by Jillian Dodd
“When the world goes kaboom?” Ares says, his mind seeming to calculate all the possibilities.
“Which doesn’t make sense,” Ari adds while Blake and our grandfather nod in agreement. “Poisoning grain and explosions don’t seem to go together.”
“I didn’t understand that either. He also said that my passive father would have fully disapproved and that the rest of them would never forgive him for the mess. He told me it was really too bad I’d gotten caught up in it. That I was destined to marry Lorenzo and become the queen of Arcadia while my brother would have taken his rightful place at their table. Right before he pulled the trigger, he said he had no choice and muttered, ‘To Arcadia.’”
“That’s what they say at the end of every meeting as they raise a glass filled with the rarest of scotches and toast.”
“Did that start after you made your presentation? Like in the video game?”
“What video game?” Ari asks.
“I can fill you in later,” our grandfather tells him.
“On that note,” I say, getting up from the table, rinsing my dish, and putting it in the dishwasher, “this has been fun, but I need some sleep. I don’t think we should all be here together for too long anyway.”
“I’ll come with you,” Ari agrees and then turns to Ares. “So, what’s our next mission?”
Ares raises an eyebrow at me, so I reply to my brother, “We figure out who is in The Echelon. The group in Montrovia is working to track some of our suspects, seeing if we can tie their movements together. I have an interview on national TV with Daniel to discuss our engagement and upcoming wedding, and then I have to fly to Montrovia to tour the Olympic facilities. Including your Sphere, Ares.”
“And we’ll keep working on things from our end to see if we can come up with anything solid regarding the poisoned grain.”
“Start by looking hard at Harrison McClellan. He was on my mother’s list and he owns a biotech company. You’d think, if anyone could poison our world’s food supply, it would be him.”
Ari doesn’t say anything during our trip home, but once we get to the house and make our way up to the bedrooms, he leans against the wall near my door. “What’s your gut say? Do you think they were lying to us?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What I don’t understand is why he didn’t tell us as soon as he found out we were his kids.”
“Honestly, I think he wanted to protect us—mostly, protect me—from knowing that my mother was a liar.”
“How do you know he’s not spinning a tale? Something to play on our emotions?”
“The letter, for one. The code on his letter couldn’t have been made by anyone but her.”
“Unless he planted it in the box.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I know that I said I wanted revenge, but I never really understood why I had been sent to Blackwood. Why they’d practically brainwashed me into believing that I shouldn’t have emotional attachments. Why teach me to survive on my own, only to bring my twin brother back into my life on my first mission? It’s easy to answer now. Because Ares didn’t know. And that’s why I believe him.”
Ari nods. “Makes sense. Either way, we’re not blindly following orders anymore. I’m going rogue with you. Night, sis.”
I go into my room and am considering taking a long, hot bath to wind down when he pops his head in my door.
“It’s up to us to save the world, huh?”
“Yeah, Ari, I think it is.”
“At least we finally know who’s behind Black X and that their intentions are good.”
MISSION:DAY TWO
I wake up at a little past noon to the sound of my phone ringing.
“Heard you were back in DC,” Daniel says.
“Are you keeping track of me?”
“I probably should be. You do seem to be a magnet for trouble,” he teases.
“And part of that trouble includes being engaged to you.”
He lets out a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, from that standpoint, I haven’t even started the trouble yet.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No. I can’t. She needs to think it’s real.”
“Lorenzo said she was very upset.”
“Not upset enough to call me,” he counters.
“I think there is a fine line between making someone jealous and hurting them so much that they will never love you again.”
“We haven’t even begun to push that line.”
“I know, but it sounds like you want to.”
“And we will start with that today. We’re going to wander around Georgetown, hand in hand. Eat at outdoor restaurants. I’m sure someone will take a photo of us.”
“That means your publicist knows your plans.”
“Maybe,” he says coyly.
“I have some stuff that I have to do this afternoon, but I can meet you tonight.”
“Meet me? Oh, Huntley, you must be jet-lagged. I’m picking you up at your house. I might have just gotten a new car.”
“You could have just driven one of the Ferraris.”
“Yeah, well, none of them are as patriotic as mine. See you at seven.”
I consider going back to sleep but decide against it. I have something I need to do today. But first, I pick up the phone and call the number that connects me with Black X. This time, Ares himself answers.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask.
“Yes. Did you?”
“We have a lot more to discuss.”
“I agree. We’ve left the loft though. Since you went there, it burned it as a safe house for us. We can’t take unnecessary risks right now.”
“Plus, you listed it in your trust. One that Royston Bessemer read.”
“Speaker of the House Bessemer?”
“Yeah, he looked over it for me in London so that I would understand the voting rights for the company. Was it always written that way? Or did you change it for the event?”
“It was always written that way. I don’t know Ari very well.”
“You don’t know me very well either.”
“I know you quite well; you just didn’t know me. I was very involved in your education. I read your essay on Bernini. I watched live videos of your trainings. I knew that you wouldn’t be intimidated by a bunch of powerful old men. Your brother, on the other hand, was brought up in a military family. He’s more rigid and more apt to take orders.”
“I must be a bad influence on him then,” I say with a laugh, “because he said we’re not blindly following orders anymore.”
“That is excellent news. I have a secret entrance to my lab. Could you meet me there shortly?”
“I have something I need to do first, and then I can.”
“May I ask what’s more important?”
“You can ask. That doesn’t mean I’ll tell you.”
“We can track your phone.”
“I know. But you can’t track me. It’s not a secret though. In the trust, you listed the house where my mom and I lived. Where she was killed. When I first saw it listed, I wondered why in the world you had bought it. That I would never in a million years want to go back. But, for some reason, I need to. Does it look the same, or did the CIA clear it all out?”
“Your mother rented the home from me through a property leasing company. She wanted you to have the stability of being able to stay there should something happen to her.”
“I think I understand why she didn’t tell you.”
“You do? Because, even after reading both of her letters, I don’t. I loved her, but I really hate what she did to us.”
“She mourned the loss of Ari. In her head, I think she convinced herself that he’d died to help relieve the guilt. If she had told you about me, she would have had to tell you that I was a twin. You would have seen the birth certificates. It would have made it all real. She also must have loved her job to consider putting me in danger. I know my upbringing certainly wasn’t traditional, but she w
as a good mother who managed to both shower me with love and teach me to be extremely independent.”
“I do go out in my Sam disguise. Would you allow me to take you, or would you prefer to be alone?”
I think about it. My first instinct is to say alone, but maybe I don’t always have to choose that option anymore.
“Have you been, you know, since then?” I ask.
“I have not. I couldn’t even go to her grave.”
“Is she buried as Charlotte?”
“Yes, I made my butler check it out. The three of your names are on the headstone. Supposedly buried together after the car accident that took your lives.”
“That’s okay. I like being Huntley Von Allister.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Thank you for all you did for me, especially not knowing I was yours. You went to a lot of trouble just for me. It speaks volumes of your love for her. I hope, maybe someday—anyway, so the house looks the same? Is any of my stuff still there?”
He doesn’t speak for a few moments, probably trying to determine what I was going to say, which was that, maybe someday, he would love me, too. Fortunately, I didn’t let it slip out because it’s a ridiculous notion.
“Obviously, I had it professionally cleaned, and there were pieces of furniture that had to be replaced,” he says, “but I asked them to do so with nearly identical items. The CIA went through the home and took anything that could connect your mother to them. Basically tore the place apart. Anything they didn’t take, they left for the owner to dispose of, which means it’s all still there.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
He gives me the address of a busy nearby park and instructs me to pick him up there.
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in front of the house. I’m wearing workout clothing, no makeup, and my hair is in a pony, pulled through a baseball cap. Ares is dressed as Uncle Sam, and we’re supposed to act like I’m a possible renter. It’s been over six years since my mother was killed. I highly doubt anyone has been watching the house for that long, but it’s good to be cautious.
The house is still adorable. Cape Cod style. White paint with black shutters and window boxes filled with colorful flowers. And what was always my favorite thing about it—a red front door. But, now, I feel like the door is foreshadowing what I will see inside.
I close my eyes for a moment. Instead of seeing the familiar little hole forming in my mother’s forehead, I see the blood and brain matter from the exit wound splattered across the room, the gore so unbelievable that it almost didn’t seem real.
Ares takes my elbow, steadying me.
“We need to change the color of the front door,” I mutter.
“Oh,” he says, quickly understanding but still leading me up to the porch.
He unlocks and opens the door. I expect to see my vision but am happy to see the house that I used to love coming home to.
I’m drawn to my mother’s room first, going in and seeing her white ruffled comforter on a black iron bed. Her bedside table still holds the book she was reading and her favorite perfume. I pick up the bottle and spray it into the air.
A deep inhale takes me back. They say smells are our earliest memories. The ones most ingrained into our brains. And this smell is everything. In this scent, she’s still alive. She’s smiling. She’s twirling me around and telling me she loves me. She’s tucking me into bed at night. She’s packing for a trip. She’s vivacious. And happy. And so am I.
Tears stream down my face as I realize why I’ve been having the reoccurring dream. Why I always wake up the second the bullet enters her forehead.
I didn’t want to remember what came next.
Because it was much too horrifying for my twelve-year-old self to deal with.
I move to her closet for another onslaught of memories, recalling when and where she wore each piece. The black-and-white-striped shirt she wore on a flight to Paris when she joked she should have added a red beret. The teal silk blouse she wore to dinner in Marrakech. A designer-labeled dress that she bought in Singapore. I run my hand across each item, stopping at one that isn’t familiar.
I pull it out, finding a concert tee for a band called The Cure.
“Have you ever heard of them?” I ask Ares.
“Well, of course I have. They were big in the eighties and nineties. Probably sold over twenty-five million records.”
“What kind of music?”
“They started out punk, did some goth rock, ended up being more New Wave pop.”
“Was she a fan? We listened to a lot of music together, and I don’t remember this band ever being mentioned.”
Ares’s face gets a sad smile on it. “Actually, I was into them. Your mom wasn’t sure about the whole punk rock movement.”
“The shirt looks new. In fact, it still has the tag on it. Was it supposed to be a gift for you?”
He looks at the name on the tag. “It says it’s from a store called Punk Rocker.”
I grab my phone out of my bag and do a quick internet search. “I’m finding only one store with that name—and it’s in Montrovia.”
“Do you remember shopping there?”
“No, but when I’m back in Montrovia later this week, I’ll go. See if I remember anything. Do you think it’s a clue?”
He takes out his phone, turns on his flashlight, then hits an app causing it to change to a black light, and running it across the shirt.
“That’s old school, huh? Write a secret message in ink that will only show up with a black light.”
“I’m not that old,” Ares teases. “But, yes, black light or sometimes a change in temperature. Would you go grab your mother’s hairdryer, so we can double-check?”
I do, but there is nothing, so I take the shirt off the hanger and flip it inside out, checking the tags, the seams, looking for anything.
But we come up empty.
“I think she just bought it as a gift to give to you,” I finally tell him. “That’s nice, right? Did she often bring you gifts from our travels?”
“Sometimes, yes. She could be very thoughtful. And we always had a special bond through our friendship. I think that’s why her not telling me you were mine hurts so much.”
I fold the shirt up and hand it to him. “Wear it well, punk rock boy.”
To that, I get a laugh. “Now, I have to teach you to appreciate their music.”
“I’m looking forward to that. You know, I didn’t come here, looking for clues. I was looking for peace.”
“I know that,” he says. “But what I don’t understand is why she went to all the trouble to give you clues and not give you the complete picture.”
“I’ve thought about that, and I think I know the answer.”
“You do?” he asks, looking surprised.
“I think she figured out just enough to know there was a plot. I mean, think about it. She took time off, lied and said she was going on vacation, even used two different passports for us to hide where we had been. She was keeping it all a secret from her work. But then, the minute we got home, she called her CIA handler—your father—and told him she had discovered a plot to end the world as we knew it. Why would she do that?”
“Because she needed help,” he says thoughtfully.
“Exactly. She had discovered enough to report to you that you were right, but she didn’t know enough to stop it.”
Ares nods. “That actually makes sense.”
I smile. “You know, everyone I meet tells me how brilliant you were. I’d like to think I got a little of that in me.”
Ares beams. “I am pretty sure you have it in spades. I’m really sorry—”
I reach out and touch his arm to stop him from saying it. “No. No more apologies. You didn’t know. And, after meeting you, I know for sure that, if you had known, things would have been very different. I’m not mad at you. Even though, at one point during all this, particularly when I thought you’d lied to my mom and stolen Ari,
I did hate you. I have a question though. Both your father and Blake seemed to think that you did. Why did you let them?”
“Because they both loved your mother in their own ways. I didn’t want to shatter their illusions of her.”
“You needed them in this fight.”
“I did. Still do. My father was shocked to learn you were his granddaughter. Although he had been tough on you at Blackwood, he was so very proud of you. At one point, I’d told him he was getting too close to you. That turning into an old man was weakening him.”
“I should go a little easier on him then, I guess. It’s just hard because he lied to me a lot.”
“It was for your benefit.”
“And he made me talk to that stupid counselor.”
“Until you punched him in the throat.” He laughs.
“I’m glad though. If I hadn’t been trained the way I was, I wouldn’t have been there to save Lorenzo.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Yet you are engaged to Daniel.”
“I guess I can confide in you since you don’t get out much. After the encounter with Dupree, having that gun to my head and thinking I was going to die, I left there and went straight to Lorenzo. He proposed. We got married at sea by the captain of his yacht. It wasn’t legal, but …”
“It meant everything to the two of you,” Ares says. “And, the next morning, the queen announced his engagement to Lady Elizabeth.”
“Yes. And, while Daniel and I are close friends, he’s in love with Lizzie. And, if I can’t save Montrovia from whatever is going to start there, who’s marrying who won’t matter.”
“We are going to save it together,” he says. “I’m very worried about my friends. Did you notice the logo for Arcadia on the dollar bill?”
“Yes, it sort of looked like the Vallenta coat of arms.”