by Brenda Drake
“They were back on the other street.” I flip forward and settle into my seat.
The cushion moves a little when he plops back down. “Could have been a couple that resembled them.”
“Right. A couple that just so happened to look like both of them.” I cross my arms in front of my chest to steady them.
He gives me one of those smiles Dalton does when he wants to placate me. “Well, we’ve lost them, so there’s no way to know for sure it was them.”
He doesn’t believe that I saw them. I stare out the window, watching the busy streets, not wanting to talk anymore. Too many strange things are happening lately. Meeting the Thor worshipper at the gas station, then finding out he’s Marek’s uncle, and now seeing him with the woman from the train.
“Inanna,” I say so quietly the only evidence I speak is the whisper of fog against the glass. It’s a goddess’s name. I think back to Mr. Conte’s video. Could she be one? No. Why did she leave me that letter? And who’s watching me? Other than the obvious suspects, her and Bjorn, is there someone else?
The Uber driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. I didn’t notice him when we got into the car, but the man is young, dark, and gorgeous. There’s a falcon tattoo on the inside of his lower arm. “Not to worry,” he says with an accent I can’t place. “I learn driving in Algiers. This is a piece of cake.”
He changes lanes, slipping between two cars with what looks like not enough space to fit the Jetta. I swallow my breath. A seed of anxiety sprouts in the pit of my stomach and branches out, strangling my chest with its roots. I want to go home. But my want for answers is stronger.
Marek stares out the front window, watching where the Uber driver is taking us. I’m not sure I should trust this boy I only met yesterday. I don’t know him, and yet, I’ve abandoned all the warning alarms going off in my head. Why? Because he looks like that? Perfect.
Stop it. He didn’t have to invite me to come with him. He could’ve dropped it when I declined to go.
I look past him and out his side window. Central Park. Tall, thick trees canopy the green grounds. A horse with a shiny brown coat pulls a white carriage holding a woman and two little boys down the shaded pathway running alongside the street.
The Uber driver brings the Jetta to a stop and points across the street to a tall, square building with bronze doors and a long awning that covers the entrance.
“Here you are,” the Uber driver says and passes a business card over the back of his seat to me. “If you need a ride again, give me a call. I’ll be in the area.”
I pop open the door and step onto the curb. Marek slides out after me. The Jetta takes off into the rushing traffic. The business card is expensive, the paper thick, and the driver’s name is printed in fancy script.
“Horus…” I mumble. Another god name. There’s no way all of this can be a coincidence, is there?
Marek runs his fingers through his hair. “That place is nice. Bet it costs a lot to live here. Even has a doorman.”
“What’re we going to say?” I shove my hands into my jacket’s pockets.
“Not sure,” he says. “First, we need to get inside.”
“We could tell the doorman we’re friends from school.”
“What if he checks with her and we’re sent away?” His hand rests on the back of his neck, his eyes casing the building. “I think we go with a distraction.”
“A distraction?” I repeat, uncertainty sounding in my voice.
“I’ll take care of it. When it goes down, you sneak to the elevators and go to the apartment.”
“What do I say to her?” I don’t like that plan. It can go wrong, and I could get caught. Possibly ending in me getting my first offense on an arrest record for breaking and entering or something. Is it considered breaking and entering if you don’t break anything when you enter? I don’t know and don’t want to find out.
“The truth will work.” He sounds confident. “I’ll ask the doorman for directions. When you feel he’s distracted enough, make your move.”
Because, apparently, all common sense leaves me when Marek is involved—or I wouldn’t even be in New York—I agree with his plan, and we cross the street with a crowd of pedestrians. I try to look as inconspicuous as possible standing by the front door of the apartment building. When Marek approaches the doorman, he’s receiving a delivery.
Every possible outcome of this little, maybe illegal, plan to sneak me into the apartment complex runs through my mind. If I’m caught, I won’t have just an arrest record to worry about, they’ll call Jane. Call Jane.
I’ll never be allowed out ever again. Going somewhere in Philadelphia without permission would be bad enough, but leaving the state and going to New York City, she’ll blow a fuse. A nervous twitch travels down my back, and I stretch out my fingers to keep my hands from trembling.
I peer through the sliding glass doors. The lobby is empty. Marek’s arms are flailing around while saying something to the doorman. The man, tall and lean with a long face, follows Marek up the sidewalk.
“You think she’s in labor?” the man’s saying as he passes me. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, she needs help,” Marek answers.
The man’s shoes clack against the cement. “We should call an ambulance.”
“We have.” Marek gives me a quick look and tips his head toward the door. “Move,” he mouths.
I dart through the sliding doors and to the elevators, shooting glances over my shoulder, waiting for the elevator to arrive. Just outside in front of the building, Marek runs off, and the doorman yells something at him before turning to return to the apartment complex.
A ding goes off, and the elevator opens. I dash inside and stab the button for the fifteenth floor. My stomach takes a beat to catch up with me. It lurches and drops when the doors to the outside part and the doorman strides in.
I press myself up against the elevator’s back wall, hoping he doesn’t notice me. The doors slide shut just as his head turns in my direction. The floor lifts, and I swallow a heavy breath.
“That was close,” I say to no one and slump against the wall.
The fifteenth floor has precisely four doors. Two lead to fire escapes on either end of the hall, and two to apartments 15A and 15B.
I push the doorbell to 15B and wait.
And wait some more.
It’s pretty silent on the other side of the door. Maybe Shona’s out. We didn’t come up with a plan if she’s not home. Neither one of us even thought of the possibility that she’d be gone.
Do I wait?
I wrench my phone out of my pants pocket, search for Marek’s number, and press the call button.
“Did you make it?” Marek sounds out of breath. He must’ve run for a while.
“I did,” I say. “But she’s not home.”
“Great. We have to wait for her.”
“You mean I do,” I grumble. He isn’t the one illegally in an apartment building. What would the charges be for trespassing? Or I could be mistaken for a burglar. Or maybe even a stalker.
The thumping of heavy boots on the wooden floor causes me to spin away from the door. A tall guy with sandy brown hair who looks as if he just stepped off the runway comes to a halt outside 15B.
I freeze, not able to move.
He glares down at me and snaps, “Who are you?”
“I—”
“Why are you here?” He lets out a feral growl.
My lungs tighten, and I can’t breathe. “D-Don’t hurt me.”
Chapter Eight
“Cain, back off,” a girl’s voice orders.
The guy takes a step back.
The girl has black curly hair, her face is flawless, and her long nails are sculpted. She sways as she strolls over to us on expensive-looking heels. “I can’t leave you alone for a sec
ond,” she says.
Cain turns his head toward her. “She’s snooping around. Probably a spy.”
“Really?” There’s frustration in her voice. “She’s just a girl. I need to limit your game time. You’re mixing up make-believe with reality. Now go cool off in your room.”
He unlocks the door and disappears into the apartment.
Brown eyes under perfectly winged eyeliner and false eyelashes land on me. “You do drink tea, don’t you?”
I nod, too freaked out to speak.
“Good. Come in.” She pushes open the door Cain left ajar. When I don’t follow her, she says, “He won’t hurt you, I promise.”
There is no way I’m going inside that apartment with an angry model dude in there. “I’m fine out here,” I say. “I was just looking for Shona Jackson.”
She comes back, rests her hand on the fancy crystal knob, and leans against the door. “Well, you found her. What do you want?”
Now that I’m here, I’m at a loss for words, knowing that what I have to say will come out sounding as if I took a trip to Neverland and was high on fairy dust. Busy running a practice speech in my head, I forget she’s waiting for a response.
Shona’s hand goes from resting on the doorknob to her waist. “Well?” She sounds annoyed. “I don’t have all day.”
“Do you always invite complete strangers in for tea?” I’m stalling.
“No.” She raises one precisely bladed eyebrow. “But you look like you could use some? It’s calming.”
“What I came to say is going to sound far out there,” I warn. “I just found out about it myself. But you see, there’s this list—”
“I know about it,” she cuts me off. “So the old man’s dead, huh?”
It’s as if someone knocks into me. I stumble back. “You know about the list?”
“Yeah, Cain caught the old man snooping around. Just like you.” She looks over my shoulder. “You should come inside. The woman in 15A is very nosy. Her days are filled with watching game shows and spying on me.” She opens the door wider and steps aside to let me in.
I hesitate, not knowing if it’s a good idea to enter without Marek. She’s a stranger, after all, and her scary boyfriend seems unstable. “My friend’s outside waiting.”
She hesitates and just stares at me. Probably trying to assess if I’m lying about having someone with me. “Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll notify the doorman and let him know we’re expecting company.”
“Yeah, about that.” There’s a quiet click behind me, and I glance over my shoulder at 15A’s door and then back to Shona.
Shona motions me in, and I step over the threshold. The apartment’s huge and decorated with jewel-colored walls and oddly shaped furniture. Rows of windows make up one wall with a great view across the park.
A thought catches up with me. How does she know Mr. Conte is dead?
“What’s your friend’s name?” Shona asks, and my thought fades into the background. She stands in front of a fancy intercom system, punching in numbers.
My eyes wander over the place, trying to locate Cain. I shift uneasily on my feet. I don’t like not knowing his whereabouts. “I don’t think the doorman will let him in.”
A smile pulls across her full lips. “Interesting. What did he do to get himself restricted from the building?”
“He made a distraction so I could sneak in. The doorman is pretty pissed at him.”
Her eyebrow rises again. “I see. My father owns the building. The attendant will do whatever I say.” She pushes a button on the intercom and leans closer to it. “Marshall?”
A few seconds later, a man’s voice comes through the box. “Yes, Miss.”
“The boy, the one who took you away from your post, let him through.”
“All right, Miss,” he says. “Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s all. Thank you.” She turns and faces me. “Let your friend know he can come up.”
I text Marek, then join Shona in the living room. A door on the left is open. Inside the room, Cain sits straight as a pin on a big cushioned chair, his hands resting on his knees and eyes closed.
“Is he okay?” I ask and drop down on the couch beside her.
She glances at the open door. “Oh, him? He’s meditating. He can get hotheaded at times. Just needs a time out.”
I cross my legs. “Is he your guardian?”
“Boyfriend. I’m eighteen. He’s only a year older than me.”
Hopefully, he doesn’t take his anger out on her.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, she adds, “He’s never touched me. He listens to me. I can get him to calm down. We’ve been together since sophomore year of high school.” Her lips turn down, and she sighs. “He used to be so sweet. He’s changed a lot. Ever since…” She trails off, seemingly checking herself. “Listen to me. Complaining. I should be happy he’s completely devoted to me.”
Devoted? More like her lapdog.
Her eyes give her away. She’s not at all happy about that.
I glance around, feeling a little uncomfortable, and my gaze stops on a painting above the fireplace. It’s of a woman with red hair pulled up loosely. By the technique and the woman’s dress and hair, it has to be from the Renaissance era. Her face is familiar to me. I must’ve seen the artwork before.
“Do you like art?” Shona asks. “That one isn’t an original. It’s a Michelangelo duplicate. From a fresco he painted.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
A knock sounds from the entry. Shona springs to her feet and dashes across the plush area rug. The air adjusts slightly in the room when she opens the door. Marek leans casually to one side with his arm braced against the doorframe, supporting his weight. His stance lengthens his toned muscles. His dark hair is messy, and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.
Shona gives him a once-over and looks over at me. “Nice,” she mouths.
I ignore her comment. “What happened to you?” I ask. “Did you run a marathon or something?”
“That Marshall isn’t a forgiving man,” Marek says, breathless. “He wouldn’t let me ride the elevators. Made me take all fourteen flights of stairs.”
A laugh blurts from Shona’s mouth. “Guess he got even with you.”
“What’s he doing here?” Cain’s voice is deep and filled with anger. His eerily vacant eyes are set on Marek. The muscles in his jaws tighten.
“You’re supposed to be in your room, cooling off,” Shona directs at Cain. “Now go.”
Cain doesn’t say a word. He just obeys her order. Just like that. No back talk or argument. She commands him, and he goes. He hangs his head and shuffles to his room.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, keeping her eyes on Cain’s retreat.
I sit beside Marek on the couch and lean closer. “Isn’t that weird? He does whatever she says.”
“Yeah, the dude is whipped,” Marek whispers back.
Shona spins around on her very high heels to face us. “So, Adam Conte. Who’s he to you?”
“He’s my grandfather,” Marek says.
Her eyes go to me. “And who are you to him?”
“I’m on that list.” I adjust in my seat. There’s something familiar with Shona. It’s as though we’ve met before, but I know we haven’t. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time.
A sympathetic smile presses her cheeks. “I don’t have any answers. Cain caught him watching me, and I had to pry him off the poor man. He held him while I searched Adam’s bag for answers. I found the list and my name. Adam said an entity, can’t remember the name of it, hired him to watch over the people on the list. To alert a team who’d protect us if we were in danger. He never said what kind of danger. I assumed my father arranged it because of the trust fund my mom left me. It must be the same for you.”
<
br /> Her voice cracks a little over “mom.” She uses the informal when referring to her and the formal when mentioning her father, and I can’t help but wonder why she does.
“We don’t have money.” I gesture to the room. “Well, nothing like this, anyway. Wait. You knew he was dead. How?”
“He said if he died, someone might contact me. A replacement, I think.”
Marek pushes back against the cushions. “My grandfather said he gave you something. Do you have it?”
Her face is a question mark. “Gave me something? No—” A thought cuts off her words. “Wait. He did send me a postcard. I thought it was strange that he knew I collect them. We only met that one time. Let me get it.”
While she’s gone to get the postcard, Marek and I sit in silence. Is he as hopeful as I am that there will be clues on it? Placing his elbows on his knees, he rests his chin on folded hands. His dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. Probably caused by sweating during his hike up the stairs.
He glances at me, busting me staring at him.
I flick my head in the other direction, pretending to watch for Shona’s return. Marek smiles. He so knows I was checking him out. I need to get myself together. Stop letting a guy distract me.
Shona returns and hands the postcard to Marek. He reads the back and turns it over. “Van Gogh’s The Starry Night,” he says, removing the decoder ring from his right index finger and looking at me, then Shona. “Maybe the clue is your address.”
“What clue?” Shona studies us.
I look at Marek and raise an eyebrow, seeking his approval to tell her. He nods, but I decide to give her as little information as possible. Because we don’t even really know what his grandfather was up to.
“We think Mr. Conte left them for Marek,” I say. “Something to do with the list. We’re not sure. Just trying to figure it out.”
“Do you have some paper and a pen?” Marek asks.
She nods. “Yes. Right beside you in that drawer.”
Marek opens the tiny drawer in the fancy end table and pulls out a pad of paper and an expensive-looking pen. He works with the numbers of Shona’s address, writing them down. Every combination he can think of, he tries. “It’s just a jumbled mess. Nothing works.”