by Ally Carter
“He’s good.” Hale nodded. “He sends his love. He says the Colgan School will rob you of your soul.” She started to protest, but Hale stopped her. “But that’s not the message.”
“Hale,” Kat exhaled, growing weary.
“Kat,” Hale mimicked. “Do you want to hear Uncle Eddie’s message or not?”
“Yes.”
“He says he’s got to give them back.”
“What?” Kat was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. “Uncle Eddie’s got to give what—”
“No. That is the message. And I quote. ‘He’s got to give them back.’”
Kat shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“There was a job, Kat. A week ago. In Italy.”
“I haven’t heard about any jobs,” Kat insisted before remembering that she’d been out of the world. The loop. The life. She knew what the Colgan cafeteria was serving every day this month, but this . . .
“Private collection,” Hale continued. “Very high-end paintings. Very high security. Very high risk. Two—maybe three—crews in the world could have done it, and—”
“My dad’s at the top of the list?”
Hale shook his head. “There is no list. There’s just—”
“Dad.” Kat sat for a moment, thinking, then sighed. “So?” she asked. Suddenly it all seemed preposterous. “So what? This is what he does, Hale. This is what we all do. What makes this time any different?”
She stood and started for the door, but in a flash, Hale was standing; his hand was around her wrist.
“It’s different because it’s different, Kat. This guy—this guy with the paintings—he’s a bad guy.”
“I’m Bobby Bishop’s daughter, Hale. I know a lot of bad guys.”
She tried to pull away, but Hale’s chest was pressed against hers. His hands were warm against her skin. There was a new urgency in his voice as he whispered, “Listen to me, Kat. He’s not a bad guy like your dad and Uncle Eddie are bad guys.” He took a deep breath. “Like I’m a bad guy. This guy? His name’s Arturo Taccone, and he’s a whole different kind of bad.”
In the two years since she’d met him, Kat had seen Hale wear a lot of expressions: playful, intrigued, bored. But she had never seen him scared before, and that, more than anything, made her shiver.
“He wants his paintings back.” Hale’s voice was softer now. The hard edge had left him, and something else had settled in its place. “If he doesn’t have them in two weeks, then . . .” Hale obviously didn’t want to say what came next, which was just as well. Kat didn’t want to hear it.
As she dropped back onto the sofa, Kat couldn’t remember the last time she’d been speechless. Then again, she also couldn’t remember the last time she’d been framed for a crime she didn’t commit, kicked out of a boarding school that it had taken her three whole months to con her way into, and then, technically, kidnapped by a guy who could buy a Monet and yet couldn’t resist stealing a Vermeer. Speechless seemed okay under the circumstances.
“My dad used to be more careful than this,” she said softly.
“Your dad used to have you.”
Kat ate her corned beef sandwich. She drank some lemonade.
She was aware, faintly, of Hale watching her, but that was only because he was Hale, and the part of Kat that made her a girl wouldn’t let her forget that he was in the room. Otherwise, she was as quiet as a church mouse. She would have made her family proud.
An hour later Marcus was leading Kat up the sweeping staircase, and Kat was staring, trying to guess whether the silver-haired man was closer in age to fifty or eighty. She was listening, trying to determine whether his accent was more Scottish than Welsh. But most of all, Kat was wondering why Marcus was the only servant she had ever seen orbiting around Planet Hale.
“I’ve taken the liberty of putting you in Mrs. Hale’s room, miss.”
Marcus opened a wide set of double doors, and Kat started to protest—the mansion had fourteen bedrooms, after all. But then Marcus switched on the lights, and Kat breathed in the stale air of a room that was clean but neglected. It had a king-size bed, a chaise lounge, and at least twenty silk-covered pillows, all in varying shades of blue. It was beautiful but sad, Kat thought. It needed to feel a beating heart.
“If there is anything you need, miss,” Marcus told her from the door, “I’m number seven on the house phone.”
“No,” Kat mumbled. “I mean, yes. I mean . . . I don’t need anything. Thank you.”
“Very well, miss,” he said, reaching for the doors.
“Marcus?” She stopped him. “Have Hale’s parents . . . I mean Mr. and Mrs. Hale . . . How long will they be away?” Kat asked, wondering which was sadder: having parents who’ve died or ones who’ve simply floated away.
“The lady of the house will not be needing the room, miss.”
“Are you ever going to call me Kat, Marcus?”
“Not today, miss.” He repeated softly, “Not today.”
He closed the door, and Kat listened to his footsteps receding down the long hallway. She lay down on Hale’s mother’s empty bed, the duvet cover cold against her skin. She felt very much alone in that big room, thinking about her dad and Uncle Eddie, about Porsche Speedsters and Monet.
Hours passed. Her thoughts blended together until they were like an Impressionist painting, and Kat knew she was too close to see anything plainly. She thought about crime, as she so often had in her fifteen years—ever since the day her father had told her he’d buy her ice cream if she would scream, and keep screaming until one of the guards outside the Tower of London left his post to see what was wrong.
She heard Hale’s words: He used to have you.
Kat jumped from the bed and rifled through her bags until she found her passport. She flipped it open and saw the name Melanie O’Hara beside a picture of herself in a red wig. She dug again, flipped open another cover: Erica Sampson, a slender blonde. Three more tries yielded three more memories, until Kat found . . . herself.
She tucked those other girls away. For now. Then she picked up the phone and dialed. “Marcus?”
“Yes, miss,” he replied, seeming too alert for four a.m.
“I think I may need to leave.”
“Of course, miss. If you’ll look by the phone, you’ll see I’ve already taken the liberty. . . .”
Then Kat saw it—an envelope. A plane ticket. Eight a.m. first class to Paris.