“Some of the evidence I knew was false,” Cross went on. “I was there for a few of those missions, I know how the plans went down, so it was clear the testimony being provided to you didn’t match actual events. The witnesses were being tampered with.”
“And you didn’t tell us this!”
He knew the Dresden Kids were lying? But why would they do that? They had such good reasons to want revenge, to want to ruin Department D. Then I thought of Paolo Striker and Sophia Urban. Not all children of this organization were innocent. How many of the kids that I let into the compound were playing for the other side? And how many of them deserved stars on Hollywood Boulevard for their performances?
“Which kids? Who’s lying?” I demanded.
“All of them.”
My head jutted back. All of them? How could they all be agents for Department D? How could Keira, Marcus, and I be the only ones oblivious to what our parents were doing? That was impossible.
“It’s not what you think.” Cross read the confusion on my face as he tugged off his Christmas green bow tie and tossed it on the ground. Maybe he was hoping the alcohol would slide down faster if he didn’t have any pesky constrictions around his throat. “The kids aren’t agents. They don’t work for us. Some of their parents did, or grandparents. But all of them really did come from families that were ravaged by Department D. They didn’t lie out of espionage; they lied for the oldest reason in the world.”
He glared at me, head tilted, like he’d stand there all night until I caught on.
“Money,” I stated, the single word so heavy on my lips.
Cross nodded. “Money. Or more accurately, reparations, back pay, damages owed, pain and suffering. Department D delivered some pretty hefty incentives—a few had their family names completely cleared of wrongdoing, relatives released from prison, bodies suddenly located and put to rest.”
“Offers they couldn’t refuse,” I quoted The Godfather.
Who the hell wasn’t betraying us these days? Could I trust anything Cross said?
The bitter taste of deceit flooded my mouth, mixing with the salty tropical air. I wanted to vomit. “You gave us those names. You knew how things really went down on those missions, and you never said a word. Were you working against us the whole time?”
He shook his head, a glob of spit flying. “No, you’re not understanding.” He sounded exhausted talking to a layperson. “There’s a mole in your group. You know that, Anastasia. Come on.” He pulled a face suggesting I wasn’t stupid. “I gave you the names, they were all accurate, only someone was passing those names on to Department D, and they got to them first. I’ll give you one guess as to who.” He poured himself another drink.
“Antonio,” I whispered, as if saying his name too loud was akin to screaming Bloody Mary in a bathroom mirror while turning in circles.
Cross smacked his lips in confirmation. “Like I said, Esther was killed after you found your sister, after Urban went on the run. So once it was apparent that Antonio was feeding his parents information on all of you, on every Dresden Kid you were going to visit before you went, it wasn’t much of a leap to assume it was the Reys who killed my wife in retaliation for me helping you in Italy and for me helping your parents fake their deaths all those years ago!” He shouted the words again, like he clearly regretted ever helping my mom and dad. I couldn’t blame him. It didn’t seem like he got very much out of the deal. We had that in common.
Cross went on to explain how he figured it out. First, he hired a “Plant,” as he called him, a former employee he felt certain was loyal to him. Cross then fed us the Plant’s name as one of our Dresden Kids, and he suggested to Charlotte that she specifically send Marcus and Antonio on his case. They went. Only a Department D agent got there first, a blond Slovakian woman, who offered cash, amnesty, and practically the crown jewels of England if he’d feed us false information and return to the compound as a spy for the organization. This was enough to confirm Cross’s suspicions that our witnesses were being tampered with, but it didn’t point to the exact mole. That happened when Antonio found a private moment to speak with the Plant (while Marcus was in a restroom), and Antonio admitted he was still working for Department D. Cross also confirmed that the Slovakian woman was Antonio’s partner—likely the same woman I saw on the Tube staring at Antonio the first day we arrived in London. I knew it.
“Antonio’s a spy.” I bit out the words, wanting to claw out his eyes so badly I could practically feel his lashes under my fingernails. Any satisfaction I might have had at being right for not trusting him immediately erased once I realized I’d have to be the one to tell this to Marcus and Keira. Always the messenger. “So he was working with his parents the whole time? It was all an act? And the Dresden Kids are a bunch of lying bastards.”
I thought back to the awkward moments in the compound, to all the times I felt like a high school outcast in the cafeteria. I thought they hated me. Really, they screwed me over for financial gain. In a twisted way, that actually helped my self-esteem. Their motives I understood. But Antonio? His brotherly bonding, all the guitar playing and teasing, it was going to crush Marcus more. Then I thought of how he seemed to warn Marcus away from me. He didn’t want us together, because he knew I suspected him; he thought I’d figured it out. And I did, a few hours and a stomach-pumping too late.
Cross wobbled my way, his drunken legs incapable of walking a straight line. “After you miraculously located Antonio…” His glazed eyes suggested our Guy Fawkes encounter was no testament to Charlotte’s hacker skills. Antonio wanted to be found. “He told his parents every word you said. There never was a bug in Mr. Stone’s flat. They didn’t need one. The Reys used their son to spoil your plans, to set you up, and to make sure it would be your family going down with the Department D ship. Can’t say I blame them. Your parents do deserve to burn for all this!”
Did anyone not hate my parents? Myself included. But really, did it have to be Marcus’s parents?
“So the Reys are the ones setting us up? And they killed your wife? Why? What does Esther have to do with this?” My face twisted, my brain frantically trying to mop up the messy details, but they were spilling way too fast.
“That’s a great question!” he barked, tossing up his arms, huge pools of sweat soaking his unseasonable button-down shirt. He was growing so drunk it was hard to look at him. “Why would anyone want to kill my sweet Esther.” He choked on her name. “Bastards. They were trying to control me, that’s why. All signs pointed to the Reys. So you bet I thought it was them. Except it turns out, and you’re not going to believe this, I was wrong!” he bellowed, his voice bouncing off the marble patio floor. “I almost had their son killed! I poisoned your little Spanish boyfriend for nothing!”
His hazel eyes looked deranged. He was stumbling, shouting, and smiling inappropriately. As much as I wanted revenge for what he did to Marcus (and I really did), I couldn’t escape some primal instinct telling me to run. He looked out of control, capable of anything, and if this was a Department D house, there could be live grenades lying around with the teaspoons. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see if I could beat a belligerent drunk before he reached for the arsenal.
I inched back, casually trying to work my way inside, snake to the front door. I’d gotten whatever answers I could tonight.
“Where are you going?” He stumbled after me, his demented expression bordering on Jack Nicholson in The Shining. “Aren’t you going to ask who killed Esther?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Maybe we should talk about this later.” I kept moving for the door.
“But the time is now. There won’t be a later.” I didn’t like his tone.
“After you’ve sobered up. We’ll talk.” I reached the entry, my fingers stretching for the brass knob.
“I wouldn’t take another step if I were you.” His voice grew low and sinister.
That was when I saw the knife.
A shiny silver dagger was clutched in Cr
oss’s liver-spotted hand. There were jewels encrusted on the handle, like the knife belonged in a museum. I thought of Tyson, the knife to his chest, how it only took one precise blow by a trained killer. I stood motionless. If I ran, I felt there was little chance his aim was good enough to fling a heavy dagger at a moving target while he was this hammered from scotch. But what if I was wrong?
I shifted another inch toward the door, and he swiftly lifted his arm, dagger raised with the blade behind his shoulder, elbow pointed at me like he did indeed know how to throw it.
“Cross, calm down. It’s been a long night. I know you weren’t trying to hurt Marcus. I see that now.” I tried to reason with him, my palms raised defensively as my eyes looked about for a tray, a metal picture frame, a painting, anything to shield me if he tried to impale me with a flying weapon. “I know you were after Antonio, with good reason. Antonio’s a bad guy. His parents are bad guys. I’m sorry they killed your wife.”
“I told you! They didn’t kill my wife!” he screamed, elbow lifting higher like he was ready to launch the dagger.
“You’re right! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that.” I covered my face with my hands, protecting my head, like that would do any good if a hunk of pointy silver shot at my eye. “Just don’t throw the knife. You don’t want to hurt me. You want to hurt the people who hurt Esther. That isn’t me.”
The sound of footsteps shuffling echoed from a darkened doorway, and before I could even turn toward the sound, I caught an odd smirk on Cross’s face, like he was waiting for me to look, like he was getting what he wanted, after all.
“You’re right, darling,” said a voice from the shadows, so eerily familiar, it sent the blood funneling from my head. “It was us. Now, Allen, put down the knife.”
Out of the darkness, standing side by side, stepping into the foyer of an elegant villa in Rio de Janeiro, looking like they owned the place, were two people I thought I’d buried in the ground.
My parents.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I could hear myself gasp, and I could feel my eyelids fluttering uncontrollably. I could see them standing in front of me, but it was like I was watching them through a TV screen that was showing a film deemed inappropriate for children.
“Anastasia, darling, step away from the door,” said my mother. My mother!
“It’s okay,” my father added.
Okay? What was okay? Nothing about this was okay.
I stood like a broken statue, unable to be dislodged, unable to process anything.
Finally, my dad stepped forward, slowly, like a hunter not wanting to startle the doe-eyed deer. He clasped my hand and gently guided me from the entry. I felt his strong fingers interlaced with mine, and I stared at the familiar hand I held as a girl crossing the street.
I stopped short. My high heels clanked on the marble floor as I yanked myself free of him.
I stepped away. Far away.
“What. The. Fuck?” I shouted. Because there really were no other words.
My mother sighed as though she were expecting my oh-so-dramatic reaction. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see me? It’s good to see me!” I yelled from the depths of my throat, the words ripping their way out. The room sloped at an odd angle, all of the elegantly appointed leather furniture tilting and my parents stretching like demons. A bomb ticked deep inside, and I pulled at the asymmetrical strap of my fancy black dress like it might stop the explosion.
“Calm down. Breathe,” said my father, putting a hand on my back.
I jerked, his touch like fire. No. No way. Did he actually think he could touch me?
“We realize this is a shock.” There was a hint of child psychology in his voice, reminiscent of the shrinks I saw after their funerals.
I opened my mouth to scream, the sound halfway up my throat, but my mom held up a long slender finger, silencing me. I bit my tongue, literally. I could taste the blood.
“I imagine you have a few questions, but first, let us explain.” She pulled herself up to full height and raised her brows as if to insist, This is how things are going to be. Now hold your questions until I call on you. Oddly, I noticed her eyebrows had been professionally groomed; she’d gone to a spa recently. “When everything—”
“No,” I cut her off, finding my voice. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to tell me how this will go down.” I gestured between the two of us. “I will ask whatever questions I want. And you. Will. Answer them.”
We eyed one another, the room falling so silent I swore they could hear my heart pounding a death metal beat. But I didn’t blink first.
“You’ve changed,” she said, making a clinical observation.
“What did you expect?” I snarled. “Everyone in my life is either dead or being threatened. Because of you!”
Annoyance slipped into her face as she glanced at my father, like she wanted him to deal with me.
Dad nodded. They didn’t need to speak; they knew each other so well. Yet here I was, their daughter, and it was like we’d just met.
“Anastasia, I know Allen got you up to speed on a few things, but there’s more to the story,” Dad began, casually moving toward me with the poise of a politician used to spin.
I stumbled a step, then another two, certain if he got any closer, the furor I was trying to restrain would break free like a feral animal.
He stopped his approach. “Our deaths, they weren’t by choice. Urban had plans to terminate us, and it was either let him succeed or let him think he succeeded.”
“Funny how neither of those options takes your children into account.”
“We did think of you,” Mom interjected. “You remember that night, when we said we were moving to Canada, and you said you wanted to stay in Boston with Keira.”
Actually, I’d said a lot more than that. I’d told them that I hated them, then they died. I’d regretted those words every second of my life since. I’d apologized again and again to their tombstones, to their empty bedrooms, to the thin air, hoping it would be enough to absolve me, but the guilt never lifted. Until this moment.
Because back then, I didn’t mean it. Now I did. I really, really did.
“We were honoring your wishes,” Dad said. “You and Keira staying in Boston was the right decision. It was what was best for you.”
“What was best for me was having my parents, not being orphaned, and not falling into depression!” I cried, a sob lodged in my throat. “Did you really need me to say that?”
“It would have meant spending your lives on the run,” Dad said.
“We had to make an impossible choice, and our options were limited,” my mom continued. “There was no simple ending, and Allen’s plan seemed like the best decision for everyone.” She looked at Allen Cross slumped on the floor, his shoulders sagging from scotch, drool on his chin, and the dagger laying on the marble in front of his outstretched legs. He looked nothing like the controlled, unbreakable spy I’d met in Rome.
“You have no loyalty.” Cross lazily lifted his chin, his tongue sounding too thick for his mouth. “Not to me, not to anyone! That’s why people want to kill you, and I really hope someone finally does. You deserve to be in the ground.”
He meant it. It was why he kept shouting his words on the balcony. He wanted them to know how much he regretted ever helping them, how much that decision ruined his life. Well, it ruined mine, too.
I gawked, any innocence that was left in me draining away, pooling by my feet, sliding out the door, and dripping into the toxic lagoon below. The only adult in my life I thought I could trust just wished my parents dead, and I wasn’t sure I disagreed with him. “How long have you known that Randolph Urban is my father?”
The question triggered an immediate reaction. My mom cleared her voice, tensely pulling her thick espresso hair, which rippled down her back in waves, like mine. I could see myself in her, the way she tugged at her shoulders, and in the shape of her mouth,
the curve of her hips. But not in her eyes. My blue-gray eyes belonged to someone else, and now we all knew who.
“It’s complicated,” she replied.
Hot blood rushed down my arms. I was not a child anymore. They’d made sure of that. Protecting me from harsh truths was no longer an option. Especially not from this, from him.
My dad reached for me, the depth of his eyes revealing that of all the accusations I could throw their way (and there were plenty), this was the one he was dreading. “He is not your father.” His nose wrinkled in offense. It was long and pointy like Keira’s. His light brown hair matched hers, too.
The years had been kind—his hairline was thinned a bit, and there were new crow’s feet around his small hazel eyes, but otherwise he looked the same. And he looked nothing like me. How had I not seen it?
“I’m your dad,” he insisted in a “biology doesn’t make a family” kind of way. Only to pull that card, he needed to prove love was what bonded us together. And we both knew I didn’t have much of that stacked in my deck.
“You know what I’m asking. I have results of a DNA test, confirmed by the CIA.” I spat the truth. “Randolph Urban’s sperm met your egg. So tell me, Mom, exactly how long were you cheating on Dad?”
I didn’t blink as I said it. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to shove at least one ounce of the pain she’d inflicted on me back onto her.
“Your father and I dealt with this a long time ago,” she replied, her patience sounding thin. “I knew how Urban would react if he knew the truth, and I knew he’d never let you out of his clutches. After a lifetime in this business, I didn’t want that for you. As much as you hate me, Anastasia, I was thinking of you. So I faked amnios; I faked blood tests. I did everything a woman could possibly do to prove you were not his child. To keep you safe.”
Lies That Bind Page 23