by Meghan March
Under the false bottom built into the safe, there was a nondescript composition book. It was deceiving in its simplicity, but the pages were filled with a gibberish mess of letters and numbers. It was the one thing of my father’s I had taken from the penthouse, although I probably shouldn’t have. But I’d run across it by chance and taken it as a sign. I didn’t know what it contained, but I did know that my father wouldn’t go to the trouble to encode something unless it was pretty damn important. It was my insurance policy. Although, it could just as easily be my ticket to facing an obstruction of justice charge. Either way, I’d known that my disappearance wouldn’t go over well, and there was a chance the Department of Justice might still decide I belonged in prison with my father. If that happened, information would be my only bargaining chip. I just didn’t know what kind of information I had. I hadn’t touched the book since the day I’d stashed it in the safe. And I didn’t want to be touching it now. It was an irrational fear—that my father’s evil would somehow seep under my skin if I handled his dirty secrets. Honestly, I’d planned to do nothing with it unless and until I needed to use it as a defensive weapon. But Simon had unknowingly convinced me to be proactive. The only way I’d ever be able to stop looking over my shoulder was to find the money.
The FBI had all of the computers, servers, files, and records from Agoston Investments, and with all that information and the resources at their disposal, I assumed they would have found something by now. Tens of thousands of people were counting on them. But nothing in the news mentioned even a dollar being located. If I could decipher the notebook, and it actually contained information that would prove useful in the search, I could feed the feds anonymous tips while retaining my ace in the hole. Once all of the money had been recovered, I could emerge from hiding on my own terms. It was an idealistic plan, but it might be my only shot at exploring something real with Simon.
That was, if Simon could stand to be near me after he knew the truth. My hopes deflated at the thought, but I wouldn’t let it deter me. It was a long shot on both fronts, but it was the only shot I had. So I’d take it.
I thought about tonight. Simon was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. He seemed to just want me … for me. That was a novel experience. As the daughter of a billionaire, I’d always questioned people’s motives for befriending me. As a child, parents had encouraged their kids to get close to me in order to be invited into my parents’ social circle. Imagine being fourteen years old and being grilled for investment advice by a friend’s dad. Seriously.
I know, poor little rich girl syndrome. But you could never know what someone else’s life was like until you’d walked that metaphorical mile in her designer pumps. Pre-scandal Charlotte Agoston would have been the perfect match for someone like Simon. Well-bred, poised, not to mention wealthy and well-connected. But he seemed to like the simple, rough-around-the-edges, poor, loner version of me just fine. His political ambitions and upcoming campaign were the biggest wildcards right now. He’d never discussed them with me.
Would Simon still want to be with me when I refused to accompany him to fundraisers and public events? Or would he grow frustrated and lose interest? At this point, there was nothing to do but wait and see. The most startling realization was that I wanted to find some way to fit into his life.
I flipped open the notebook and delved into the wily depths of my father’s twisted mind. I stared at the words, letters, and numbers for hours, hoping a pattern would emerge.
It was his own shorthand encrypted with some sort of code—that much was clear. But without the key to the cipher, I could stare it for years and never break it.
The boldly scrawled numbers and letters were blurring together when I flipped the book shut hours later. The sun was already shining through my skylight, and I was no closer to figuring it out than I had been when I started.
The book went back into the safe, and I took a quick shower before dressing and heading out for coffee and my Saturday morning beignet. I had to be at the Dirty Dog by nine to help Yve sort through a new shipment of inventory she’d bought online. I opted to leave my bike at home and walked up Dauphine to St. Philip and my favorite café. A hotspot frequented by locals more than tourists, it was already jam-packed with the early crowd. While I waited in line, I noticed The New York Times on one of the tables.
The headline snagged my attention:
MONEY TRAIL COLDER THAN EVER
More than one year after his devastating fraud was uncovered, sources say federal authorities are no closer to locating the billions stolen by Alistair Agoston. Victims are demanding progress, and those demands have been met with silence.
The article went on to detail the arrest, the trial, my father’s 175-year sentence, my mother’s activities, and then: Charlotte Agoston, only child of Alistair and Lisette Agoston, has been in seclusion in an undisclosed location since giving her testimony just over one year ago. Sources indicate that while she’s not thought to be complicit in her father’s scheme, she’s considered a person of interest by the FBI, which has been unable to locate her for further questioning. When asked, Lisette Agoston denied having any knowledge about where her daughter was currently living. Anyone with information concerning the whereabouts of Charlotte Agoston is asked to contact the FBI.
At the bottom of the page was a picture of me. Well, the old me. I looked around to make certain no one was watching as I folded that section of the paper and stuffed it in my bag. It wasn’t like I could hide all the copies, but why leave it where someone might make the connection? The line was barely moving, so I picked up the local paper that was tucked under The New York Times and flipped through to find the entertainment section. It’d been a while since I’d been to a good show, and I wanted to see who was coming to town. I froze when I saw Simon’s face staring up from the society section. He was once again dressed in black tie, but this time his arm was wrapped around a gorgeous blonde in a sleek gray designer gown. She was tucked in close to his side, hand pressing against his chest. I read the headline:
NOLA’S FAVORITE SON SHINES AT CHARITY GALA
My eyes flicked to the date on the paper. Today. I forgot about the line and dropped into a chair.
Last evening New Orleans’s leading citizens gathered at a gala to raise funds for the final stage of construction of the art museum expansion. All eyes were on Simon Duchesne and his lovely companion, Ms. Vanessa Frost, as it is rumored that he is preparing to launch his campaign for the United States House of Representatives in hopes of ousting incumbent, Robert Carter, and reclaiming the seat his father held for sixteen years before his unsuccessful run at the Governor’s mansion…
I skimmed the rest of the article, and the words blurred when I saw the same speculation that a marriage proposal was expected to be forthcoming prior to Simon hitting the campaign trail. When I dropped the paper, my sweaty hands were smeared with gray ink from the newsprint. My churning stomach rebelled at the thought of food. A cold detachment settled over me as I realized Simon was apparently a very busy man. Somehow, between taking me out for dinner and picking me up for work, he’d managed to squeeze in a charity event with his … whatever she was. His girlfriend? I mentally ticked off his schedule for the evening: dinner with me, gala with her, then orgasms with me before calling it a night. Fucking over-achiever.
Hot anger burned through the detachment when I recalled my thoughts from the wee hours of the morning, about how I wanted to try to find a way to fit into his life, and about how Simon’s honesty had inspired me to find a way to unbury the secrets I’d been hiding. I didn’t care that my reaction was hypocritical. My reason for hiding the truth from Simon was to preserve the life I’d built in New Orleans. His was … what? The quick fuck he’d claimed not to want? What a joke. He was just as bad as any of the people who’d used me before, except this time, I wasn’t being used for financial gain. I was just a toy to be played with when it was convenient for him. Con’s harsh words from last night came back to me: You’re
worth way more than being some politician’s sidepiece.
Con knew. And he’d tried to tell me. But I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t know why I was so shocked. Yve had mentioned the speculation about their relationship in the online gossip columns. Except dumbass me had assumed it was just that—speculation. Because a good guy like Simon wouldn’t keep a lady for his public persona and a tatted-up bad girl on the side, right? I laughed humorlessly. That’s what I get for making assumptions.
Again, maybe I wasn’t being fair, because even if he’d asked me to go to an event like last night’s gala, I would have turned him down cold. There was no way I could brave the cameras to stand by his side. Someone would figure it out, my anonymity would evaporate, and then the FBI would swoop in. But he didn’t ask me—he hadn’t even mentioned it—so fuck being fair.
I walked out of the café without getting coffee or my damn beignet.
Eighteen
Charlie
I stalked into the shop, but didn’t make it more than three steps past the door before Yve pounced.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
“Not talking about it.” The incriminating section of the local paper was shoved in my bag with the section of The New York Times. I wasn’t sure why I took that one too. Maybe so I could pull it out and look at it for a reality check every time I remembered how amazing last night had been.
Yve frowned. “Seriously, Charlie. You look … sad. Is Huck still coming home tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Which was one more kink I had to iron out. I was sure Simon would be showing up to help me get Huck home, and no way in hell was I accepting any more help from him. Harriet would just have to haul out her old diesel Mercedes station wagon. And then the bill … I’d pay the whole freaking thing. If it was more than I had, I would swallow my pride and ask either Harriet or Con for a loan. I was not going to be further indebted to Simon or his friend.
“Then what gives?”
Yve wasn’t going to let it go. She was almost as bad as Juanita when it came to needling you until you confessed. I reached into my bag and pulled out one of the sections of newspaper, checking first to make certain it was the right one. I slapped it on the counter in front of her.
“Went for coffee. Found this instead.”
Yve looked down and studied the picture. “Same blond bitch from the society pages online.”
“Yeah, well, I thought whatever they had was history. Especially because last night he was at my house. And I was naked. And orgasms were involved.”
Yve scanned the paper, presumably doing what I had done first—looking for the date. “But he was at the gala last night.”
“After he picked me up from here, but before he picked me up from Voodoo at two. Busy guy.”
Yve’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Damn. I’m sorry, girl. That sucks. You better believe if he shows up here, I’ll run his ass out.”
“Thanks. You mind if I leave a little early today? I have a feeling he’s going to be coming by.” I hated to ask, especially because I needed the money now more than ever, and I’d been leaving early way too often already.
“Do what you need to do. You need some help tomorrow getting your pup home?”
I shook my head, a new plan already forming. I would skip Harriet’s Mercedes and get Con to help me. He had a beat up Tahoe that he drove when he wasn’t on his Harley. And he wouldn’t let Simon get near me if I didn’t want him to. Con wasn’t the type to say ‘I told you so,’ but I still wasn’t looking forward to telling him I’d learned my lesson the hard way despite his warnings. I felt so … stupid. Which was just one more strike against Simon.
I ducked out of the Dirty Dog before closing and went straight to Voodoo. I didn’t want to run the risk that Simon would stop by the parlor before I had a chance to tell Con that I was unavailable if Simon Duchesne was doing the asking.
Con wasn’t in yet, so I took the opportunity to call Jack Richelieu’s cell number from the shop phone.
When Jack answered, I explained that since I was so excited to come get Huck—which was no exaggeration—I was hoping we could do it earlier on Sunday morning than we’d planned. He agreed without question, clearly assuming that ‘we’ meant Simon and me. I hoped his assumption would stop him from calling Simon to confirm. I would owe Con an even bigger favor for getting his ass out of bed at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, but hopefully it would be worth it.
When Con finally showed his face, he looked like he’d partied until noon and still hadn’t slept at all. Our conversation went much the way I expected: he was happy to help me out and told me I owed him one. Then he sent me home, telling me to lay low tonight. Between disconnecting my intercom and keeping my phone off, I had no idea if Simon tried to contact me or not. I told myself I didn’t care.
I was all nerves when Sunday morning dawned, and Con rolled up in his Tahoe.
“Thanks for this,” I said as I climbed in the passenger side.
He nodded. “No problem. You know I’m always here if you need something, Lee. No matter what.”
His loyalty was more than I deserved.
We rode in silence to the clinic, The Steve Miller Band jamming on the stereo.
My stomach dropped to the floor mat at the sight of Simon’s blue BMW in the parking lot. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Con backed into a spot next to the door, the same way Simon had parked. At my panicked expression, Con reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, babe. He won’t cause a scene. Wouldn’t be proper Duchesne behavior.”
Simon shoved open the clinic door as soon as I stepped down from the Tahoe, and proved Con’s theory wrong.
“What the hell is going on, Charlie? I tried to get in touch with you all day yesterday, and you were a goddamn ghost. I get stonewalled by Yve, Delilah, and this jackass.” He jerked his chin toward Con. “Is there something you want to tell me? Because I thought we were past this hot and cold bullshit.”
Con stepped in front of me. “Back off, Duchesne. And don’t you fucking talk to her like that.”
Simon halted in his stride toward me. “You back off, Leahy. This has nothing to do with you.”
“I disagree.” They squared off, and for a minute I thought they were going to start brawling in the parking lot.
I inched around Con and looked at Simon. He broke Con’s stare to look at me. Anger, confusion, and hurt were reflected in equal measure on his face.
Seriously? Did he really have no idea why I might not want to see him? Did he think I was stupid? That I wouldn’t find out? Or worse, that I wouldn’t care? I had to know.
I pulled the folded newsprint from my bag. I’d continued to carry it with me just in case I was tempted to forget. “How’s this for hot and cold bullshit?” I held it out, and our hands brushed as he took it. I jerked mine back like I’d been burned. Simon unfolded the paper, and his eyes darted back up to my face. Understanding dawned.
“Charlie, it’s not what it looks like.” He stepped toward me, but Con blocked him with an outstretched arm and a fierce glare.
I held up a hand and choked out a bitter laugh. “You, the politician, telling your dirty little secret, ‘it’s not what it looks like,’ might be the most clichéd thing I’ve ever heard. Is that what you were going to tell the blonde when she caught you with me?” I swallowed, trying to compose myself. “Just go, Simon. I don’t screw around with guys who are taken.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Don’t you dare call yourself a dirty little secret. I’m not fucking taken by anyone but you. She’s a friend. That’s it. That’s all.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Did you or did you not attend a charity gala with her after you dropped me off at work?”
His lips compressed. “Yes. I did.”
“Then this conversation is over.” I turned away.
“I never lied to you.” Simon’s tone was resolute. I snapped back around to stare at him.
“No, you just gave me selected
pieces of the truth. An omission is still a lie, Simon.” I should know, I thought; omissions are my specialty. But if, and when, the truth came out about me, I wasn’t going to split hairs over it. I’d own up to that shit.
“Just hear me out. Please.”
“What could you possibly say that would change anything?”
“She’s not my girlfriend, but her dad backs off when she goes to events with me. As long as he thinks she has a chance at being Mrs. Duchesne, he doesn’t hound her about finding a suitable husband. I let people believe it because she’s an old friend, and it’s my way of helping her out.”
I raised one eyebrow, skepticism branded on my features. “Look,” he continued, “there’s nothing between us like that. I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty damn sure she’s hung up on a guy she thinks her dad won’t approve of. He’s old school and a control freak, and being seen with me just buys her time while she figures out her own shit and keeps her dad off her back.”
The steel reinforcing my spine dissolved in time with my fading anger. His explanation was too candid and random to be anything but the truth. I was fairly confident on that point. But still, there was something else I needed to know.
“Why didn’t you at least tell me about the event?”