The Con Code

by Shana Silver

Natalie’s eyes widen. “You believe him?”

  I meet her gaze. “I believe we should give him a chance to prove himself.”

  She nods, slowly at first, before becoming more aggressive. “Okay. I’m in.”

  Tig’s glare morphs back into a normal expression, which I take as confirmation.

  I spin to face Colin and raise my voice. “Okay, if you are truly on our side now, then you need to prove it.”

  Colin perks up. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Lakshmi doesn’t know we’ve discovered her true identity.” I start pacing the room as the plan solidifies. “If we can start to feed her wrong information, then we can outsmart the FBI and send them down the wrong path to lead them away from my mother.”

  We have to con the very people trying to catch us for pulling cons.

  “A heist within a heist.” My words grow more confident. “Once we get the book, we pretend to decipher it within earshot of Lakshmi. Have the entire message lead somewhere far away from the ancient book in Notre Dame. Seattle or something. Whatever the farthest continental US city is.”

  Everyone nods along.

  I turn to Colin. “You have to talk to the FBI. Make them think their ploy today scared you and you’re back on their side. Give them wrong specifics about the escape plan.”

  “That’s not enough, though. You need to play Lakshmi if this is going to work.” Natalie points at me. “She’s been clinging to you; you have to be the one to feed her wrong info. Maybe give her a sob story about your mother and a fond memory you have of the two of you in Seattle to plant that seed in her mind. That your mom might be hiding there.”

  I clench my teeth. “I’m probably not the best person for that. It has to be—”

  “You,” Colin says. “You’re the only one that can feed her false info about your mom. I’ll help you charm her. Coach you through it via an earpiece.”

  I don’t look at him when I say, “Fine.”

  Natalie paces the room. “And we need an exit strategy. South Bend will be swarming with FBI agents. We need a way to get out of that city without being detected, because as soon as we fake decipher that clue, they’re going for us. Even if we manage to evade them, they’re going to be stopping cars, buses, trains.”

  Tig taps her phone as though to suggest she’ll research the best way out of there.

  Natalie bites her lip. “And new disguises. We can’t use any of the wigs or supplies in my luggage in case Lakshmi snooped.” She starts rummaging through her suitcase, probably to catalog what she already has so she knows what not to buy.

  I unzip Lakshmi’s suitcase to shove the notebook back in.

  Colin crouches in front of me. “Hey.”

  I ignore him, my fingers tightening around the notebook.

  “Does this mean you believe me? That you forgive me?” He looks so damn hopeful.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.” There’s a sudden stabbing in my chest. “And I don’t fully believe you. Not when you’re so damn good at lying.”

  He nods, swallowing hard.

  “So this only means that I’m giving you a chance to do the impossible: Convince me.”

  * * *

  We all huddle around Colin’s cell phone in the hotel room and listen in while he makes the call. It rings several times before his dad picks up. “I see you got my message.”

  I can hear the croak in Colin’s throat. “You probably didn’t need quite the theatrics of fifteen police cars. One or two would have sufficed.”

  His dad responds with a snort. “I wouldn’t call it a message so much as a warning.” In the background on his line, there’s a lot of shuffling and side conversations, and I assume others are in the room as well. “Care to explain why you’ve neglected to send any reports for twelve days?”

  Natalie and I exchange glances, and then when I glance at Colin, he’s staring at me.

  The tightness in my chest loosens. He was telling the truth about this, at least. I do the math. He said he stopped contacting the FBI right around the time he stopped hating me … Twelve days puts us … the day of the bus ride where we leaned close and listened to the same music from the same pair of earbuds. Nothing special.

  Except to him.

  “I got paranoid,” he says, his voice a little dejected, his eyes pinned on mine. “I was worried she was onto me. She wouldn’t tell me anything about the next heists. And then I saw her talking to the front desk once, and I started freaking out that she knew about the phones you were leaving me. I figured it was best to lay low for a few days until she started to trust me again.”

  Ian O’Keefe clucks his tongue. “If you thought she was suspicious, that’s exactly the type of thing you need to tell us about, not try to handle it yourself. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, and looks away from me. So formal. So different from the kind of father-daughter relationship I have. Had. My throat gets tight.

  “We’ll give you a second chance.” I notice his dad says we, as though it’s the FBI’s idea and not necessarily one he endorses or came up with himself. “But you need to cooperate from now on.”

  “Yes, sir.” There’s a slight pause before Colin speaks again. “But how did you know about the guitar factory? I didn’t even know until the day of.”

  I recognize what this is. It’s him saving face. He couldn’t have told them this info if he didn’t know it himself. It’s smart, and his delivery of complete disbelief sells it. It’s also a ploy to get his dad to admit he planted Lakshmi.

  “I’m good at what I do, Colin.”

  I cringe for him. Because his dad’s words imply that Colin is not good at the role he’s been given. Ian won’t offer any more details, and of course he won’t tell Colin about Lakshmi. He doesn’t trust him enough.

  “Do you know the clue? If you tell me, I can—”

  “No way.” Ian’s voice is sharp and hard. “If she even suspects you know the clue, this whole plan falls apart. And if she can’t decipher the message without that clue, well, she’ll have to come to us.”

  “But—”

  “Now get off the phone and come to room 343. I need you to tell me everything that happened in the last twelve days.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hangs up and bites his lip before leaving the room … and taking with him our chance to eavesdrop on what he tells them.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Over here.” Colin juts his chin toward a deserted patch of grass hidden between two elm trees. I hesitate for a moment before following him. We’re at Old Hickory Lake, just outside Nashville, on this idyllic day when none of us should have a care in the world except the warm air on our skin and the soft lap of the waves.

  It’s been three days since Colin confessed and then retreated back into the FBI’s good graces with a lot of groveling and a few apologies. Within an hour of Colin knocking on his dad’s door like the prodigal son returned and reinforcing his commitment to the squad, the black cars disappeared, and so did the agents in question. I just hope the trap he set with his pledge of loyalty was for them, not for us.

  We’ve been laying low, walking the line between trying to show we were spooked by the FBI’s antics and moving forward with our plans for the book heist.

  All our plans. Including the part where we need to hoodwink the FBI themselves.

  In order to do that properly, we need to plant the seeds.

  “Number one thing to do when charming someone—” Colin plugs an earbud into my ear and tucks my hair over it, fingers sliding gently over my ear. The shady elm tree sprinkles diamond-shaped shadows on his shorts and tee. “Make them think they’re your entire world. They’re interested in themselves, not you. So take an interest in them.”

  “Easier said than done.” I wrinkle my nose against the peaty scent of algae. “Unless you’re you, of course. Or my dad.” My voice cracks. “I don’t have the requisite winning smile.”

  “You do to me. The smile, I mean.” Sunlight drops glistening spotlight
s on both the ripples in the lake and the dimples indenting Colin’s cheeks.

  I look down at my feet and kick a pebble toward the lake edge, swallowing hard. A few days ago, that compliment would have made my skin warm, but now the feeling wars with the cool sensation of lingering betrayal. “Actually, on second thought, it’s probably better if you give me this advice from a distance. So we can check if the earbuds are working.”

  He squints at me. “They’re Beats by Dre. Of course they’re working.”

  Still, I tap my ear and use the excuse to walk away, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not the bevy of tears swarming to my eyes.

  The grass tickles my ankles, and the warm summer breeze blows my short hair around my face. I don’t dare look back at the boy I left behind as I circle around the lounge chairs facing the glittering lake. Laughter, the vibrating motor of a speedboat, and the tinny sounds of Sydney’s portable speaker blasting the latest Hearts for Vandals song fade away the farther from the lake I flee.

  I lean against the bark of a large oak tree, its thick leaves shading me from the hot sun. A quick look around confirms no other campers are within earshot, most too busy taking kayaks and paddleboats and trying to get their crushes to notice them. A few girls lie on towels, tanning by the dock, and some of the boys engage in a fierce game of volleyball down by the shore. Lakshmi casts a fishing line into the lake.

  “Okay,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

  The faint hint of the Hearts for Vandals song carries through before Colin’s voice drifts into my ear. “Yep, like I said…”

  No one trusts me to be able to talk Lakshmi into believing our misdirections without Colin coaching me through it, Cyrano de Bergerac–style. But the problem is I flinch every time I hear his voice.

  “Let’s talk body language. You’ve got to smile. A smile is infectious. Contagious. If you’re smiling, then your mark will feel a little bit happier, too.”

  “I’m well aware of your smile and how you use it as a weapon,” I snap. Trees rustle as a gust of wind powers through. “Tell me something new.”

  “No crossing your arms. Relax your legs. Don’t fidget. Lean toward her. If you seem confident in your own skin, she’ll be drawn to you.”

  I drop my hands to my sides from where they were crossed at my chest.

  “Use a soothing tone of voice,” he says in his ridiculously velvet tone. “Make her feel calm in your presence.” His voice is a lullaby, soothing all the anger boiling in my veins.

  “So no swearing at her. Got it.”

  “And don’t forget eye contact. Look at her as though she’s the only person in the world. Hell, pretend she’s famous. If you ran into your fave celebrity, how would you act? You’d be excited to see her; you’d hang on her every word; you’d want to watch her every move.”

  The hair on the back of my neck starts to lift. Every conversation, every interaction we’ve ever had floods into my mind. His siren-song smile. His eyes locked on mine, smoldering. Listening to me. Knowing me sometimes better than I know myself. The way he made me feel like I was the only person in the room that mattered.

  He claims there was a turning point for him. That his feelings grew, and he could no longer squash them down. But he was still using these charm tactics right up until he confessed. He’d been using them in the hallway seconds before I kissed him.

  How can I trust that any of what happened between us was real?

  “Compliment her,” he continues. “Acknowledge her accomplishments. Latch on to her interests and—”

  I purse my lips. “I have no idea what her interests are.”

  “Exactly. You haven’t been paying enough attention to her. Start by picking out a positive observation about her and pointing it out. Tell her you love her shoes and ask where she got them or something.”

  A light breeze snatches my hair and blows it across my eyes in a wild tangle. “Okay. That sounds somewhat reasonable.”

  “Repeat it all back to me.”

  “Um.” I push the hair out of my eyes and kick a clod of dirt with my shoe. “I love your shoes.”

  He chuckles. “No, the advice. Not the compliment, though it did make me feel good about the sneakers decorated with an ugly checkered pattern Natalie bought for me. Even if they are pink-and-purple checkers.”

  “They’re statement sneakers.” I bite my lip. “But to answer your question: Be nice. Compliment her. Ask her questions.”

  “Avoid showing any sort of weakness or vulnerability,” he adds.

  I let out a sharp laugh. My weakness and vulnerability have been written all over my face ever since he shoved an ice pick into my chest. I can’t listen to him say any of this anymore. “I’m ready.”

  “But—”

  “I’m ready,” I say through gritted teeth, and roll my neck. I solidify that thought by texting the group the signal for Natalie to alert Lakshmi that she can’t find me. In this case, the signal is a merman emoji.

  “Okay then,” he says after reading the text. Dejection laces his voice.

  I slide against the tree to wait to be found in a ridiculous game of hide-and-seek. Tapping my finger against my thigh, I repeat his words of wisdom in my mind. Smile. It’s about her, not you. Don’t show weakness or vulnerability.

  But how do I slip in the fake info about my mom if this is about befriending Lakshmi? I can’t be like, Hey, girl, what’s your fave hobby? And she goes, Horseback riding! or something. And then I reply, That’s so interesting. By the way, I think my mom’s hiding near a tiny creek in Hoodsport, Washington, a tiny fishing village about two hours west of Seattle. Spoiler alert, I’ll soon be handing you the GPS coordinates on a silver platter.

  We chose Hoodsport not simply because it’s on the outskirts of the farthest major city from Notre Dame but also because the story I’m going to tell her is real. It’s a gamble for sure. My mom could very well actually be hiding exactly there.

  Thick trees sway in the distance, leaves jangling in a metallic shake. Puffy white clouds lurk across the sky, looking almost like snowcapped mountains rising above the trees. The image is overlaid by one of another lake. Another place. Another time.

  Back when I still had a family I could talk to. When their laughter was something I took for granted. When their love for each other and for me permeated the air and buoyed me upward. I close my eyes, and I’m back there at beautiful Finch Creek, steep mountains rising in my panoramic view.

  Large evergreen trees cast dark shadows on the muddy grass. I was nine years old, on the verge of ten and ruling the world, or so it felt.

  “Fiona, hon.” My mom slid beside me on a large, gray rock, pulling her thin legs up to her knees and following my gaze out to where the sunset lit the water on fire. Dad was busy setting up the tents a few feet away, grunting against the hard strike of a hammer. Mom stared at me with those piercing eyes of hers, the ones that always seemed to be trying to x-ray me to uncover my secrets or to send me a telepathic message I couldn’t quite decipher.

  I shifted under the weight of her uncomfortable stare. “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She placed her palm on my shoulder, just a simple touch. “We’ll have to enjoy the calm while it lasts.”

  I nodded, closing my eyes. The crisp air iced my lungs and sent shivers through me.

  Her voice dropped, and she spoke in a hurried tone. “We should do something to remember us by.”

  I laughed. “You mean remember this by.”

  She looked confused for a second but nodded. “Yes, this. This moment. The three of us together. No one after us. What’s ahead of us still a bit uncertain.”

  “Okay. I’m in. What should we do?”

  She tapped her fingers on her knees, which were slick and glossy with bug spray. “A carving? In a tree, maybe?” She fumbled in the box of supplies beside her and pulled out a hunting knife, small and sharp. Deadly. “You want to do the honors?”

  I took the knife in shaky fingers and held
it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger like a person might hold a rotten apple. But Mom cleared her throat, and my fingers slipped to the hilt, gripping tightly. I checked back to confirm, and when she nodded, the nerves dissipated. I braced one hand against the scratchy bark, and with my other, I carved the only thing that made sense at the time. Six letters. Our initials. Forever branding this place as ours.

  She pursed her lips at my carving and snorted once. My heart beat faster. Did that mean she didn’t like it?

  She held out her palm for the knife, and when she took hold of it, the way she gripped the hilt with white knuckles made it seem as though she was clutching the most powerful weapon in the universe. She studied the tree for several long beats, like she was Michelangelo and could liberate the image hiding within by carving.

  And then she set the knife against the other side of the bark.

  When she painted, she lost herself. She wouldn’t sleep, eat, sometimes barely even breathe until she got the image down on the canvas, whether it was one from her mind or a copy of someone else’s mastery. And when she carved that tree, the same fevered frenzy took over her. Glazed eyes. Triceps bulging. Sweat beading down her back.

  My mouth parted, my eyes glued to her every move. It was like a dance, the most mesmerizing performance I’d ever witnessed.

  When she finished, she stood back and nodded to herself. I gasped at the beauty.

  Two long lines converged up the length of the tree to a vanishing point to create what looked like a road in the distance of the image. Four separate lines fanned out, two on either side of the original two, creating what looked like walls. The walls had a pattern of horizontal rectangles cascading across their surface. At intervals, long poles rose vertically and interrupted the whole image.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Or maybe everything,” she said.

  I never found out what the image meant. If it was a real place, another one of her twisted clues, or just a figment of imagination she had to free from her mind. But that trip was the last one my family took together. It was the last one where my mom acted like a mother and not a person on the verge of fleeing. It was the only time my life felt somewhat … normal.