by Shana Silver
I straighten, my heart beating fast. It’s not just a goodbye … it’s his blessing.
I have to act now. Finish the heists. Find the remaining clues. Save Mom.
Before the FBI finds her instead.
* * *
Later that day, I bang on the door to Natalie’s house, hopping up and down on her front steps because I can’t stay still. After the van drove away, my dad’s lawyer managed to convince the judge to let me stay with a friend for a few days until they get something more permanent in place. Something with curfews most likely.
I’ll be long gone before that happens.
Natalie wrenches open the door, and her face falls. “God, Fiona. You okay?”
She engulfs me in a hug, and for one brief second, I allow myself to lean into her embrace and breathe in her jasmine perfume before I straighten up again. “I will be.”
She pulls me inside, past her younger brothers playing loud video games in the living room. From the kitchen, I can hear her mother bumbling around as pots clang. Natalie starts to head upstairs, but I pull on her elbow to stop her. “Can we go in your backyard?”
She eyes me skeptically but obliges by sliding open the glass doors. Orange koi slither beneath the murky water in the large pond occupying the center of the spacious yard. Bright green grass tickles my feet as I duck underneath the volleyball net. A set of tables and metal chairs with gingham cushions rings the perimeter. Beyond that, dense trees stand guard, a barrier made of nature. Once I’m safely ensconced in the shade of the elm and maple trees, tension starts to drain from my shoulders. This is the safest place to talk freely. I can’t be sure the FBI didn’t plant bugs in our houses.
Natalie drops into one of the chairs, and I pace in front of her while banging out a text. My eyes continually fly to the gate in the fence and the time on my phone, my body full of jitters.
Natalie’s brows knit. “Fiona, you’re acting crazy. What’s going on?”
“Hold on. We’re waiting on one more person.” Wind blows my hair into my face, sticking it to my coral lip gloss.
Natalie squints at me. “Should I tell my mom one more for dinner? Besides you, I mean.”
I shake my head, and Natalie clamps her mouth shut.
A minute later, Tig Ramirez opens the gate and scurries to the chair farthest from us, closer to the woods. She’s wearing men’s work pants with suspenders that dangle at the sides and a tight, fitted white T-shirt. She flicks her eyes toward Natalie for only a second before she ducks her head low beneath her fedora and refuses to look at either of us. Natalie’s eyes widen, and although she keeps her hands at her sides, they twitch. I know from experience that she’s itching to fix her luscious purple waves and make sure she looks as adorable as possible.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We don’t have our con man or our getaway driver, but between the three of us, we can re-create the team.” I point to Nat. “You’re the master of disguise, as always.” I glide my finger toward Tig. “You can replace Johnny as our electronics guru.” I pat my chest. “And I’ll be the stealthy one, plus I have to re-create the forgery the FBI stole.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Natalie holds up a palm. “You still want to go through with the heists? Without the professionals?”
“We’re the professionals now. We’re just as good as them. We can do this.”
We have to.
“But the FBI—”
I shrug. “They know a lot, but not everything. Which gives us a limited window to carry it all out.”
The FBI left behind the guitar and amusement park skull prop. Maybe they don’t know where the last three clues are hidden, or even that there are three clues left. They probably just seized anything that resembled a forgery in case it was linked back to my mom, like the ancient book. And who knows? Maybe they think the book was a forgery already retrieved and not a place we still have to hit.
Which means I have a slight advantage over them right now.
Tig dons a scowl, and for her that’s as much as shouting her disagreement. Natalie bolts from the chair. “Fiona, this is insane. This is—”
“Please, Nat.” My voice cracks on her name. “I need to find my mom. I can’t give up. I just can’t.” My eyes flutter shut. “And I can’t do it alone.”
Natalie rubs her hands down her face, stretching her Silly Putty skin. She lets out a long sigh. “Okay.” She laughs to herself. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but okay. I’ll help.”
We both turn to look at Tig, and she shrugs. I take that as consent.
The first smile I’ve felt since today’s arraignment jumps to my lips. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We hit up the amusement park first, using the plan Dad and I concocted.” The plan that the FBI shouldn’t have found much evidence for, because other than the cost-and-supply sheet, we stored all the important bits in our minds. “Swipe some access cards from staff members. Sneak into the underground employee tunnel system. Steal a few uniforms from the storage room. Then voilà! Wear the disguises and smooth-talk our way—”
“And who’s doing the smooth-talking?” Natalie raises a brow. “Because it’s not you. I’ve seen you try to be charming. Let’s just say that would be a one-way ticket to getting caught.”
Tig holds up her palms as if to say it’s not her, either.
“And if you remember correctly,” Natalie continues, “I have too many other tasks to perform to make the plan work. You do, too, actually. Tig will be occupied with cutting the ride electricity and hacking the ID system to plant our pictures when the stolen IDs are scanned. We can get away without a driver on the team, but we need a con man. We need a fourth.”
I sink into the chair beside Nat, cold metal gripping my thighs. “Okay. We can find another way to—”
“The guitar heist has the same issue. Actually, it’s even worse. In that one, the plan involves us convincing them to literally walk out the front door with the real guitar in hand. Tig works behind the scenes to plant backdated emails into their system. I’m the distraction. You’re the stealthy one who switches the guitars during the distraction. How is that going to be possible without a con man doing the initial convincing?”
I let out a growl. “We’ll rethink that one, too. We’ll—”
“And don’t even get me started on what it’s going to take to replace the book in an alarmed glass case at the Hesburgh Library. Spoiler alert, but we need a con man there, too.”
“Well, we don’t have one!” My hands curl into fists, and I leap to my feet, stomping hard on the soft grass. “And we don’t know anyone else who can pinch-hit here, either.”
“Yes we do.” She meets my eyes. “Colin.”
I start shaking my head frantically. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Natalie arches a brow. “He’s the most charming con man I know. He needs a little training, a little reining in, but he could be even smoother than your dad. With his help, we’d be unstoppable.”
I fight to keep my jaw from falling to the floor. Tig nods in agreement, and the two girls share a small smile. A scream claws its way up my throat, but I stifle it. “No. No way.” There’s a hard set to my chin. “I don’t trust him. He doesn’t have a stealthy bone in his body. Not to mention his dad works for the FBI!”
“Right. His dad works for them, but he doesn’t.”
Blood whooshes in my ears. This is insane. But none of it matters, because of one vital fact. “Need I remind you that Colin’s on house arrest? Because of me?”
She waves her hand dismissively like this is just a minor inconvenience. “So, we break him out. Cut his ankle monitor and go on the run. We’ll still have a head start on the FBI, especially if they think those locations have already been hit by your mom. They won’t know where to look for us.”
I sputter a cough. “Okay, fine. I’ll pretend that’s not the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard and humor you for a second. Let’s say I agree here. And let’s say we manage to get away after we cu
t that blinking, alarmed anklet that will instantly alert every police station in a fifty-mile radius. He’ll never agree to help us. Not in a million years.”
Her lips curl into a smile. “I think he will. You got him caught. He’s got something to prove now. And I think he wants to prove it to you, specifically.”
I cross my arms and slump in the nearest seat.
“Fiona.” Natalie’s voice softens, and she pushes out of her chair to stand beside me, stroking my hemp-blond waves. “If you want to have any shot at finding your mom, we need him.”
I bury my face in my hands, my heart thumping so loud in my ears I can barely think straight. If she’s right and we need a fourth, and if we need that fourth to be someone who can talk our way into anything, then he’s our only option. Which means that even if he refuses to help, I need to find a way to convince him.
I need to talk him into this.
“Okay.” Something in my chest loosens. “Colin’s officially been promoted from royal douchebag to team member, but…” I drum my fingers on the metal armrest. “If we cut his anklet, that severely limits our transportation options. The FBI will be notified instantly. We can’t fly down to Anaheim like we planned, not to mention our tickets to LAX have been confiscated. They’ll be stopping cars at every major highway entrance, checking pedestrians, Metro riders, train, bus. We won’t even make it out of the city, let alone all the way to the land of roller coasters.”
Tig’s chair rattles as she rises out of it. She thrusts her phone into my face and shows me a website for a teen tour:
Coast-to-Coast Connect Teen Tour:
An educational adventure across the nation!
They seem to have a warped idea of what requires an exclamation point.
“Travel camp?” I cross my arms, resisting the urge to full-on scoff. “In case you forgot, we’ll be on the run. Which means we should be, you know, running. Not kumbaya-ing.”
“It’s brilliant.” Natalie’s eyes light up, and she grins at Tig. “The FBI will be so focused on checking cars on the freeway or bus stations, they might not think to look for us on a legit student expedition.” She slides her silver fingernail down the page. “Look, first stop is the same amusement park we need to hit. And they’re even going to the Gibson Guitar Factory, and the Hesburgh Library later on the tour!”
Ugh. They’re right. It’s brilliant. Even if they search the tour roster, any fake names we use will mask our identities, and disguises Natalie whips up will cover the rest. This is the perfect way to flee the city and stay incognito.
I gasp and point my finger toward another sentence. “The tour bus leaves in two days. And we still have one day of school left.”
“Then we better get cracking. If we pool the cash we made from the last few cons, we should hopefully have enough to cover the funds.” Natalie turns to Tig. “Can you create fake identities and populate internet search histories with some fake backstories for us?”
Tig snaps her fingers. Piece of cake.
“I’ll be in charge of supplies, disguises, and registering us for the tour. Fiona, give me a list of art stuff you need to re-create the book, and, Tig, same for you for electronics. I’ll make it happen.”
Tig starts jotting down items on her phone.
Great, I know what that leaves me. “And I get the joy of breaking Colin out of house arrest.”
CHAPTER 9
I reach for the doorbell, but then snap my hand back. Standing on the porch of my mortal enemy is not exactly how I would have chosen to celebrate completing my last day of school. My fingers shake, and I rub them against my jeans. I’ve never been nervous for a con before, so I’m not sure why my body decides now is the time to go full-on hummingbird wings. But I can’t stay on this porch forever. Not when the fancy doorbell contains a small camera right above it and a light that shines directly on me in the darkness. Not when I’ve just witnessed Ian O’Keefe’s car pulling out of the driveway after an hour of stakeout, crouching behind a bush across the way. Not when I have no idea how soon he’ll return.
Don’t stray from the plan, I coax myself. My throat tightens because the words swim into my mind in Dad’s voice. It’s this reminder that renews my resolve.
I straighten my shoulders and press the button.
The musical little ding seems to hang in the air for an uncomfortable number of seconds. I hear the stomp of footsteps growing closer behind the door, and then the peephole darkens.
I hold my breath.
The door swings open, and Colin shakes his head at me, dark bangs swaying, before he slams the door in my face … just like I did to him when he showed up at my house unannounced.
I jam my finger against the bell again, a little more frantically, but then yank my hand back. I can’t seem too desperate.
There’s an even longer pause, and my pulse starts to amp. If he doesn’t let me in, I can’t convince him to upend his entire life to help me. But just as I reach for the doorbell again, he pulls the door open a little.
He crosses his arms. “I guess if we’re replaying this, my next line is to ask you to take off your shirt?”
“I will,” I say, his voice somehow sparking my latent need to snark over all the nerves swimming in my gut. “But not yet.”
His brows shoot way up, but he doesn’t get my meaning. Because if I somehow manage to convince him, whatever we’re wearing when we run out of here has to go. Which means my shirt’s coming off. “If you’ll let me inside, I can explain.”
He lets out a ginormous sigh and pushes the door open. I step into a rather bare entryway, nothing to greet me except a small wooden end table, polished to a sheen but holding nothing on top. Not even a speck of dust. Colin leads me through a long hallway where a few chaste gray-scale art prints of intertwining cubes hang on the wall but don’t breathe much life into the place. Gray-stained hardwood flooring stretches the entire length, only a shade darker than the gray walls. Colin’s gray sweatpants (pajamas?) match the monochromatic ambience, but the flash of red light that peeks out from beneath the bottom of his pants provides the only spark of color in the entire room. His steps seem normal, though, not dragged down by the heavy anklet. It must have taken weeks to get used to.
We reach a sleek, minimalistic living room decorated in steel grays and stark whites, as though his dad took decorating tips straight out of a black-and-white film. Even the big bay windows showcasing the dark night sky add to the effect. In the center of the room, the coffee table remains bare except for a single TV remote that blends in to the black surface. The entire place gives off that lemon-fresh tinge of Lysol.
The blaring TV projects subdued colors on the white wall until Colin shuts it off. He plops down onto the plush gray couch and leans forward as though bracing himself for what I might have to say. I set my backpack down at my feet and perch on the other side of the sectional, my back ramrod straight. I open my mouth to speak, but then clamp it shut. Natalie’s advice from when he came to my house floats in my mind. Talk to him. Flirt with him. And then his own actions at my house: Shower him in compliments. But none of that seems like the right way to start. The only way to start this is with the truth. “Look, I’m really sorry you got arrested.”
He flinches and then grips the armrest on the sofa with white knuckles. “Would have been nice to hear a month ago.”
I wince. My heart beats fast, and I start to look away, avoiding his eyes, but I force myself not to wimp out here. “I’m sorry about that, too.”
A muscle in his jaw flutters. “Is that why you came? To tell me you’re sorry a month too late?” His voice cracks, and something inside me falls apart at the hurt leaking through his words.
But of course, what I just said isn’t the actual truth. I didn’t come to apologize. I never would have.
“I need a favor.” I deliver the words straight like an arrow, my face void of expression. Just the facts, ma’am.
There’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t do sexual
favors.”
“Well, darn.” I swing my arm in an aw-shucks way. “Guess I’ll be going, then.” I start to stand up and earn the hint of a smile on the corners of his lips. Progress. “For real, though.” I sit back down. “I’m putting together a crew, and I need a con man. You’re the best one I know.”
He ducks his head, a little less confident than I’ve ever seen him before. “Am I, though? I mean, you won the territory. And all I got was a spiffy new anklet as a consolation prize.”
There it is. The hint of doubt in his voice. The need for validation. Natalie was right: He has something to prove.
“You are,” I say emphatically. “But I’ll be honest. You need a little training, and that’s where I can help.”
He strokes his chin as though considering this. “What’s the job?”
The taste of dust coats my mouth. If I tell him, I’m giving him a weapon to use against me. But how can I convince him to help me without exposing myself at the same time? How can I show him I trust him if I don’t trust him enough to tell him the truth? Of course, that’s the entire problem. I don’t trust him.
My hands twist my phone over and over in my palms, jittery. I can’t answer his question, not yet, so I ask one of my own. “Did you tell your dad what you found in my notebook?”
“Hesiod and all that crap?”
I nod, my chest stilling.
“No.” His voice hardens. “Don’t get me wrong—I was going to. Especially after…” He waves his hand at his ankle again. When he speaks, his voice is slightly lower. “But he never made time to hear what I had to say.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. He was going to sell me out, but he chose spiting his dad over spiting me. I can only hope he continues to make that same choice. “If I tell you the job, I need you to keep it secret. From your dad and the rest of his dirty henchmen.”
The corners of his lips stretch into a full grin. “Can I at least tell my dad you called his fellow agents dirty henchmen, because that’s pretty hilarious?”
