Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  What she didn’t say was that, all of a sudden, she was hurt by the realization. Had Harland’s disappointment over her provocative and meaningless rebellion really driven him to cut her off from the company altogether, even after his emotional confession the same morning he changed his legacy? It was another question she’d never get to ask. The nevers were stacking up quickly, weights on her chest.

  “I should get going,” Dallas finally said with an unhappy sigh. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay with no one else here tonight?”

  “It’s my home.” She shrugged listlessly. “Only mine now. I’ve got to get used to being alone in it, right?”

  He gave her a doubtful look, but she walked him to the door and said goodbye. There was a charged moment where they tried to negotiate an appropriate farewell, and then he pulled her into a hug—and she let it linger, pretending for just a moment that nothing was so fucked up she couldn’t turn it right again. And then he was gone.

  Alone at last, Margo paced through empty rooms. Appliances hummed, foliage stirred around the empty courtyard, and rain pounded divots in the surface of the infinity pool. Silence rang like an alarm in the sterile kitchen. She’d been on her own in that house hundreds of times, but it was different now. This wasn’t alone, it was lonely; it had teeth.

  She headed up the stairs, pivoting away from her father’s closed bedroom door. It was late afternoon, sunset still an hour or two away, but she undressed mechanically. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, trying to figure out if she was going to bed or just giving up, Margo noticed the glass pushed to the back of her nightstand. It was the tumbler of whiskey that Addison Brand had given her the night her father was rushed to the hospital.

  For a long moment, she just stared at the sticky amber film in the glass. Then her body started trembling, a million thoughts burrowing into her brain like termites: Her father’s refusal to stop drinking in spite of his doctors’ warnings, his choice to isolate her from the company, the way he’d said he was proud of her—proud of her—and then died. He’d waited until just hours before he officially shuffled off his mortal coil to say something she’d wanted to hear from him since she first learned what the word “proud” meant, and now she had no place to put all the feelings that had cracked open as a result.

  For most of her life, he’d been absent, and for most of her life, she’d craved his recognition, his approval; and now that she’d gotten it at last, she was furious. How dare he say something that significant and then fucking die? How dare he put her through seventeen years of doubting herself, of proving herself, of hurt and devotion and mixed messages, and then vanish irrecoverably right after finally saying I’m proud of you?

  With a shout, she hurled the glass across the room as hard as she could. Sturdily constructed, it bounced off the wall, denting the plaster but not sustaining so much as a crack, and thumped to the floor. Margo collapsed, sobbing, and when she could finally breathe again, she reached for the phone. Axel answered on the first ring.

  “I can’t be alone tonight,” she whispered mournfully. “Can you guys come over?”

  24

  The Mannings’ living room was a campsite, the furniture cleared away to make room for a ring of sleeping bags, clustered before a blaze in the gas fireplace. Moonbeams danced on the surface of the pool outside and spilled through the hatched skylights above—and even though they were all there for Margo, talking or consoling or just being quiet, Joaquin nursed a small kernel of selfishness deep inside.

  Never had the mansion seemed so big or so empty, and the boy couldn’t help indulging a hopeful fantasy. With all these rooms and no one to fill them, what if Margo invited the Moreaus to live with her? They could cut the millstone of the villa from around their necks, free themselves of the ghosts and the mortgage, and maybe be happy again. He could see it. But the dream was as substantial as the flames licking at the glassed-in hearth.

  Joaquin wasn’t the only one thinking about the future. After a long moment of silence passed, Davon spoke into the gold-rimmed shadows. “What are you going to do, Margo? Can you stay in the house?”

  “Of course she can stay here,” Axel snapped. “It’s hers. Harland left it to her.”

  “She’s only seventeen.” Davon—the only other person there who had experienced the death of a parent—kept his eyes on Margo. “She’s still a minor.”

  “He’s right,” the girl said in a hollow voice. “I’m not an adult for another two months. Until then, my inheritance is in the care of my dad’s financial manager.”

  “Like a regent,” Leif suggested.

  “Basically. It’ll revert to me when I turn eighteen, but until then…” she cast a look out at the pool, and the electric sickle of light that hugged the coastline beyond it. “Technically, I guess my mom has custody of me now. Whether she likes it or not.”

  “Your mom?” Axel shot up in his sleeping bag, his face pale with alarm. “You’re not going to Italy, are you?”

  Axel’s horror made a quick lap around the room, acquainting itself with everyone there. Without Margo, their revenue stream would dry up—which Joaquin knew was bad enough—but what would become of his brother? She was his only friend, the only thing he had beyond Tuck/Marry/Kill that kept him from breaking down. The girl seemed to sense this, because she gave him a reassuring smile. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere. Maybe I’ll visit for a while, but just because she’s responsible for me doesn’t mean she wants to be.” She turned back to the fire. “I’ve got Irina and my dad’s attorney in case of something serious. She’ll tell me to stay.”

  “Okay.” Axel let out a breath.

  “You’ve got us, too,” Joaquin reminded her, reviving his fantasy just a little. The other boys chimed in their agreement, and Margo’s eyes filled.

  “Thanks, guys.” She took a deep breath, and then shook her head. “Okay, I don’t know how to say this other than to just say it: I have some bad news.”

  In broad strokes, she recounted what she’d learned from their fence, and the mood in the room—if possible—became even darker. His hands gripped tightly in his lap, Leif asked, “So what does this mean? We went through all of that, and now we’re just … stuck with stolen goods that we can’t move?”

  Stolen goods that Russian mobsters are willing to kill for, Joaquin appended silently. The police took their time responding to calls from the villa these days, and if big, bad dudes managed to find enough breadcrumbs … “What are we going to do?”

  “Don’t panic,” Margo ordered. “This is a hurdle, not a dead end. Our fence is the best guy in town, but not the only guy; and all we need is a crooked jeweler to recut the stones, and we’re back in business.” She made an emphatic gesture. “I’ve got contacts in New York, Chicago, Miami—and Milan, Marseilles, and Rio, too—and if we have to sell the rocks one at a time, I promise we’ll get our money. In the meanwhile, we just made an actual million on those paintings. Divided up, you’re getting about one-sixty apiece. We’re okay.”

  There was silence as the number sank in, and Joaquin watched the tension vanish from Leif’s hands while Davon muttered, “Hallelujah.” Axel was harder to read, though, his eyes blank; he insisted on handling all the money issues himself, keeping his brother in the dark as to just how great their debt really was.

  * * *

  After emptying two bottles of wine left over from the wake, they slowly dropped off to sleep, one by one. Joaquin, however, couldn’t get his eyes to close—fixed as they were on Leif in the sleeping bag beside him. Two weeks had passed since the Petrenko job, but they still hadn’t gone on the date they’d talked about. In fact, the subject hadn’t even come up.

  He’d worked two heists now, and the high he felt while in the thick of things made the rest of life sort of colorless. The confidence that had flowed through him, prompting the daring words he’d exchanged with the boy of his dreams, was absent in the harsh light of day; and maybe it was just endorphins that had compelled Leif to flirt back.
Maybe the other boy never meant any of it. Maybe he’d forgotten about it. Maybe what happened on a heist, stayed on a heist.

  A rustling from Leif’s sleeping bag interrupted his thoughts. The blond boy was slithering free, rising on bare feet to head for the bathroom. He was wearing only a T-shirt and shell-pink briefs, and Joaquin quickly looked away. And then he cursed himself for not staring at least a little, because, come on.

  Minutes later, Leif returned, and Joaquin pretended to be asleep—pretended not to be watching through one slitted eye—and then the boy was back inside his sleeping bag and rolling onto his side. Margo, Davon, and Axel filled the airy room with their even breaths, deep asleep, and Joaquin tried to mimic them. A moment later, Leif whispered, “You’re not fooling anybody, you know. I saw you watching me.”

  “I wasn’t watching,” Joaquin protested as quiet as he could, “I was just … I heard a noise!”

  “And you wanted to make sure my underwear wasn’t a ghost?” The boy countered, a smile in his voice.

  Joaquin was pretty sure his face was glowing at least as brightly as the fire. “I like the style. I might buy a pair with my recent fortune.”

  A funny hissing noise came from Leif’s sleeping bag, and Joaquin realized the boy was laughing. “You are ridiculous! You can just admit you were watching my sinful areas, Joaquin; it doesn’t bother me.” In a much sultrier tone, he added, “And if you really like these briefs, I can just take them off and give them to you…”

  “No!” Joaquin gasped, all the blood in his body dividing its efforts between his face and his groin as Leif started doing just that. “My brother is, like, ten feet away!”

  “Spoilsport.” He could feel Leif’s eyes on him now, and if he dared to look over, he knew he’d see the firelight dancing in them. “You know, I never got a chance to reverse the question you asked that night. What did you think the first time you saw me?”

  Joaquin’s breath caught. How honest should he be? This was no heist, and the adrenaline pumping through him was the ordinary, anxiety kind; but maybe, if being a jewel-thief-slash-drag-queen had taught him nothing else, it was to take chances and go for broke—knowing he was broke already and had little to lose. Swallowing, he said, “I thought you were beautiful. You were nice, and you were funny, and … you made me feel good about myself.”

  “I did?” Leif’s voice was soft.

  “You were the first one of Axel’s friends—ever—to look at me like an actual person, and not some annoying plus-one. You smiled and said hi like you meant it. Everybody else always said, ‘Aw, he’s so cute!’ And it was small and precious cute, not cute cute.”

  “For the record,” Leif drawled after a moment, “I did think you were cute cute.” Finally, Joaquin faced the boy, heart thudding, and saw a smile lighting his face. “And also for the record? You deserve to feel good about yourself. You’re impressive, Quino Moreau.”

  “Sure. I almost died on my first mission, and I almost peed myself on the second.”

  “But you went through with it, both times.” Leif reached a hand out between them. “And you didn’t let anyone stop you. You’re smart, and funny, and you get this cute, squeaky laugh when someone tickles you.” He found Joaquin’s hand in the darkness and threaded their fingers together, his touch intimate and arousing. After a moment, he whispered, “I’d really like to kiss you.”

  “Do it, then,” Joaquin answered, breathless.

  Leif leaned across the gulf of space. Their lips met, and then their tongues, and Joaquin felt the boy’s long, perfect fingers against his jaw—and his blood filled with a bright melody, their mouths pulling softly as starlight fell on them from above.

  * * *

  Dr. Khan didn’t even wait a week before paying Margo her promised visit. The girl was already at the door when a sleek hybrid pulled into the forecourt, the scientist parking close to the house and striding up to the mansion. If possible, she looked even more grim than she had at the funeral.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” the woman said formally, her dark gaze full of dire messages.

  “Thanks for coming.” It had been a week of constant phone calls, but very little human company apart from Irina, Axel, and Joaquin. Margo stood aside. “Please come in.”

  The woman hesitated, turning instead to gaze at the horizon. “I thought maybe it would do you some good to get out of the house for a while. To go somewhere else.”

  Something unpleasant crawled the length of Margo’s back as she took in the woman’s tightly drawn mouth and furrowed brow. “Sure, let me grab a coat.”

  “Somewhere else” turned out to be a deserted stretch of coastline ten minutes down the road. Nadiya parked, and they picked their way down to the pale, choppy sand, gulls making rounds overhead. Wind hurtled in from the ocean, slicing through Margo’s leather jacket, and she shivered a little. Dr. Khan still hadn’t said a word, staring moodily out at the crashing waves, and the girl finally spoke through chattering teeth. “Not to complain, because I do love a day at the beach, but aren’t you scared of polar bears?”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been cryptic, Margo.” The woman said at last. “A lot is happening just now, and I don’t know who to tell about it. I … frankly, I’m not sure who I can trust.”

  Margo’s eyebrows went up. “Okay. Well, you’ve definitely got my attention.”

  “Something is going on at Manning,” Dr. Khan began again slowly. “The day before your father’s memorial, Addison Brand announced an emergency meeting of the board, scheduled for the end of the month; and this week, he handed out pink slips to more than a dozen executive-level employees. He’s cleaning house.”

  Margo frowned, the sand shifting beneath her feet. “I mean … yeah, that seems kind of abrupt, but I guess he’s in charge now. He can hire and fire whoever he wants.”

  The woman shook her head emphatically. “These were dedicated employees, Margo. Some of them have been with Manning for twenty or even thirty years.” She met the girl’s eyes. “All of them were hired personally by your father and were loyal to him.”

  The salty air was cold and sticky against her skin, and Margo forced a smile. “You’re making it sound so sinister, but whenever a company changes hands, the new guy always brings in his own people, right?”

  “I’m making it sound sinister, because I believe that it is,” Dr. Khan replied seriously. “A dozen department heads in a few days is a bloodbath, Margo, and if these employees—who worked alongside Addison for years—are not ‘his people,’ then who are? And how does he expect to find qualified replacements this fast, unless he’s been looking for a while already?” A wave hit the shore behind her, sending up a spray of frigid seawater. “The sudden personnel changes, this emergency board meeting … something is coming, and I don’t like it. And I’m also one of your father’s hand-picked loyalists, by the way. Every morning when I get to the office, I’m surprised to find my access card still works.”

  The sand shifted again, and Margo felt a little seasick. She couldn’t imagine the company without Dr. Khan in the lab—but, then, she couldn’t imagine it without her father, either. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me. My dad left everything to Addison. Aside from my handful of stock, I’ve got no involvement with Manning anymore.”

  “And don’t you think that’s strange?” Dr. Khan stepped forward, grabbing Margo’s shoulder, a spark finally glinting in her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s odd that he cut you out like that? He always talked about the Manning name, about his legacy—”

  “His legacy is a logo on the side of a skyscraper,” Margo interrupted, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice, “and on our gate, and on appliances and shipping crates—” She saw the spark fade again, Nadiya’s expression wilting as she failed to get the reaction she’d hoped for. “I’m sorry. My dad gave me plenty of talks about ‘legacies’ and the ‘Manning name’ when he was disappointed in me for being a teenager in public. He didn’t always approve of me.”r />
  But the declaration sounded off, because Harland’s own words were ringing in her ears again: I see so much potential in you, Margo … I’m aware of your leadership skills. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense, and every part of her hurt when she faced the fact that she would never, ever be able to ask her father to explain himself.

  “I’m sorry, too.” Dr. Khan let out a great breath of air. “And I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, either, except that … I don’t trust Addison, and I know my time to do something about it is running out.” The woman ran her fingers through her wind-tossed hair. Then, “Did your father ever mention something called Project Pluto?”

  “Pluto?” Margo shrugged. “Not that I can recall. Why?”

  “I’ve done some snooping,” the scientist admitted, looking off at the gray skies over the horizon, “and I’ve discovered a few strange things. One is a server I didn’t know about, off-site but linked to our system, containing files I can’t access.” She cut her eyes to Margo. “As chief scientist, very little is off-limits to me—your father made sure of it—so an entire server I apparently don’t have the clearance to get into was a surprise.”

  Margo twisted a ring around her finger. “You don’t think my dad set this server up.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. Because I also learned that almost all of Addison’s sizable discretionary fund is sunk into something called Project Pluto, and all files pertaining to it are hidden in this server, where I can’t see them.” The woman tucked her hands into her pockets. “What is Addison up to that’s costing him thousands upon thousands of dollars, which he doesn’t want to run through ordinary channels?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said helplessly.

  “I’m going to lose my job, Margo.” Dr. Khan set her jaw, her eyes flinty—a familiar look of determination that the girl had often admired, feared, and imitated. “But I’m not going without a fight.”