[Beneath 01.0] Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  “My relationship—or lack thereof—with Simon, is none of your business. And it will never be any of your business. Please don’t come looking for me again until you’ve decided to act like a decent human being instead of a manipulative bitch. I have to go. Good luck, Mother.”

  She stayed frozen in place as I stepped around her to make my way to the elevator. As the doors shut, I wondered if it would be the last time I saw her.

  Although the papers had referred to it as ‘Club Fed,’ the razor wire, stony-face guards, and shifty-eyed inmates of FCI Otisville reminded me all too much of Rikers. A chill slid through me at the memory. If not for Ivers’s intervention at Simon’s direction, I might be spending the rest of my life in a place like this.

  I followed one of the guards to a large room filled with chipped, gray formica-covered tables and orange chairs, all bolted to the floor. I studied my surroundings as I waited for the door to open.

  My father still walked like a king, a man certain of his superiority to all of those in his domain. Neither prison, nor the khaki-colored jumpsuit, had diminished his air of authority. His silver hair had thinned on top and had lost the perfect style ensured by weekly five hundred dollar haircuts. His eyes widened upon entering the room. Apparently he hadn’t seen pictures of the new me.

  He settled into the chair across from me as the guard backed away.

  “You’ve got twenty minutes, Agoston.” My father didn’t bother to reply to the guard’s statement. His focus had shifted entirely to me.

  “Charlotte. Jesus, I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  I stilled. Parental concern was the last thing I’d expected from him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You disappear for a damn year, no word to anyone, and then you reappear out of the blue and throw yourself on the mercy of the FBI. Which, God knows, they have none. What the hell were you thinking? I thought you were smarter than that. I know you’re smarter than that.”

  Seriously? He was going to criticize me? I leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table.

  “Apparently I wasn’t smart enough to realize that my own father tried to frame me. Who does that to their own kid?”

  He blinked in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The notebook. The one that was hidden in my closet. The one with all of the account numbers and deposits. The one that linked me to everything you did. I’m lucky I’m not still sitting in a cell because of you. Why would you do that?”

  His jaw dropped.

  “I never … It wasn’t … You weren’t…” I’d never heard my father stutter before. I’d never heard him speak except with absolute, unwavering confidence. He cleared his throat, seemed to pull himself together, and leaned forward to whisper, “I was taking care of my family. You were supposed to use that damn brain of yours and get the hell out of the country. I knew your mother would never figure it out, but I knew you could. I left the book in your room so you’d have the means to get your hands on resources to look after yourself and your mother when everything fell apart.”

  This time my jaw dropped. My grip on the table tightened almost to the point of pain. Of all of the motives I’d attributed to my father over the last weeks, this one had never crossed my mind.

  “Holy shit.” I hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud.

  “Indeed. But you blew that plan out of the water. I thought … for over a year, I thought that you were being taken care of. That you’d managed to figure everything out. But then I find out you were scraping by, living hand-to-mouth, and then you go to the FBI?” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re a smart girl, Charlotte. I expected more from you.”

  “You expected more from me? I expected more from you!” My temper flared hot and fierce. “You ruined thousands of lives—including mine—and you expected more from me?”

  “Keep your voice down.” His tone snapped with impatience.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you.” I had the answers I came for. They weren’t the ones I expected to get, but I had them all the same. “I almost ended up in prison for the rest of my life because of your goddamn contingency plan. So don’t expect me to thank you for doing me any favors.”

  “None of that would have happened if you’d just used your brain, found the money, and kept your head down. But you had to try to fix things. You should’ve just left well enough alone. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you. You’re not the daughter I thought I knew.”

  I pushed up from the table. Once again, I was done.

  “Well, thank God for that. Goodbye, Dad.”

  Forty-Three

  Charlie

  I studied the outline left by the stylized A that used to grace the marble exterior of the Agoston Investments building on Madison Avenue. Eighteen months ago I’d thought that this place would be the center of my world. Standing on the sidewalk after my emotional rollercoaster of a day, I could see how cold and empty that existence would have been. Countless hours spent worshipping at the altar of the almighty dollar. Superficial friendships based on social capital and influence. And probably a loveless marriage born of parental and societal pressure. Now, just the thought made me shudder.

  I’d lied to my father earlier about one thing: he hadn’t ruined my life. He’d saved it. His actions had forced me out of my comfort zone and taught me to live.

  I deeply regretted the hardships his victims had faced, but his insatiable greed had flung open my cage door. When I’d left New York, I might have been trying to get lost, but I’d found myself instead.

  My eyes pricked with sneaky tears at the thought of my life in New Orleans. Part of me wished I could return and have everything be the same as it had been before I left. But then I’d still be living a lie.

  How could I go back now? The city I’d fallen in love with would never be the same for me again. Charlotte Agoston wouldn’t be allowed to have the simple life of Charlie Stone.

  “Charlotte, sweetheart. Is that really you?”

  The familiar voice chased away my warring thoughts. I turned away from the building—away from my past and the future I’d escaped.

  Juanita’s dark hair was threaded with more silver than it had been the day I’d left New York, but to me she’d never looked better. She looked happy. Tears tracked down her cheeks as she pulled me into her arms.

  “God, I’ve missed you, girl.” She squeezed me tighter before stepping back to examine me. “Look at you.”

  Unlike my mother’s inspection, Juanita’s didn’t have me ready to haul out my armor.

  “You look beautiful. Like … you’re finally comfortable in your own skin.”

  As always, she was perceptive as hell.

  “I missed you. I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch. I was afraid that if you knew where I was…”

  “Don’t even try to apologize. As far as I was concerned, no news was good news. Now, let’s get off the street and get a cup of coffee. I want to hear everything that’s happened since you walked out of my kitchen.” Juanita looped her arm through mine and pulled me across the street to the café where we had agreed to meet.

  A thought occurred to me. “How did you know where I was just now?” I should have been waiting in the café, but I’d been unwillingly drawn to the symbol of my past rising high in the Manhattan skyline.

  “You stand out like a sore thumb in this part of town, Charlotte. I saw the rubberneckers from across the street. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  Fair enough.

  We settled into a back booth with steaming mugs in front of us, and Juanita wasted no time getting down to business.

  “Tell me everything. But first, tell me about this Southern gentlemen you were photographed with when everything hit the papers.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a beat as guilt battered me. Those pictures had probably killed any possibility of Simon having a future in politics.

  But there was a chance that if I stayed away, and he decided
to run after his mother was well again, the buzz around him would die down, and he’d eventually have a fighting chance of being elected. But if I went back … well, suffice it to say that between my name and my colorful appearance, Simon’s political career would stay dead.

  “Charlotte?”

  I looked up, realizing that Juanita had been waiting for me to answer her question.

  I tried levity to deflect. “Jeez. Why can’t you start with something easier? Like, why the heck I decided to cover my perfectly good arms with tattoos.”

  My attempt at deflection failed. Juanita just raised a brow. “So, he was someone important. Duchesne, was it?” I didn’t like that she was speaking in the past tense.

  “His name is Simon Duchesne.”

  She eyed me shrewdly. “And he was important?”

  I swallowed. “He is important.”

  “And you love him.”

  That one wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”

  “So now what?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared down into the steam rising off my mug. I gave myself permission to be honest. “I want to go back, but if I were a better person, I wouldn’t even consider it. I should run as far and as fast as I can in the opposite direction. And I hate myself for not being strong enough to do it. That’s just one more reason he deserves better.”

  “So you’ve decided to be your own judge, jury, and executioner? I didn’t realize you’d become a martyr.”

  I bristled. “How is that being a martyr? Aren’t you supposed to put the people you love before yourself?

  She ignored my question and countered with another of her own. “What would your Simon have to say if he were here listening to this?”

  I pictured Simon’s strong features, flashing hazel eyes, and tousled dark hair. What would he say? I thought of the plane ticket. That was as clear of a message as he could send. “Probably something along the lines of ‘get the hell home where you belong’.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why does it have to be complicated?”

  “Because he’s better off without me. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

  Juanita covered my fidgeting hand with hers. “And you? Are you better off without him? Isn’t that the real question you should be trying to answer?”

  “I’m not worried about me—”

  “Why not? Don’t you deserve the same consideration?” Her tone was no-nonsense. “You have to stop treating yourself as somehow being less because of what your father did. I’ve told you before, but clearly it didn’t make an impression. Your father’s actions are no reflection of your character, Charlotte. You need to quit thinking they are, or you’re going to spend the rest of your life running from something you can never escape.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Simon’s a grown man. You should let him make his own decision. If you love him, then he deserves that much. Anything else is a disservice to both of you.” Her dark eyes pinned me. “You’re not a stupid girl, Charlotte. So stop acting like you are. What other plan do you have? Keep running?”

  I bowed my head, letting my hair fall into my face. “I’m still figuring that out.”

  “My advice would be not to take too long to decide. Life only gives us so many chances at happiness. You’d do well not to waste this one.”

  Forty-Four

  Simon

  I watched the same two pieces of unclaimed luggage go around and around the baggage carousel. One was a hard case of golf clubs, and other was a tapestry-patterned bag that looked like something a grandmother would carry. My suspicion was confirmed when an airport employee loaded the flower-covered bag on a cart pushed by an older woman in tan orthopedic shoes. A man on a cell phone hauled the golf clubs away.

  My hopes were sinking, but I refused to give up on her. She traveled light. No luggage didn’t mean no Charlie. But from my bench, I had a perfect view of all of the arriving travelers, and she hadn’t been among them. The gate agent had been able to confirm that the flight out of New York had been delayed, but the passengers aboard probably had enough time to make the New Orleans connection. Even at my most charming, the woman had refused to tell me one way or another whether Charlie had boarded either flight. Her murmured apologies about policies and data privacy didn’t calm the knots in my stomach. My call to Ivers didn’t give me anything either. He had no idea what Charlie had done after he’d left her at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. When I’d booked the flight, I’d once again debated whether to include a message for Ivers to pass along. But something had held me back. The conversation Charlie and I needed to have couldn’t take place through an intermediary. I was banking on the fact that the plane ticket would speak for itself.

  How much clearer could I make it that I wanted her to come home? That I didn’t care who she was?

  But I did care that she hadn’t trusted me. I hated knowing that she’d made a conscious decision to withhold the truth, even though I’d made it pretty damn clear that it didn’t matter what she was hiding. Well, as long as it wasn’t three husbands and a string of serial murders. I tried to put myself in her position, but even then, it sucked to know she hadn’t felt like she could trust me.

  So I sat on my bench and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  When I finally rose, feeling like the metal slats had imprinted themselves on my ass, I had to face facts: I’d been waiting for a lot longer than four hours. I’d been waiting for months—even before she’d run. All I’d wanted from her was a sign that she was in this with me. A sign that we had a chance at something real together. And I’d gotten nothing.

  I’d waited for nothing.

  I left the airport wondering how much longer I could wait for this woman.

  Derek met me at the bar.

  “I take it she wasn’t on the plane.”

  “No.” My tone was clipped. I really didn’t want to talk about it. About her. I wanted to get drunk. “Maker’s. Neat,” I told the bartender.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what are you going to do? You going up there?”

  I turned to Derek. “Can we just drink?”

  “Come on, man. You gotta have a plan. I know you. You always have a plan.”

  He was right. Except, for the first time in my life, I didn’t. “Charlie has a habit of blowing all of my fucking plans to pieces.” The bartender set the bourbon in front of me, and I picked it up and took a healthy swig. “You want to know what my plan was for today? I was going to pick her up at the airport, and it was going to be romantic as hell. Instead, I watched luggage go round and round the baggage claim for four fucking hours, and she never came. Killed my sense of romance.” I tipped back the rest of my drink and smacked the glass down on the bar. “So now, I just want to get drunk enough so I can stop thinking about everything for a few hours. How’s that sound?”

  Derek studied me with all too knowing eyes. “How long are you going to chase this girl before you finally give up on her?”

  The thing that sucked about having a best friend who’d known you since childhood was that he wasn’t afraid to ask a question you weren’t ready to answer. I wasn’t ready to give up on Charlie yet, but I was nearing the edge of my fortitude.

  I gestured to the bartender to pour me another. Derek stayed silent, clearly waiting for a response. Refilled drink in hand, I turned back to him. “What? How the fuck do you expect me to answer that?”

  He shrugged and sipped his drink. “With the truth, I guess.”

  “The truth is, I don’t know. If you were in my shoes, would you have stopped chasing Mandy?”

  He swirled the liquor in his glass. “No. But still, there comes a point when she’s gotta push all her chips into the middle too. You’ve both gotta be all in.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” My frustration ratcheted up a few more notches.

  “I don’t know w
hat to say, man. I guess, if I were you, I’d give it a few more days, and then I’d start asking myself some tough questions. Because with her history of running, you might have to face the possibility that she might never be coming back.”

  I downed the rest of my bourbon. I waved the bartender over. “Can you just leave us the bottle?”

  Derek looked sideways at me. “Getting hammered ain’t exactly gonna help.”

  I sloshed liquor into my glass. “Sure ain’t gonna hurt.”

  Forty-Five

  Charlie

  After one delayed flight due to mechanical problems, one missed connection because I’d misread my boarding pass, and one uncomfortable night of no sleep on a bench in the Atlanta airport, the plane touched down in New Orleans at eleven AM. I waited impatiently for the passengers ahead of me to grab their luggage and disembark. The saying, ‘a day late and a dollar short’ kept running through my head.

  As the cab approached the familiar iron gates, topped with intricate fleur de lis, I struggled to piece together what the hell I was going to say.

  I’m sorry seemed so … inadequate.

  I paid the driver and climbed out. I faced the fence that separated me from Simon. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Just like before, there was more than metal between us. There were the lies, the truth, and everything else. I wondered if we could really overcome it. I reached for the button on the intercom, but paused when I spotted Simon through the vine-covered bars.

  He was holding a leash.