by Julie Cross
Shit. Maybe it is connected. I mean what are the odds? Dominic is the real person who saw him last.
My fingers are flying, texting Connie a million more questions; the sandwich Aidan made for me this morning lies abandoned. I word my questions carefully, keeping personal details and the very public case of Simon Gilbert out of the mix. But I end up forgetting one big detail in this process.
CONNIE: what happened to the ditzy teenage girl who came into my store a few weeks ago?
ME: uh…you know just reading, getting smarter
CONNIE: did u think I’d turn u in to someone just b/c ur curious about a listening device u found?
ME: better safe than sorry. I found it in a classmate’s bag. For real
CONNIE: OK then. I’m Connie, it’s nice to meet you girl who is much smarter than she looks/acts
I look down at my phone, feeling a physical connection between me and another person for the first time in over a week. Sometimes it’s nice to have the freedom to be me.
ME: Eleanor. Call me Ellie.
CONNIE: got it. And I will keep digging through these government reports. Right now, I can only access the released reports, usually 20+ years old
Guess that means she can’t hack her way into getting the police report of Simon’s death.
“You sure you want to deal with Davey again?” Dominic says. “I nearly pissed my pants last time with you pulling your disappearing act.”
“So don’t go,” Miles says. “I’ll meet him alone.”
Oh no. Not this again.
“Dude, you’ve either got massive balls or a death wish,” Dominic says. “But no, I’m not leaving you on your own. Can’t you just buy some weed off the guy? Why this new thing? I can get you Adderall if you need it for studying or whatever.”
“Just curious. Aren’t you?”
“A little, but not enough to get into shit I don’t know about,” Dominic says. “You still got what he wants? The Swiss imports?”
“I got it, don’t worry,” Miles says. The bell rings, sending a piercing sound through my headphones. “Later, man.”
Damn. I missed the part where they said when they were meeting up. I storm off to my next class, pissed at myself for missing the most important bit of info, but fifteen minutes in, I get pulled from class. Another note to meet in the office. I debate skipping out—the last thing I need right now is another “let’s chat about your future” session in Geist’s office—but what if Harper and Aidan are here again waiting for me?
I get halfway to the office when a hand reaches out and pulls me inside the janitor’s closet. My heart jumps up to my throat. The door closes, leaving me in the dark.
“If you wanted to listen in on my conversations, you could have just asked nicely,” Miles says.
My heart slows a bit, but the scent of him nearby sends my pulse racing again. The apartment pool closed weeks ago; how does he still smell like chlorine?
I’m adjusting to the dark enough to make out the shape of his face, his body. “Didn’t think I could. You know, since we’re not on the same team anymore.”
“I know you’ve been staking out the Gilberts’ house all week,” he says. “I just can’t figure out why.”
God, can I do anything behind his back? Or maybe I’m slipping in covering my tracks. I think I might be obsessed. Not with the Gilberts but with this answer floating right above me. My dad refers to this as Junkie Mode. Anyone in my “family” who fell into Junkie Mode got thrown off the job or pushed into a background part. It was too risky, he’d say. They’re not seeing clearly, thinking clearly. Looking back on it now, I’m pretty sure my dad was in full-blown Junkie Mode during that last job I did with them. If he wasn’t, he would have figured out that I’d been helping the FBI, figured out that he didn’t know the target as well as he’d thought. Maybe my mom pulled him out last minute for that very reason?
“Ellie?” Miles says, snapping me back to the dark closet and him so incredibly close. I can feel him examining me in the dark. “Are you sleeping at all? You look…”
Nice. I miss a little beauty rest and Mr. Always Hot calls me out on it. “What?” I demand.
“Tired,” he finishes.
“Thanks, Miles. You look great, too.”
He leans in, his breath hitting my neck. “Tired, but still beautiful. And I know you know it. So get over yourself.”
We haven’t been this close in a while, and now all I can think about is the homecoming dance and Miles pressing me up against the wall, his hand sliding beneath my dress. “Is that why you pulled me into a closest after a week of ignoring me? Didn’t you say you had no problem resisting me?”
“The Gilberts’ house.” He clears his throat, back to disciplined Miles. “Your solo surveillance team. That’s why I pulled you in here. What are you up to?”
“You’re the one who broke up with me,” I remind him, then I jump to clarify. “Broke up our team, I mean.”
“Only because you refuse to trust me,” he snaps, angry all over again. “Tell me what you’re up to.”
I shove him aside and put a hand on the door. “Guess you’ll just have to catch me there tonight and find out for yourself.”
CHAPTER 32
Around ten thirty p.m., when my body is nearly numb from cold and my eyes are drooping, a paper coffee cup appears right in front of my face, blocking the Gilberts’ mansion from my line of sight. “Couldn’t help spying on me, huh? Now who’s having trust issues?”
Miles is dressed in all black. He waits for me to accept the coffee, then folds himself on the ground beside me. “You can see me, right? Not spying.”
“Fine then. You’re not spying.” I rub the warm coffee between my hands and stare straight ahead. I don’t know what I’m looking for, maybe because I’ve gone into Junkie Mode and lost perspective. “And we’re definitely not spying together.”
“Definitely not,” he agrees.
A black town car pulls up in front of the house. The Secret Service agent hops out, glances around, opens the car door, and then Senator Gilbert steps out. I flip my notebook to a blank page and note the time. His arrival home is an hour later than last night and the night before.
Beside me, Miles sits unmoving, watching the house, not writing anything down. He doesn’t even have coffee. I try not to look at him, try to forget he’s there, but the more still and quiet he is the more aware I become of his presence. This goes on for two hours except every once in a while, one of us speaks. It goes something like this:
After 30 minutes…
MILES: Five entry points not counting windows.
ME: Yep, cameras only on two of those.
After 45 minutes…
ME: No watchman monitoring the security feed; it’s just there for replay.
MILES: Don’t you mean watchperson?
After 67 minutes…
MILES: Mind if I look at your notes?
ME: I don’t know…that sounds like a teammate thing.
MILES: *Stares* *Stares more*
ME: Fine.
After 72 minutes…
MILES: How did you get the alarm code?
ME: Made a call.
After 114 minutes…
MILES: So either 7:00 p.m. or 1:00 a.m.
I peel my gaze from the house to look at him. “For what?”
“You know what.” He turns away before I can read his expression. “It’s too risky alone.”
“Seriously?” I angle myself to fully face him now. “You—Mr. By the Book or Else—are considering breaking and entering?” Into a U.S. senator’s home of all places. But I don’t say that out loud. I’m too excited about the prospect of a partner in crime.
“We need to—” He shakes his head. “I need to see his room.”
I glance sideways at the house. “It’s been months. How do we know it’s still intact? That they haven’t turned it into a fifth office or ninth guest bedroom?”
This is what’s stopped me from breaking in sooner
. I need to know for sure it will be worth it. Okay, so maybe I’m not in full-blown Junkie Mode.
“Because I know.” Miles stands, dusts the back of his pants off. “Tomorrow. Seven or one?”
“Wait…” I scramble to my feet, scooping the empty coffee cup off the ground. “This will be really really bad if we get caught. Why would you risk that?” I can’t believe I’m asking this, or saying what I’m about to suggest. “Or maybe we should just turn in the information we’ve found. Anonymously or whatever.”
“I did,” Miles says simply. “Eight days ago.”
Eight days ago? Jesus Christ. “Why wouldn’t the Feds want to—?”
“Because he’s a prominent public figure and people needed an answer quickly,” Miles states. “It takes a lot of doubt to reopen a case. More than we have.”
“Right now, anyway.”
“So tomorrow. Seven is best, I think. Empty house but still dark out.” He looks at me for a response, and I nod. Can’t argue with that logic. “You need a ride home?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but then decide against it. If he wants to join forces again, then he’ll have to make the first move. “Nope, I’m good.”
With that, he walks off, calling over his shoulder. “Tomorrow we’re driving together.”
Whatever. But you are so not in charge. Breaking and entering is a specialty of mine.
CHAPTER 33
I can see my breath in front of me. It’s cold and dark. Leaves crunch beneath my feet. And Miles refuses to let me hold the flashlight. Mine ran out of batteries twenty minutes ago and we’ve been walking for at least forty minutes. Mr. Boy Scout USA had the nerve to tell me that I should come better prepared.
“Explain to me again,” I say to Miles, “why we had to park so far away and trek through an entire forest?”
“Probably because parking right in front of the Gilbert mansion might make it a little obvious when we break in.”
I shove him from behind. The condescending tone is totally not cool. Especially when he’s been ignoring me for over a week, then cornering me in janitor’s closets, smelling like fresh air and sexiness. “We’re not a team anymore. How do I know you’re not leading me somewhere that you can murder me, bury my body, and be off the continent long before anyone digs me up?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it weeks ago.”
“Well, that’s a reassuring thought.” At least we’re talking more tonight than last night. Helps with my nerves. Yes, nerves. Despite this being a specialty of mine, even I don’t take a job this big lightly. “Or maybe this is how you score chicks. Maybe we’ll wander the woods and then I’ll wake up topless in your apartment while you throw clothes at me.”
Miles turns to face me, the outline of his body illuminated in front of me. “Is that what you want? A wild night in my apartment?”
Maybe. I shove him again, harder this time. He stumbles back. “Hey, you keep bringing it up, like a suggestion.”
“Go to hell,” I say.
We step out of the woods, and the Gilbert mansion appears before our eyes. It looks different tonight. Bigger. Closer. Both of us stand there for several seconds, shoulder to shoulder, assessing the place.
“Five entry points,” I say, even though we went through this last night.
Miles nods. “Six if you want to climb to the third floor.”
“Go for it, Spider-Man.”
“His room is on the second floor, but I’m not sure which one,” Miles says.
I look at him, trying to study his face in the dark. “You’ve never been here?”
Miles shakes his head. “Simon invited me a few times, but my parents always took me somewhere during breaks or we stayed in Baltimore.”
Despite our current business-only relationship, I have to know some things before we go through with this. “What do you think we’re going to find? And why aren’t you more worried about getting caught?”
“I don’t know what we’ll find, maybe nothing. But I know his room is exactly as he left it. That’s something.” Miles looks out into the dark. “And I know someone broke in with no problems.”
I spin to face him. “What?”
“Dominic.” He says this with no emotion in his voice. I would have never been able to hold on to that detail without looking ready to burst. “I don’t think he did it.”
Killed Simon. That’s what he means. I don’t think I could say it out loud at this moment, either. “Don’t you think it’s suspicious that he felt the need to break into his room?”
“It’s not him, Ellie.” This time there’s emotion in his voice. “I caught him with Simon’s school ID, and he confessed to swiping it from his room.”
I’m almost too shocked to speak. Almost. “So he admitted to you about his relationship with Simon?” This is huge progress for Dominic, especially considering he still won’t admit it to Bret, someone he’s known his whole life.
“No,” Miles says, sounding defeated. “He lied and said it was a dare that came from the senior Rowman members.” The Holden Prep Rowman. I’d heard about the two-hundred-year-old secret society but wasn’t sure it was real.
“Dominic said the guys in the secret society would beat his ass if they knew he told anyone,” Miles continues.
“Well-played, Dominic,” I mutter. “Guy’s got some secret-keeping skills, that’s for sure. You think he came for a Simon Gilbert memento? Doesn’t really seem like a Dominic thing.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Miles says. “I think he’s looking, too. Like us.”
“Great.” I shake my head; “shocker” doesn’t do that bit of info justice. “Maybe we should start a school-sponsored club. Think of the college application points we’d all have from this EC. And when we figure out who ‘all eyes on you’ is, we can invite him or her, too. I’m sure Dominic would love that. One big happy family.”
“You done with the sarcasm?”
I give him a pointed look. “I’ll be done when I’m done.”
“Believe me, I know. That’s why I asked.”
I roll my eyes but allow him to explain his part of the plan, how he’ll shut off the alarm on the far side of the house before we head in. Miles hands me a fancy earpiece and a special phone so we can communicate. He lists each entry and exit point, assigning them a number for quick reference. I repeat the numbers several times in my head, committing them to memory.
“You take two, I’ll take five. No surveillance on either, but don’t forget to avoid the path of security cameras,” he says. “Alarm will be off for thirty seconds, but wait for my signal just in case they’ve changed the code.”
I head for the sunroom door and watch Miles move across the yard, his black clothes blending beautifully into the night until I can’t see him anymore. A few seconds later, he whispers that we’re good to go. I fish around in my jacket pocket for the right tools to pick the lock and soon, I’m opening the door—slowly and quietly. I listen for voices or movement before slipping inside.
“I’m in,” I tell Miles, mumbling the words into the phone strapped to my shoulder. According to the news reports, Simon was found dead in this very room. I glance around. Everything is in perfect order—the furniture, the plants, even the books on the shelf are arranged by height.
“Almost in,” Miles says.
I tiptoe around, snapping photos of everything. With my tennis shoe, I kick back the corner of the rug. The polished wood floors shine all around me, even in the dark, but a dull spot beneath the rug stands out.
“I’m in,” Miles says. “Walking through the second floor now.”
I take a photo of the dull spot on the floor and shoot it to Miles. “Check this out.”
There’s a short pause, and then he says, “It’s been sanded. The only way to remove a deep bloodstain.”
I stare at the non-shiny circle on the floor, waiting for it to talk to me, give me answers. “Deep as in it sat there for a while?”
“Ellie.” Mile
s’s tone has shifted to something more urgent. “I found his room. Right at the top of the steps, third door on the left. ”
“Got it.” I’m up the stairs in no time, but a door at the opposite end of the hallway opens. I dive into the laundry room. “Stay put,” I whisper. “Someone’s here.”
“Housekeeper, probably.”
Whoever it is heads down the steps seconds later. I sigh with relief, wait for silence before exiting the laundry room. I find Simon’s room and open the door only a crack before sliding inside. The room is oddly untouched, as if Simon truly may have been the last person to enter or exit this space. The covers are pulled back on the bed; a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Dust surrounds the glass, and a coat of it rests on the bookshelf beside the window. Something soft squishes beneath my shoe. I look down and stare at the blue suit jacket and slacks.
The suit Simon wore to the spring formal. The suit he wore in the photo of him and Dominic making out.
Miles’s gloved hand drifts over a red tie hanging on the back of the desk chair, then he looks over at me. “This is what he was wearing that night. At the dance.”
I nod, afraid my voice will shake.
“That means he came up here to change,” Miles says, his voice stiff, forced calm. “He put on something more comfortable…”
“Why would it matter what he was wearing if he planned to…” Again I can’t finish.
“Yeah, I know,” Miles says. “Let’s dust the room for prints. I should be able to run a search of anyone who entered.”
I’m sure this task has been done and done again, but maybe those prints will mean something different to us. Miles appears to have come equipped with his own forensics lab in his pockets. I turn off the thoughts in my head and take Miles’s directions, shifting into mechanical mode, only following orders.
My plan goes out the window when I spot the calendar pinned above the desk. That Saturday in June, the last day I saw Simon Gilbert, is circled in bold black marker, the words “spring formal with Ellie 8pm” written in the center. Miles’s arm brushes mine as he moves to stand beside me, staring at the same words. I glance sideways at him, watch his forehead wrinkle. “What?” I ask.