“Because I’m telling you to,” I say, in what I hope is a lower, less grating tone.
“Okay. But it’s not part of the assignment.”
“I decide what is and isn’t part of the assignment,” I say firmly.
“‘I decide what is and isn’t part of the assignment,’” says the car, mocking me with a squeaky imitation.
I turn on the radio to drown out the annoying voice of the car. I skip a few stations before I come across “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen, aka the first song I ever learned to play on the flute. It immediately vanishes to be replaced by some booty club thump music.
“Hey!” I say, annoyed.
“I hate that song,” says the car.
I change the station back. The car changes it again. I lapse into sullen silence and watch the Jeep Compass as it makes its way to . . . the multiplex.
Dad and Natalie are not going to the American Contemporary Ballet. They’re going to a movie! They totally lied. I’m not sure what to think about this.
The car yawns. “Okay. Seen everything you want to see? Can we go now?”
I’d like to stay and monitor my father and my sister. I’d like to know what movie they’re seeing. I’d like to know what story they’re coordinating between them. I think about all the ballet questions I’m going to ask them later tonight. But I’m ready for the assignment.
“Let’s party,” I tell the car.
The car doesn’t move.
“Kelly Beach’s house. 1078 . . .”
The car judders to life. “I know,” it says. “I just like messing with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bad Company
I pat my hair into place or as close as it’s going to get, check my teeth in the rearview for accumulated gunk, breathe on my hand, and smooth out my party-worthy top. I take a deep breath.
“How do I look?” I ask the car.
No response.
“Now you say nothing?”
“You did your best. That’s all anyone can ask.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Good luck,” the car says. “Don’t freak out and lock yourself in the bathroom ’cause there’s too many people you don’t know.”
“It’s been years since I did that.”
“Two years.”
I hate the car. I pull my squashed limbs out and slam the door extra hard. I take a quick glance at the street I’m on. It is, of course, spotless, with lawns the rich, deep kind of green you only see on high-definition TVs. There are no lost dog posters on this street. No abandoned yard sale boxes. Then I see Kelly’s house. On a street of big houses, hers is a big house. A really big, posh house. No new paint job needed. There are two big columns out front and lots of stairs to walk up.
“Don’t trip,” I tell myself as I begin the ascent to Kelly’s front door. I’m halfway there when my phone vibrates.
Casey.
Do I let it go to voice mail or deal with it now? I have to maintain my loyalty and trustworthiness to both parties.
“Hi, Casey.”
“Are you there yet? What’s she wearing? Who else is there? Has anyone asked why me and Nola aren’t there?”
“I’m just walking up the steps as we speak.”
“Why does she need so many steps? That’s so unnecessary.”
“And pretentious,” I say, playing along. Can steps be pretentious?
“And pretentious,” agrees Casey. “I’ve always thought that. Good luck. Have fun.”
“I will.”
“But not too much fun.”
“I won’t.”
“And keep me up to speed. Instagram me, Vine me, tweet me, text me.”
“I will.”
Casey ends the call. I go to bang the big brass door knocker. No need. The door opens and Kelly, resplendent in a bright yellow dress, stands in the doorway, arms open for a hug. I go to hug her. She turns away and motions me to follow her into the large imposing house.
“I thought it would be bigger” is what I want to say as Kelly gives me a quick whirl around her home, but I fear jokes fall on stony ground where she’s concerned, so I make do with an all-purpose “Wow.”
“You’re wow-ing at my mom’s taste and Nick Deck’s money,” says Kelly. “I hope he’s up there making more with that big brain of his.” She gestures upstairs. I make a mental note of the general area in which I can expect to find his office. “Or maybe he’s away at some conference. Who knows with that guy?”
I trot obediently after Kelly and I see people I sort of recognize from school. Some sit on the stairs. Others sprawl in the living room. Being a good double agent, I sneak out my Spool-phone, capture a few candids of Kelly’s party guests, and shoot them off to Casey. Kelly doesn’t notice. She’s too busy playing tour guide. She leads me into the sumptuous living room and walks toward the French doors.
“Voilà,” she says as she makes a big deal of opening them on to what looks like a little island paradise, complete with palm trees, bamboo furniture, an overstuffed red velvet couch, and a very inviting pool.
My phone vibrates. A text from Casey. Did she say voila when she unveiled their backyard? So pretentious.
Kelly catches me looking at the phone.
“Who’s that?
“Nobody. Sorry.”
Kelly leads me past the pool to a gate at the bottom of the garden. She unlatches it. A tennis court is on the other side. An entire tennis club is beyond that.
“You play?” Kelly asks.
I don’t, but I’m guessing my black-and-gold tracksuit does. I nod. “A little.”
“Trying to psych me out,” she smiles.
The phone vibrates again. Another text from Casey. Has she done that whole, Oh look, there’s a private tennis club attached to my parents’ property so they made us members thing?
“Who is that?” says Kelly.
This is tricky. “I . . . my mom. You know what moms are like.”
“Be honest. You don’t miss Casey and Nola at all, do you?”
“No,” I proclaim with award-winning sincerity. “I never even thought about them. Not once.”
Kelly circles her fingers around my wrists, looks deep into my eyes. My phone vibrates. I can’t break away from Kelly to see what Casey wants.
“I wouldn’t have had the courage to do this if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be hanging out with people who weren’t my real friends. You showed me I could stand on my own.”
I feel a bit better about using Kelly. Maybe I actually did her some good.
“Come and meet my other real friends.”
She takes me into the sumptuous living room. There are more faces I sort of recognize. Girls who travel in giggling, gossiping packs. A few guys. One of them has opened a board game on the coffee table. He’s setting up a bunch of cards and discs. I give him a bright smile. (I’m not the most out-of-place party guest after all.)
“Everybody, say hi to Bridget.”
The assembled guests regard me with vague interest. The board game guy doesn’t look up. I want to run and hide in the bathroom (I hate that car; how did it know me so well?). Instead I force a smile and let out a squeaky “Hi.”
I see an empty chair by the far window. Somewhere I can blend in and be ignored. So I can sneak upstairs and carry out my assignment.
But Kelly has other plans.
“Bridget’s the reason we’re all here tonight,” she announces. “She’s made such a difference in my life.”
I attempt to look appropriately modest.
“She made me take a real close look at myself and change what wasn’t working. Like my friends.”
There’s a murmur of interest in the room. People who barely registered my presence are now sitting up and paying attention. This makes me uncomfortable.
“I, um, I didn’t say that exactly.”
Kelly slips her arm through mine. “But you did, Bridget. You said my closest childhood friends, Casey and Nola, were taking advantage of m
e.”
I feel my phone vibrate. I sneak a quick look. It’s Casey.
What’s happening? Tell me everything.
Kelly smiles happily at me. “You told me they didn’t respect me, that my opinions didn’t matter to them . . .”
“I never . . .”
My phone vibrates again.
Kelly’s guests are all glaring at me. I feel increasingly uneasy.
“You told me to cut them loose.” Her smile grows wider. Her eyes seem colder. “So you could have me all to yourself.”
“No!” I protest to the watching guests. “I never said that. Why would I?”
My phone won’t stop vibrating.
“Because you’re a sneaky little backstabber, perhaps?” says Casey, strolling into the room, holding her phone to her ear. Nola walks in with her, grinning at me. They take up position on either side of Kelly. All three of them have expressions of extreme satisfaction on their faces. The other party guests are variously giggling with delight, texting furiously, trying to explain the complicated rules of their board game, or staring, baffled, at the dramatic scenario unfolding in front of them because they, like me, did not see it coming. But then, who would have seen something like this coming? You’d have to be, oh, I don’t know, some sort of spy.
Nola comes barging up to me, her phone with its recording app in her outstretched hand.
“What do you bring to the table, Bridget Wilder?” she intones, eyes wild. “Treachery! Disloyalty!”
Casey brushes her aside. She approaches me with a smile. “We were sincere, Bridget. We wanted to be friends. But we’re a tight little circle. So we had to be sure you were one of us and, as it turned out . . .”
“Treachery!” proclaims Nola.
Kelly addresses her guests. “You know the first thing she told us? ‘I’m adopted.’ Like, boo hoo, poor me, feel sorry for me. . . .”
“The point is, we can’t trust you.” Casey looks at the guests. “And neither should any of you. Tell your friends, tell everyone you know, Bridget Wilder is a . . .”
And suddenly the room fills with smoke. Thick black choking smoke. Where did that come from? Electrical fault? Malfunctioning hair dryer? Barbecue mishap? I hear screams, I hear coughing. I hear people banging into furniture and falling over. I feel panic set in. Take a seat, panic, I tell myself. I’m already dealing with despair and humiliation. I was manipulated by masters—mistresses?—of deception (of course, it might have helped if I’d worn my Glasses of Truth but, honestly, they make my eyes water). I lied to my family after they gave me one of the funnest days of my life. And now I’ve botched the assignment. As soon as I recall the assignment, panic, despair, and humiliation go on the back burner. A new emotion sets up shop. Hello, defiance.
Who cares that I was set up by C, K & N? Who cares that there’s smoke in my eyes and the back of my throat and some kid has elbowed me in the ear three times in the past minute? I’ve got a job to do. An assignment.
I let myself go still. I mentally retrace my steps from the time Kelly brought me into the living room back to her quick tour through the rest of the house. I put my hands over my nose and mouth and carefully make my way out of the living room. I almost stumble into a table. I steady myself and grab on to what I fear might be a human ear attached to a human head. Through the screams and the coughs, I hear Casey yelling, “You’re so dumb, you ruin everything.” And then I hear Kelly sob, “I knew you thought I was dumb.” Hearing their exchange almost makes up for being played so thoroughly. Almost.
The smoke sprinklers are activated by the time I’m out in the hallway. I cough and splutter as water cascades into my eyes. So glad I wore my party-worthy top and brand-name jeans. I hear fire-truck sirens out in the street, getting louder the closer they get. In a matter of moments, this place will be filled with firefighters. I need to move fast. I shoot upstairs and see a corridor ahead of me. Five closed doors. One of them is Nick Deck’s office. The sirens get louder.
I hear firefighters running up to the house. I open the door nearest to me. It’s Kelly’s bedroom. A dog starts barking madly. I squeal in fear and back up a few feet. The dog walks toward me. I shake out my wet hair. The dog does the same. Have we just bonded? Kelly mentioned her dog. What was it called? Stick? Steve?
“Good boy, Stamp,” I say to the little schnauzer. He ambles over to me and starts nuzzling my shoes. “Easy there,” I say. Who knows what sort of damage slobbery dog mouths can do to nanotechnology?
Downstairs, I hear the fire department enter the house. I hurry to the next door. Stamp follows. Another bedroom. I look at the remaining three doors and randomly make my next choice.
“I’ll check upstairs,” I hear a fireman shout. I reach for a doorknob. Stamp does not follow.
He won’t go anywhere near my stepfather, I remember Kelly saying. I push the door open. Nick Deck’s office.
I hear the fireman pounding his way upstairs. I hide behind the office door and hold my breath.
I look around the office. The computer sits on the desk by the window. The fireman enters the room. He checks the smoke alarm. He looks down at the surge protector. He gives the room a thorough inspection while I’m still hiding behind the door, holding my breath. Finally, he leaves and I exhale. I spring to the computer and install my USB thumb drive—superfast, infinite capacity. I don’t have to wait long. The USB is a little miracle. It speedily and efficiently vacuums up Nick Deck’s files. I text Spool one word.
Done.
And then Casey, Kelly, and Nola walk in, all looking bedraggled, shell-shocked and, when they see me, instantly suspicious.
“What are you doing in here?” says Kelly.
“What are you doing here?” I counter, brilliantly.
“Uh, checking that nothing in our friend’s house got damaged,” says Nola. “That’s what friends do.”
Three pairs of eyes bore into me.
What would Carter Strike do? Lash out? Weave an even more complex web of lies? Cause chaos with a Styrofoam cup?
I start crying. I’ve held back so many times over the past few weeks I’ve probably got a tsunami of tears backed up that need to come out. Wherever I’m getting them from, I’m giving an Oscar-worthy performance. C, K & N freeze in their tracks. They all look uncomfortable. All except Nola, who points her phone at me so she can film me at my most pathetic. Kelly, of all people, pushes her hand away.
“Leave her alone,” she says.
Casey and Nola look surprised. Kelly gestures to them to leave the office. She starts to follow, then looks back at me. “Dry your eyes and go home.”
The moment the door closes behind her, I carry out the first part of her instructions. I feel my phone vibrate. I’m almost happy to see Spool’s pink face on the screen.
“You got it?”
“I got it.”
“Make your way to the tennis courts at the back of the house,” he says. “Another agent will take delivery of the USB.”
“That’s it?”
Spool looks baffled.
“No Great work, Bridget?”
He gives me a pained look. “The tennis courts?”
“Okay, I’m going. But it was great work. I cried. I turned the tears on and off. I didn’t even know I could do that.”
“The tennis courts? Tonight would be good.”
C, K & N and a few remaining guests are congregated in the kitchen, yammering about the smoke and the sudden appearance of the firemen. I slip, unnoticed, into the dining room. I head toward the French doors and out into the exotic palm-laden back garden. I walk quickly and quietly down the patio past the pool until I’m at the gate leading to the tennis club. With a little effort, I free the bolt and head onto the empty courts.
And, just like that, it feels like I’m a million miles away from that house and those slim, pretty, popular, devious girls and the role that I was—brilliantly!—playing. Now I’m a lone agent with a USB brimming over with red-hot information, waiting to interact with a fellow p
rofessional in the murky world of international espionage. I wish the other spy would hurry up. It’s starting to get a little spooky lurking out here at night in a deserted tennis court.
After what seems like forever, but was probably ninety seconds, I hear footsteps. Then I see a shadowy figure. He’s backlit by the full moon. I feel my heart start to thump in my chest. The figure gets closer. I clutch the USB in my fist. The agent is close enough that I can make out his features.
“Hello, Bridget,” says Carter Strike.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Strike
I’d know him anywhere. He’s taller than I expected. Six feet at least and wearing a black leather jacket. He came to meet me. He came to surprise me. What do I call him? Agent Strike? Carter? Dad? Do I shake his hand? Should we hug? I try not to stare but, at the same time, I’m openly studying his face. Are there any similar features? Anything that links me to him? It’s amazing to me that he’s just shown up out of the blue like this. It tells me he’s been as anxious to meet me as I have been to meet him. But if I’d known I was going to see him today, I might have rehearsed what I was going to say and how I was going to act. Instead, I stand rooted to the spot with my mouth hanging open. I think I say “Buh.”
Luckily, Carter Strike knows what to do. Carter Strike always knows what to do. He strides over to me, takes my hand, removes the USB drive from my palm, and puts it in his jacket pocket but keeps holding my hand.
“You did great, Bridget,” he says with a smile.
I feel myself go red. But it’s the good kind of red. The I can’t believe how happy I am right now kind of red.
“I tried to get Spool to tell me that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Spool’s aware you completed the assignment.”
“I only ever see his pink face. Is there any more of him?”
Carter Strike—aka my father—gives me a quizzical look. I feel a bit embarrassed. Here he is attempting to communicate with me spy to spy, one professional to another, and I’m trying to get him to gossip and crack jokes. I make an effort to control what comes out of my mouth. It does not go well.
“How did you feel when you found out about me?” I ask. “Was it like there’d been something missing in your life up to that moment and you didn’t know what it was?”
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