitchen; or slipped trackers in my shoes. I shriveled up and wanted to crawl away and hide in a sandbank.
Dad moved to the brown leather loveseat. He motioned for me to sit down, but the stubborn side of me refused. He rubbed his temples. “It’s about Aimee.”
I stepped back. “No way. You can’t do this. The Louvre wasn’t her fault. It was mine. You can’t fire her too. Please! She takes care of her grandmother and counts on this job.”
“Savvy!” Dad’s voice was sharp, and I stopped babbling. “Aimee isn’t fired, and neither are you.”
I plopped on the couch even though a part of me wanted to run away. “Where is she?”
Dad pulled out a letter and handed it to me. “I found this taped to the door.”
I held the paper. My hand shook a little bit as I quickly read it. The note was from Aimee, and it said something about taking some time off to backpack across Eastern Europe. It said how sorry she was for the short notice, and that she’d be in touch when she got back. The words blurred on the page, not making any sense.
As if Dad sensed my doubt, he said, “Hasn’t she always wanted to travel?”
“Yeah.” I read over it again, but I didn’t believe it. Not for one second. “Don’t you think it’s odd that she didn’t give it to you in person? Or talk to you about it? Or talk to me?”
“A little. But it was probably awkward for her.”
“What about her grandmother?” I reminded him.
This isn’t over. Peyton’s words pounded in my brain and spread into my heart like poison.
“Aimee is very responsible,” I continued. “She’d never leave without making alternate arrangements.”
This isn’t over.
“What about Peyton?”
Dad waved his hand. “I don’t think he’s any trouble. He was letting off some steam. I’ll give him a refund, he’ll pack his bags, and he’ll head back to the States.”
“But he threatened us earlier.” I bit my lip and flashed back to the scene in the Eiffel. Yes, I made mistakes, but he overreacted. Then it hit me. Maybe he’d found her following him and after extracting the hostage site from her, he took her hostage? I stifled a gasp.
I’d failed Dad today but this was my chance to make up for everything. We could work on finding Aimee together. We’d be spies. Real spies. He’d love it. He’d always wanted me to get into the whole spy thing. We could work together on a mission, and he’d be so happy. Hope bubbled up in my chest.
“Dad, I have a strong feeling she did not go backpacking. You’ve always said to follow our instincts. We could work—”
He zipped his briefcase. “I admit her leaving is a bit strange. But instinct is different than an overactive imagination. You’re too close to this to see properly.”
His words cut through my excitement like a knife through the last piece of birthday cake. Why wouldn’t he believe me? Dad had done everything possible to get me excited about Spy Games, from the box of spy gadgets to the spy hat. And when I gave him the chance to work on a real mission with me, he shrugged it off as an overactive imagination?
“Did you put ice on your cheek?” His stress level was rising. I could tell by the multiplied number of lines on his forehead.
“Yeah, sure.” I traced circles on the arm of the couch.
Dad rubbed the scruff on his jaw. He stood up from the couch, looking like he’d aged about twenty years. His shoulders were hunched over. He started to say something, then stopped. Then he finally spoke.
“I’m going back to the office to work on the new route.”
And then I was alone. And felt it. Aimee was the first person hired on staff and we were friends from our first shared latte and triple-layer cake. But it felt like someone had taken a fork to our sweet glaze and smashed it into crumbs. We’d dreamed so much together. I couldn’t believe she’d just take off. She’d at least call.
My arm jerked with the revelation. I ran over to the front door and dug out my phone from my jacket pocket. After sending her a text, I went back to the couch, rehearsing in my mind all the conversations I’d had with Aimee over the past weeks. I didn’t remember any mention of a trip. Nothing made sense. A year ago I would’ve agreed with Dad and squashed any doubts. But this wasn’t about me. It was about Aimee. I’d follow through with the Extravaganza and do a little investigating at the same time. By myself. Without Dad.
No turning back.
Monday morning came, and I woke with a major Spy Games hangover. I rolled out of bed and searched for a tee to throw on over my cammie. Coffee. I needed a shot of caffeine. Hopefully after a cup, my head would clear and I would accept that my crazy suspicion Peyton had done away with Aimee was just a crazy suspicion. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted the letter to be a prank. I wanted Aimee to meet me for a latte this morning as usual. And I needed to find out about this pastry Extravaganza thing.
With my fingers running along the wall, I stumbled down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. I smelled the coffee. Hazelnut. It must be Dad’s way of making me feel better, but I’d rather him write a note or do the dishes because his coffee tastes like dishwater. My eyes were beginning to clear, and I noticed the shape of a blue coffee mug sitting on the counter. I leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed my eyes. The blurry reflection in the toaster of a dark shape caught my attention.
What the hell?
I studied the reflection but it was too blurry. It wasn’t my dad. Could it be Peyton?
I might have a hard time waking up in the morning, but there’s nothing like an intruder to get the mojo flowing. I inched my hand toward a drawer and wished like hell I were wearing one of those sleepers with the feet instead of a T-shirt with my pink panties showing.
After a pretend stretch, I pulled out a butter knife from the drawer and flipped around.
A Spy Like Me Page 11
