by Julie Cross
I cover my face with both hands. “Well, I didn’t know I couldn’t swim there. I just knew I’d never tried.” I drop my hands and glare at him. “It was stupid, I get it. I would have died if you hadn’t pulled me up. And now every time I close my eyes, this bed turns into a boat and waves are crashing over me.”
Miles grips my feet and tugs until I’m lying down, then he flops down beside me. “You would have fought your way through the waves. Survival instincts give you superpowers, and so does the will to live. And you can swim. I’ve seen you.”
His words drift over me, coating me like a warm blanket. I turn on my side to face him. “So what you’re saying is that I’m gonna have to kiss Bret next time.”
“You’re a gifted liar; tell him you have a cold,” Miles says, his voice low and sexy, right near my ear.
“Why didn’t you give yourself the same pep talk before you decided to teach me that really important lesson?” I shake my head. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
I liked it too much to have the memory tainted.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Miles says. “It’s less complicated if I don’t do that anymore. And I rarely make the same mistake twice.”
Disappointment hits me. But technically he hadn’t said that he didn’t like it.
“If it’s so complicated, then why are you all over my bed, putting the moves on me?” I attempt to shove him off, but he stays firmly beside me.
“To talk. To make plans. To help you get some sleep so you don’t screw up anything. Sleep deprivation can lead to disasters.”
“Oh, I see. So it’s all business?”
Miles laughs. “Give me your hand.” When I don’t move, he reaches for my hand. “When I first started military school, I couldn’t sleep, either.”
He turns my hand palm-up and I watch, my body sinking farther into the bed, relaxing. “Uh-oh, is this Chinese medicine?” I mumble, feeling sleepy all of a sudden.
“Just a story.” Miles moves his thumb in circles over my palm. “I was eleven and nervous about boarding school. So my parents took some leave from work, rented a house in Baltimore for the first month of school. It was less than a mile away. After a rough first couple of nights, I started sneaking out of the dorm and sleeping at my parents’ place.”
“Did they catch you?” My eyelids weigh a ton. I let them close and relax into the pillow.
“Eventually.” Miles continues the circles on my palm.
“Simon didn’t turn you in, did he?”
“No,” Miles says. “Simon pretended he didn’t notice me leaving. Later, he told me that he stuffed pillows under my covers, made up excuses about me being in the shower or bathroom.” He slides his fingers down my arm, stroking it lightly. I’m torn between relaxation and stimulation, between falling asleep and rolling on top of him. “I moved around my whole life, lived in dozens of places, so my being homesick didn’t make any sense. To my parents or me. Took us by surprise.”
I think I can relate to that. Moving everywhere but still wishing for home. I don’t want that life anymore, but it is familiar. There’s comfort in familiar even if it’s wrong.
“The dean caught me walking down the road in the middle of the night about three weeks into sixth grade. They kept a closer eye on me.” He slides down farther, his head right beside mine. “When I couldn’t sleep, Simon used to tell me stories or read from one of the many books in our combined collection….” His thumb returns to my palm, making more circles. “I think we went through half the Harry Potter series in sixth grade. He’d turn on his flashlight after lights out even though it was against the rules. He’d read just loudly enough for me to hear from the top bunk. That was Simon, for me at least. Just there as my friend. Not judging me, not needing anything in return.”
My eyes drift closed again but I’m alert, still listening. And I get what he’s saying, at least a little bit, because that’s how I felt with Simon stretched out on my bed, chomping his way through a giant bag of Twizzlers. Never once did I feel like he was trying to read me or see inside me when I didn’t want him to. My past felt safely locked away when he was around.
“It was complete trust,” Miles says. “The truth is, with where I’m headed in my life, trust won’t be a part of it. Definitely not safety. If I could go back in time and bring one thing to the future with me, that’s what I’d pick. That safe feeling, in that room, with my friend. Back then I didn’t get how rare that is—” His voice breaks, and my heart breaks a little for him.
“I can’t have it back.” He reaches over and brushes the hair off my face. “But knowing that you believe me and that you were already searching like I am… It feels a little like being in that dorm room.”
I raise my head and stare at him. God, I could kiss him right now. It would be so easy. And yet, after that move he pulled the other night…instincts kick in and I lean away from him. There is trust and there’s trust. Usually I don’t let myself do either, but with Miles, I’ll at least give him my “trust.” For Simon. But not with everything. Not my heart.
“You’re right about one thing,” I say.
“What’s that?”
I settle back into my pillow. “Trust isn’t a part of the real world. I’m gonna be waiting for you to tell me that story was my next How to Be a Saint lesson.”
He exhales, a hint of frustration in his voice. And just like that, our warm little bubble pops. “Like I said, this is complicated.”
Like you said, I’m good at pushing people away.
Miles rolls off my bed, returning to his feet. “Good night, Ellie.”
I wait to feel a sense of satisfaction, seeing him leave rattled by yours truly, but I’m surprised by how hard that story hit me. How much I’m hurting for him.
Maybe trust isn’t a part of my life because I don’t want it to be. Because I’m too afraid to be alone in a dorm room with someone, completely open, all the walls down.
CHAPTER 24
MILES: if the housekeeper doesn’t let you in, you have to bail. No copying files, no pictures. Just look and report back.
I roll my eyes after reading Miles’s text. Like I’m gonna leave Dominic’s room without copying everything from his laptop. Miles will thank me later. And I’m breaking the rules, not him.
ME: housekeeper didn’t answer. Don’t worry, I only broke 2 windows getting in
MILES: what?!
ME: jk
MILES: Rule #228 - no sarcasm
Actually, that’s a rule with my family, too. At least not in texting. But Miles has been driving me crazy all week with his rules. As if I’m not the one who bugged Dominic and has been listening in on him for two weeks or who got the tracking device on the drug dealer. I’m just glad to have a break from OCD Miles and his rules, not to mention his sexy voice constantly whispering things in my ear on the bus and slipping notes in my hand in the hallways. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hooked a fish named Ellie and is slowly reeling her in.
Dominic’s house is a mansion, brick with hedges blocking the view from the road. But no security guard, no gated neighborhood. Getting in would be easier than a lot of other break-ins I’ve done. But no, I’m gonna ring the bell and ask to be allowed in. Thanks for making my job hell—I mean challenging—Miles.
When the housekeeper attempts to understand me, replying in broken English, I switch to Portuguese. I’m pretty good with that language. I explain that Dominic and I were studying in his room last night and I left my notebook. She retrieves a key from a box in the entryway and then leads me to his room and unlocks the door but stands in the doorway watching me like a hawk.
Yeah, great plan, Miles. Look at that, a murder weapon is lying right on Dominic’s bed. Right.
Of course, I had to actually leave my notebook here last night—by the book and all—during a Great Gatsby study session with about five of us from Lance’s fourth period, plus Miles. Too many to fit in Dominic’s room. Especially when there are thirty other rooms in
this house. Miles left the notebook in Dominic’s room before we left the house.
Despite the fancy, immaculate home, Dominic’s room is disgusting. I barely manage to find my notebook in the mess, but the housekeeper smiles with relief when she sees my name written in curly cursive on the front. She turns her back to lead me out and old instincts kick in. I flip the lock on one of Dominic’s bedroom windows. The kind housekeeper shuts and locks Dominic’s bedroom door behind her, making it obvious that this room is off limits even to her skilled cleaning hands.
Minutes later, I’m climbing back inside the window, deviating from the plan. Miles will thank me later, I tell myself at least four times. To be safe and because it’s disgusting in here, I pop on a pair of latex gloves from my pocket before sifting through items piled on the bed. I snap photos of every paper, receipt, book on the shelf, then I find the laptop buried in the covers. I open it up and type his last name into the password box. It works. Idiot. Seconds later I’m inside the computer of Dominic DeLuca. Which might hold zero secrets.
While I’m waiting for his hard drive to copy onto the thumb drive I brought “just in case,” I stand in the corner of the room and study Dominic DeLuca’s personal space.
His bed is dressed with expensive linens in neutral yet trendy colors. It’s also covered with garbage, bags of chips, beef jerky wrappers, soda cans. I walk over to the tall bookshelf at the foot of the bed and scan each shelf individually. The one at eye level is full of books, carelessly stuffed in, some upside down. Papers are strewn in front of the books. I pick up a large envelope and read the front.
University of Pennsylvania Office of Admissions
I slide out the papers and scan them. Dominic’s been accepted for early decision. Buried under all the papers is a recent progress report from our school for the first few weeks of the grading period. Dominic’s barely pulling Cs in all his classes, has a 2.8 GPA, and is in the bottom half of our class. The shelf below is filled with CDs. I read the first few titles and don’t recognize any of the bands, but I do notice that they’re loosely alphabetized.
I scan the rest of the room, trying to find connections, any personality leaping out. Even though I’ve looked through his bag recently, I do it again. The articles about Simon are still there, stowed neatly in the envelope. One thing I can conclude is that Dominic DeLuca takes care of things he cares about and has no problem ruining anything he doesn’t.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read a text from Miles.
MILES: r u still in there? If yes, time to go!
What the hell, Miles? The download is at 90 percent. I shift from one foot to the other, typing a text to Miles.
ME: Stall.
MILES: can’t. Just get out!
Come on, come on, come on, I chant silently to the laptop. 96 percent…97 percent…
The sound of the front door opening is faint but clear enough. My heart slams against my chest. I rest my fingers on the flash drive, preparing to pull it.
98 percent…99 percent…
“Dominic! Where the hell are you?” a deep male voice says. Footsteps follow the voice up the stairs.
Shit. Oh shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, count to five, and then pull out the drive. I glance at the laptop for a split second, taking in the words “Download complete” on the screen.
Someone fiddles with the lock. The doorknob turns. I dive into the bathroom. Leaving the door open, I slip behind it, suck in a breath, and hold it.
“Dominic, you better be in here!” Black dress shoes stomp past the bathroom door then spin and head right in.
I close my eyes again and wait. The man pauses, glances around the bathroom, makes a noise of disgust, then walks out. Seconds later, he slams the bedroom door. I wait a moment before emerging, then I bury the laptop in the bedcovers again, climb out the window, and make a run for the bus stop a block away.
I take a seat on the bench and try to catch my breath before shooting Miles a text.
ME: Close call but I’m out
MILES: good. You have your cover story but it’s easier this way
ME: yeah, so the story worked. But housekeeper watched me like a hawk. I had to go back in through less legal means
MILES: jesus christ, Ellie
ME: so I should destroy the flash drive full of Dominic DeLuca secrets?
MILES: My place. Thirty minutes.
My text messages vanish seconds later. Miles deleted them. Great. I mentally prepare myself for another St. Miles lecture, complete with guilt trips and reciting laws of search and surveillance. Can’t wait for that.
CHAPTER 25
“You can’t keep picking my locks,” Miles says, striding into the windowless secret room. He’s sweaty and chugging a bottle of water. “One of these days, Clyde is gonna catch you.”
“Why are you all sweaty?” I bite into a slice of the pizza I ordered while waiting more than an hour for Miles.
“Took Dominic to the gym. He didn’t want to go home; his dad was pissed at him.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, recalling his dad’s sharp tone and stomping feet. “And don’t worry about Clyde catching me. I’ll just tell him we’re sleeping together, and you gave me a key.”
Miles chokes on his drink. “Do not tell Clyde that.”
“What’s the deal with him anyway?” I offer him the pizza box but he shakes his head. “Is he really your uncle? Or is he like your undercover handler?”
He flinches at the mention of undercover. Still getting used to someone knowing about his secret life. “He’s my uncle. Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
Miles closes the pizza box then wipes crumbs off the table. “Clyde’s a criminal. As skilled in check fraud as the guys he puts away.”
Cheese congeals to the roof of my mouth. “Wait…what? So he really doesn’t work as a freelancer?”
“The FBI hires him all the time.” Miles scoops a fallen thumbtack from the floor and jams it into the wall. “He was never convicted. Got immunity for turning in the big boss running his operation and now everyone thinks he’s a reformed bad guy, God’s gift to bridging the gap between criminals and the Feds.”
I force myself to swallow the bite of pizza lodged in my throat. “And what do you think?”
Miles turns to face me. “I think the larger the body of water between criminals and the people trying to catch them, the better.”
I twist my hands together. “But then how do they figure out how to catch the bad guys without informants on the inside?”
“I don’t know.” Miles shakes his head. “But not like that. Not when I’ve spent my entire life keeping myself on the right path, all so I can get a job and work beside someone who should be locked up in federal prison?”
“Or live with him.” Or live next door to them.
The pizza twists in my stomach, turning sour. I shove the box farther away.
“Exactly,” Miles says. “So yeah, I’m not a fan of that plan. But there’s nothing I can do about it. My dad trusts his brother, therefore he expects me to.”
I was right about Miles all along. He doesn’t do gray areas. Doesn’t forgive easily. He isn’t going to be my ally if he finds out the truth. My secrets are nothing like his. Mine are ugly and kept hidden so I can appear to be a good person. His secrets are important and noble and put lives in danger if they get out.
I dig my fingernail over the surface of the table. “I guess I didn’t realize con men could be hired by the FBI.”
“Happens more than you’d think,” Miles says.
It’s true that I didn’t know it was a regular thing, and unlike Clyde, I didn’t get paid for the job, but I did get freedom. For Harper and me. And my mother, too, though that part hadn’t worked out. All in exchange for my father. The boss man. Head of my family’s operation. But then my mother walked into that bank and ruined everything.
And speaking of criminal behavior…
“Why haven’t yo
u lectured me yet about the wrongs of breaking and entering and illegal search and surveillance?” I ask. “Figured you’d get right to that. Maybe whip out some handcuffs.”
He lifts a brow. “Oh, I’ve got handcuffs.”
“Yeah?” I drop my feet to the floor and pretend I’m not curious. “Let’s see them.”
Miles hesitates, like he’s debating that whole this-is-complicated thing. Eventually he sighs and says, “Next time.”
I place the flash drive full of Dominic DeLuca secrets on a table between us. “I took this, not you. I crawled through that window, not you. I can look through all of it on my own if you want. But you should know that I am going to look at it no matter what you say in your how-to-be-a-saint lecture.”
He stares at the flash drive for what feels like forever, probably reciting laws in his head, then his hand closes over it. He slides it to the center of the table. “Last resort, okay? Let’s put together our notes.”
A notebook lands in front of me, and he flips it open to a page in the middle. “Here’s a list of everything I saw when I planted the notebook in Dominic’s room.”
The list is long. Really long. Details about which model of iPad he owns and the brand and color of the pens on his desktop. I read each item carefully until I reach the middle of the page and can’t take any more of the dry information.
“There’s nothing useful here,” I complain. “Nothing to help us get inside Dominic’s head, figure out why the fuck he’s carting an envelope full of Simon Gilbert articles. He didn’t even like Simon. You should have heard him in the hall one day last spring. He was pissed at Bret for inviting Simon to a party. Explain that from your list.”
Miles narrows his eyes at me, his arms folded over his chest. “I suppose you did better?”
I wave a hand over the flash drive. I mean, duh.
“Through legal means,” he clarifies.
“Well, yeah.” I think for a minute, recalling details about Dominic’s room. “The guy’s a pig. Crumbs all over those fancy sheets. But his music collection is alphabetized.”