Twenty-five
I swept through Malcolm’s apartment like a small whirlwind, opening drawers, rifling through closets. There had to be something. A phone number. A picture. A diary. Or maybe chocolate chip cookies from his mom—if the story about his family were true. I stormed through his bedroom, closets, and kitchen looking for something, anything. About Aimee. About me. About Jolie. Something to tie the pieces together.
After about half an hour, I plunked down at the table. I had to stop thinking like Nancy Drew, searching for clues in the cupboards. He was too good to leave information about my family exposed or to leave a picture of Jolie’s prisoner under a magnet on his fridge.
I sank into one of his kitchen chairs. Who was Malcolm? I mean who was he really?
“Why, Malcolm?” I closed my eyes, willing the walls to whisper his secrets.
I started thinking about his connection to Jolie and their connection to my mom, but then my thoughts turned to the gray flecks in his eyes and the curious way he studied me. His burning touches on my arm and the gentle whisper of his lips on my skin. I shook the memories away. He was probably faking it all anyway.
A laptop. That’s what I needed. Better yet, a cell phone, but he was too smart to leave that lying around. I opened the closet doors and shined my flashlight into it. This was where he’d kept our disguises. Maybe he kept laptops in here too.
Nothing.
I stopped rushing around and let my eyes wander the kitchen, taking in everything slowly, not missing an inch. And there it was. Sitting next to the coffee maker. His laptop. How had I missed it?
I gently opened it and pressed power. Someone like him would have passwords, right? I tried everything. Email. Internet. Everything was locked down. He was good. I opened a folder left on the desktop. Immediately a document popped out at me.
Bent.
My. Last. Name.
He had a file on me. The mouse hovered over the file. All I had to do was click on it. Did I really want to know what he had on me? On my family? Hell, yeah. I clicked on the file.
No pictures of me walking across a street like I expected, or my mom at the Eiffel in her disguise, or even my dad, hair slicked back, wearing shades. Instead there was a picture of just some normal-looking guy in khakis. I scrolled down but the text was complete gibberish. Encrypted. I couldn’t read it if I tried. My life had been reduced to a bunch of squiggles and a picture I didn’t recognize.
A high-pitched giggle from outside Malcolm’s apartment cascaded over me like confectioner’s sugar. I ran to the door and peeked out. Malcolm was stumbling up the stairs with some blonde hanging off him. His roving hands encircled her waist, and he kissed her neck as they lost their balance and almost fell. They paused halfway up the stairs, and he whispered in her ear, nuzzling her neck. Seriously. Get a room. Except, they were about to get one. In Malcolm’s apartment.
In less than three seconds, I slammed the laptop shut and crawled into the tiny closet that wasn’t meant for people. Just as I slid the doors shut, they waltzed into the room.
“Soooo,” Malcolm drawled. “Would you like a drink to top off the evening?” Was he drunk?
“Sure,” oozed her sugary voice.
Glasses clinked. I had to separate my emotions from the job at hand and be heartless so the ache in my chest would go away.
“Why don’t we have some fun and play a game?” Malcolm’s voice was sultry and suggestive. I doubted he had Connect Four in mind. The voice that had once caused my heart to flutter now made it race with fury. Man whore.
“Ooh, sounds naughty,” the blonde replied. “I love it. What do you have in mind?”
All I could picture was strip poker.
“It’s a game I call Truth or Lie,” Malcolm said, and I could picture the gleam in his eye and the curve of his lips.
“Poo. That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“Let me explain.” Chairs moved against the floor. I was sure she didn’t need much convincing. “I say something about myself and you have to decide if it’s the truth or a lie.”
“Ooh, and if I’m right, then you take off an article of clothing.”
“And take a shot.”
Great. I knew it. A stripping and a drinking game.
“You start,” Malcolm said.
“Okay.” More giggles. “Last summer I climbed Mt. Everest.”
That was so obvious. She clearly just wanted to get naked.
“Lie,” Malcolm answered.
“How’d you know?” Giggles.
There was silence as I was sure the shot was poured and an article of clothing cast to the floor. She probably didn’t start with her socks. I hoped her bra was old and ratty.
“My turn.” Malcolm paused, probably trying to subdue the temptation to rip off all her clothes and skip the foreplay. “I come from a long line of assassins, going back hundreds of years.”
My mouth opened slightly in shock. A family of assassins? Right. I taught him everything he knew about being a secret agent. Or so I’d thought.
More giggles. “Lie.”
“How’d you see through me?”
I tried my hardest not to picture him ripping off his shirt and revealing his impeccable pecs, which I’d seen before.
“I’d love to move the game to the bedroom,” she said.
“Tsk. Tsk. It has to be something about yourself.”
Silence. As I’m sure she racked her empty head for something to say.
“I giggle when I’m nervous.”
No, really?
“True,” Malcolm said.
I sat through various questions about family pets, siblings, childhood, and embarrassing moments. I could have learned more about Malcolm, but most of the words dribbling from his mouth were lies. Eventually, it all became white noise as I studied the grime on the inside of the door.
When they stopped rambling and laughed and moaned, heading away from the kitchen and toward the bedroom, I couldn’t take it anymore. I eased open the sliding door without a sound and crawled out, my body stiff and sore. With a scathing look toward the bedroom, which I hoped Malcolm felt burning a blister onto his probably naked butt, I snatched the laptop from the table and put it back on the counter.
“I think you might be taking Spy Games a little too seriously.”
I jumped a mile then whipped around. Malcolm stood at the edge of the kitchen, like a cat about to eat his favorite meal.
Where the hell was a frying pan?