[Beneath 01.0] Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  I held completely still, as if afraid any movement from me would derail whatever ground Ivers had just gained.

  “Recovery of the funds from the accounts you identify in her name, but only if the subject bank is willing to cooperate, in exchange for full dismissal of the charges with prejudice. And no re-filing any state or federal charges arising out of, or related to, any aspect of Agoston’s scheme,” Ivers said.

  “Full recovery of the funds,” Drake shot back.

  “With interest, even a partial recovery is going to approach the original amount Agoston took, and she can only get you money from accounts in her name identified by the FBI, and only if the bank cooperates. She can’t agree to things that are outside of her control.”

  Drake leaned back in his chair, taking his time to mull over Ivers’s words as if my future wasn’t hanging in the balance.

  “I don’t know…” Drake drawled.

  Ivers went in for the kill. “Would you prefer the media know that the DOJ has the ability to recover the money right now, and it’s considering throwing that advantage away and taking years to accomplish the same result because it wants to prove a point by locking up one innocent girl?”

  Drake’s features were carved in stone. I held my breath as Ivers and I waited for his response.

  “Let me make a call.” Drake rose and left the room.

  I sucked in huge breath and looked over at Ivers. “Is this really going to work?”

  Ivers didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Sweet relief rushed through me for a beat before another thought struck me.

  “Do … do I have to go back to Rikers? Because … I don’t know if I can handle that.”

  He bit his bottom lip. The action was decidedly at odds with his expensive suit and air of confidence. After a moment, he shook his head.

  “I can’t imagine the feds are going to let you out of their sight now that we know you’re effectively the key to recovering the money. It’s much more likely that they’ll stash you somewhere in protective custody. If this gets out, people would kill to get to you. They can’t risk that happening.”

  Then I asked the question that had been reverberating through my head since Drake had dropped the bomb about the accounts being in my name.

  “I didn’t set up any of those accounts, so how could they possibly be in my name?”

  Ivers’s expression was sympathetic when he said, “I really think that’s a question for your father, Charlotte.”

  We sat in heavy, awkward silence while we waited for Drake to return.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, the door to the room swung open, and Drake strode back in, expression unreadable.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, and once again, I held my breath.

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  Forty-One

  Simon

  Three weeks later.

  I grabbed the heavy bag to slow its swinging motion. Sweat stung my eyes as I swiped the back of my forearm across my dripping face. Releasing the bag, I reached up with both hands to grip the beam where it hung from the ceiling of my garage. I leaned into the stretch and dragged in a few deep breaths. Exhaustion was the only way I could shut my brain off for a few minutes at a time. And God knew I needed a break.

  To say the last three weeks had been brutal would be an understatement.

  Prolonged uncertainty took a vicious toll on a person. Physically, mentally, and otherwise. The ability to compartmentalize that I honed in the service was all that was holding me together. My father had tapped into a well of strength I hadn’t known he possessed. Even before my mother opened her eyes, he’d seemed to make a decision that his capacity to fight for her was stronger than his fear of losing her. His spine had straightened, he’d cleaned himself up, and his eyes had regained the sharpness I was used to seeing there. I was starting to think he’d brought my mother back from the brink by force of will alone. She’d opened her eyes two days ago with a lopsided smile and whispered, “Jefferson? What happened?”

  I’d dropped to my knees beside her bed as my father had pressed her small hand to his lips and thanked every deity known to man for bringing her back to us. A portion of the crushing weight I’d been carrying had lifted. She wasn’t out of the woods completely, but it was a hell of an improvement over watching her lay there, motionless, for weeks on end. The doctors had already started discussing moving her to a rehab facility. Today she’d insisted that I go home and get some rest. Take some time to myself.

  Which is why I’d spent the last hour pounding the bag until my arms were almost too heavy to lift.

  My father had urged me to go to New York, but Ivers had told me unequivocally it would be a wasted trip. The FBI wouldn’t let Charlie see anyone except him, and his visits were extremely limited. For ethical reasons, he couldn’t tell me anything except she was fine. It was a small consolation.

  Since the day Charlie had been discovered, it had seemed like every media outlet in the country had tried to pin me down for an interview. We’d had to beef up security at the hospital, and I’d never been so happy to live behind a gate. It was all I could do to refrain from beating the shit out of the former intern who still waited outside my house, yelling that he deserved an exclusive for being the one to break the story. Every time I saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder if Charlie would have ever told me the truth. Because of him, I’d never know, and that fact ate at me, continually dredging up doubt.

  The folded up letter in my wallet was all that kept me from losing hope. She’d said she’d left her heart with me. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted all of her.

  The letter also kept me up at night because of what she didn’t include: an assurance that she was coming back.

  I’d stopped myself time and again from asking Ivers to give her a message. I would move heaven and Earth to smooth the road ahead of us, but at the end of the day, she needed to decide that she wanted to walk down it with me. Charlie had to be all in for us to have any chance at a future. What would I do if she decided that disappearing again was easier than coming home? The thought sent me back to the bag. If I was too tired to move, hopefully I’d be too tired to think.

  Forty-Two

  Charlie

  Three more weeks later.

  The black Suburban inched through Manhattan’s morning rush hour traffic. Today was the first day I’d been permitted to leave the split-level in Staten Island where the FBI had stashed me. And I wouldn’t be going back. Because today I was regaining my freedom.

  Six weeks in a safe house was certainly no vacation, but given the alternative, I hadn’t voiced a single complaint. Instead, I’d signed every piece of paper the feds had put in front of me. With each signature, I felt a sense of justice being served. That I was righting my father’s wrongs. And that feeling went a long way toward helping me cope with the boredom. I’d been allowed virtually no contact with the outside world. No internet access, no phone calls and, other than my rotating teams of FBI babysitters and rare appearances by Ivers to ensure the feds were holding up their end of the deal, no visitors. I surmised that my lock-down was to prevent the possibility of any information being leaked about the recovery of the money.

  Regardless of the reason, once again I’d had altogether too much time to think. And as you might expect, Simon dominated those thoughts. And how could he not? He was the kind of man you waited your whole life to meet, even though you had no idea you were waiting.

  I’d had endless hours to replay the shock, disappointment, and betrayal that had flashed across his features as the press had hurled their questions like daggers, shredding my carefully constructed charade. It didn’t matter that I’d finally decided to come clean. All that mattered were all of the times I’d chosen not to.

  Simon wasn’t the kind of man who deserved to be dragged through the scandal that would always follow me. It wouldn’t matter that the funds recovered nearly exceeded what had been originally stolen w
hen you added in the interest that had accrued. You could glue a broken plate back together, but you’d always see the crack. You’d never forget that it’d once been damaged.

  In my case, recovering the money wouldn’t wash away the fact that I’d always be the infamous daughter of the reviled Alistair Agoston.

  The Suburban pulled into an underground parking structure, and we traveled up a freight elevator that opened into a service hallway and the rear entrance of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. My escorts led me to a conference room where Drake and Ivers were both waiting.

  I took the chair next to Ivers, and Drake slid two documents across the table. My hands shook as I reached for them

  “As we agreed,” Drake said. I’m not sure if his words were for me or for Ivers, but I didn’t care either way. I was too busy staring at the signed and filed orders from a federal judge and a state court judge dismissing all charges against me with prejudice. These documents meant that neither the U.S. government nor the State of New York could come after me again for anything connected with my father’s crimes. They were giving me back my freedom. My future.

  Now that I had them in my hands and no one could take them away, I asked the question that I had been afraid to ask before. “What about the rest of the accounts? The ones that weren’t in my name? What about that money?”

  “They’re our problem, not yours.” Drake gave me a brisk nod of acknowledgment and stood. “I believe we’re done here. Have a nice life, Ms. Agoston.”

  I sagged back in my chair. It was really over.

  Ivers rose and shook Drake’s hand. “Could we have the room for another minute or two? I need to have a few words with my client.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  Drake shut the door as he left the conference room. Ivers reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced a piece of paper folded into neat thirds. He held it out to me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  His lips quirked. It was the first time I’d seen anything approaching a smile on his face.

  “Just take it.”

  I complied and unfolded it. It was a printout of an e-ticket. A flight from JFK to New Orleans. For tomorrow.

  I looked up, eyes wide. “What is this?”

  “I would think that’s obvious.”

  I blinked down at the e-ticket again. “But … why?”

  “I was asked by Mr. Duchesne to make certain you got it. I informed him that the dismissals would be filed this morning. He made the reservation for tomorrow as he thought you might need some time to wrap things up here before heading home.”

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  Home.

  I swallowed, continuing to stare at the piece of paper as if the flight information would somehow rearrange itself into a message from Simon.

  He wants me to come home.

  My mind raced with the possibilities. His motivations. The consequences.

  Just being near him, I would tar him with my notoriety. It wasn’t like I could keep pretending that I was Charlie Stone—that ship had sailed. Or maybe sank was more accurate. But even if my name wasn’t Charlotte Agoston, the tattoos covering my arms ensured that I would never look demure in a dress, standing behind him as he gave a rousing speech to a cheering crowd. I was political cyanide, and there was no doubt in my mind that he’d have to choose between his dream and me.

  I fingered the piece of paper in my hand. What the hell was I supposed to do with it? Be selfish or selfless? God knew I wanted to be with him. But how could I really choose to taint his future with the darkness that would always follow me?

  “There’s also a reservation in your name at the Waldorf for tonight. Everything has been taken care of; all you have to do is check in.”

  I looked back down at the e-ticket and double-checked the departure time.

  Twenty-four hours to decide.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. No pressure. Just a choice that would dictate the course of the rest of my life. Run to him or run from him?

  Ivers stood and offered his hand. I shook it. “Thank you.”

  He tilted his head slightly and studied me. It was like he was analyzing the chaotic indecision of my thoughts. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Agoston. Is there anything you’d like me to tell Mr. Duchesne when I speak with him? Will you be using the ticket?”

  There was a knock at the door, and I was saved from having to answer when Drake stuck his head in.

  “You have a visitor in the lobby, Ms. Agoston. One that has been very persistent over the last several weeks. Both here and at the FBI field office.”

  I scrunched my brow, trying to figure out who the hell would be trying to see me. “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  My mother? My hands flew to my hair, and I began smoothing it into place before I realized that just the thought of facing her had me falling back into old habits. I forced my hands down to my sides. There was nothing about my appearance my mother would find acceptable, so what was the point? I could hope she’d just be happy to see me. Right. I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  Moving slowly to delay the coming confrontation, I folded the e-ticket and dismissal orders and stuck them in my backpack. I hefted the duffle bag that the FBI agents had supplied to hold the extra clothes they’d provided me. More jeans and T-shirts to round out my wardrobe.

  “Thank you again for everything,” I said to Ivers.

  “It was my pleasure. Best of luck to you, Ms. Agoston.”

  I met Drake at the door. “Lead the way.”

  The paneled lobby of the U.S. Attorney’s Office was empty except for the receptionist and my mother. She was dressed in a linen pantsuit that she’d somehow managed to keep wrinkle free. No surprise there. Wrinkles were the enemy. Except it was clear that her current budget didn’t allow for regular Botox, because for the first time in my life, my mother had crow’s feet and looked very much her actual age. It reminded me that the last year hadn’t just been rough on me. My feelings toward her softened when I thought about her staying in New York and braving the gossip and ugly aftermath, while I’d chosen to run and hide. Whatever else she was, she was a strong woman.

  “Mother. How are you?”

  Her eyes raked me from head to toe, and any softness I felt faded. I could only imagine the flaws she was cataloging. The hair (which desperately needed a fresh dye job), the dozens of interconnected tattoos, the plain black tank and jeans, and my ratty old Chucks (which desperately needed replacing). I braced for her criticism, but it didn’t come.

  “I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, but they wouldn’t let me.” Her tone was aggrieved.

  Maybe … she’d missed me? It was possible that a year had given her some perspective about what was really important. Not money. Not status. Not influence. People. Family.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t really have any control over that.”

  She waved off my response with a flip of her golden bob.

  “Despite your … appearance … you seem to have done well for yourself in New Orleans. You are your mother’s daughter after all. Landed on your feet.”

  What the hell was she talking about?

  If she called over a year of lying to everyone and living under a false identity ‘doing well for myself’ and ‘landing on my feet,’ then we had very different interpretations of those phrases.

  And then her meaning hit me. Her reason for being here became crystal fucking clear. A cold rush of disappointment flooded me as her next words confirmed my thoughts.

  “The son of a former congressman? I didn’t think you had it in you, Charlotte. I was happily surprised when I saw it on the news. It’s too bad he’s decided not to run. They’re blaming it on his mother’s condition, and I’m hoping it’s not really because of you. It’ll be much harder to get him back if that’s the case.”

  His mother’s condition? Decided not to run?

  “What happened to Mrs. Duchesne?”

 
; “It all hit the papers at the same time. She had a stroke. Spent several weeks in a coma. She’s only been out of the hospital and home for a week or so now. I’ve been following it rather closely, given the circumstances.”

  I stumbled to a chair and sat.

  Oh my God. Simon.

  “She’s okay, though? She’s going to be all right?” I asked, my chest aching for him. For his father. Jesus Christ.

  “The extent of her recovery is unclear from the papers, and the family has released very little information. I came to bring you some things so you’d be properly attired when you rushed to his side to comfort him during his time of need. It’s just unfortunate it’s taken so long for the FBI to sort out this ridiculous mess.”

  Mercenary. Bitch.

  She crossed the lobby to retrieve a garment bag from the sofa on the opposite side of the room.

  “This is for you.”

  I eyed the bag like it held hazardous waste. If it contained trappings of my former life, that description wasn’t far off in my mind.

  “Keep it.”

  “But Charlotte, you need to—”

  I crossed my arms. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.” I fought to keep my voice steady, but my success was marginal. “You don’t know me. You never did.”

  Her gaze hardened as she straightened her already perfect posture.

  “You have a chance to pull us out of the gutter where your father dragged us.” She hissed the quiet words from between clenched teeth. “And you will not waste it. Do you hear me, Charlotte? If there’s a chance that man will take you back after all of the shameful publicity you’ve brought on yourself—You. Will. Not. Waste. It.” She reached down and grabbed my arm, her nails biting into my skin.

  “Let. Me. Go.”

  She glanced down and released her hold as if she was surprised to find my arm in her grip.

  Smoothing her pristine linen suit jacket, she attempted to tuck away the flare of emotion. It was probably the most honest reaction I’d ever seen from her. But she couldn’t quite hide the desperate look of a drowning woman. One who thought to use her daughter as a life raft. Well, Mother, I thought, I’m not even sure if I can save myself. But she needed to know that Simon wasn’t going to be her ticket back into the social circles from which she’d fallen. I wouldn’t let anyone use him. Not even my own mother.