A Spy Like Me

by Laura Pauling

  Fifteen

  Malcolm peeked in from the side. He gave a thumbs up, and we entered. A tiny kitchen with a table for two opened into a living room with a plaid couch and a matching chair. I smelled bacon. My heartbeat felt like gunshots going off in my chest.

  “You check the kitchen. I’ll find the bedroom. Look for anything that might be a clue—tickets, receipts, maps, anything.”

  I ran down a hallway that branched off the living room and went back to the bedroom. I whipped open the closet door. Nothing. It was a long shot and would’ve been way too easy. Not knowing how much time we had, I opened drawers, looked in suitcases and searched under the pillow and bed.

  Cliff Peyton was kinda boring. On his nightstand was a Breathe-Right nose strip, a detailed map of Paris, and Sydney Sheldon’s If Tomorrow Comes. Nothing too suspicious. In the nightstand drawer was a tin of breath mints and tickets for the Eiffel tower.

  “I might’ve found something.” Malcolm stood in the doorway, a coil of rope dangling from his hands.

  “That’s not good.” I dropped onto the bed.

  A rope? Maybe he had already used some of it on Aimee. I hadn’t planned on taking extreme invasive measures unless I found something suspicious, and I had. Or Malcolm had. He sat next to me on the bed, which sagged and pushed us together. The mattress was probably from the 1800s.

  “This isn’t a Clue game,” I said. “That could be for anything.”

  I zipped opened my backpack and reached inside. “We’ll know for sure in a couple days.”

  Amazement spread across his face and he glanced at the door. “Are those—”

  “Trackers? Why, yes, they are. Fancy you should ask.” I dropped three black button-like trackers into his hand. “Add them to his clothes. I’ll put them in his shoes.” I sounded way more 007 than I felt.

  “How?”

  “Don’t you ever watch the movies? Rip open the seam a tiny bit and shove it in. He’ll never know.”

  “Where did you get these?” He ran his finger over them. “Isn’t this illegal?”

  I pulled out a pair of sneakers from the tiny closet. “It might be, but I have strong probable cause. Get to work.”

  For the next ten minutes, we worked in silence. The quiet built up in my head, warning and whispering that I could get caught any second, and my shaky fingers made it that much harder to finish my task. Finally, I shoved the last one into a tiny crack in the sole of his sneaker.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I urged.

  We rushed to the door and opened it to find ourselves face to face with Peyton.

  Damn.

  In a matter of seconds, he went from eyes-wide-open shock to jaw-clenching furious and back again. His eyes darted between Malcolm and me, and he backed up a few steps.

  My heart shot into my throat and pulsed, sending tiny sparks of fear into my body, from the sweat on my scalp to the itch in my toes that told me to run like hell. Could we go to jail for this?

  Malcolm gripped my arm and held me back. “Breathe,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “No way,” I muttered and took a few steps back, dragging him with me to give Peyton space. I had to show him we weren’t the bad guys. “Hey, how you doing?”

  He stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

  “We thought we’d stop by and chat and noticed the door was open.” I said it as casually and friendly as I could.

  “And you decided just to let yourselves in? Is this how they do things in Paris?”

  Malcolm muttered, “I can tell you’ve got this.”

  I didn’t bother to give him a dirty look. “Remember me? From Spy Games? The Eiffel Tower?”

  Complete annoyance settled in his eyes. “How could I forget?”

  “I guess we got off on the wrong foot.”

  All the meaningless words from Peyton’s file flashed in my memory. Nothing that would help me.

  “That’s one way to look at it.” He stepped closer. “You ruined everything!”

  Malcolm moved in front of me. “Why don’t we talk about this? Peyton, right?”

  It was tempting to hide behind Malcolm and let him smooth things over with his charm and good looks, but I refused to play the coward. I pushed him back.

  “I did not ruin anything,” I argued.

  Peyton snorted like he didn’t believe a word I said. My fingers curled into a ball, and I remembered the look on his face, his out of control behavior.

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you. Not my actions, not my words. Not when you are completely psycho!”

  “Good one.” Malcolm grabbed my arm and rushed toward the door.

  “What’s your problem?” Peyton asked.

  I whipped away from Malcolm’s grasp. “A Spy Games staff member is gone.” I pointed a finger at him. “After you threatened us.”

  Color crept up his neck and across his face. “You think I had something to do with your friend’s disappearance?”

  “I know you do.” I followed Malcolm’s lead. “I came to check out your place for any clues.”

  “That’s crazy.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket and started stabbing at numbers.

  I didn’t stay for coffee, and ran out the door. Malcolm followed.

  “That’s right, coward. Run! Because soon the police will be after you. Enjoy your last days of freedom!”

  I slammed the door as something crashed against the other side of it. Probably a vase or lamp.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “This is how to leave a scene when you’ve been compromised.”

  We booked it out the front door, Peyton’s words ringing in my ears. The police?