Thirty-four
Malcolm plopped onto the bench next to me and casually crossed his legs, his arms extending to the sides. He played with the ends of my hair, twirling it between his fingers.
I choked and froze. I could’ve been a statue carved hundreds of years ago.
“No. Seriously. You look…” He took my appearance in, his eyes roving up and down my body. The grimy face, my hair half dried and caked with dust, and my clothes still damp from my surprise shower and trip through the underworld of Paris. “…like you’ve been dragged through the mud. Literally.”
I bit my bottom lip so the words building, screaming to get out, wouldn’t. I had questions I wanted to beat Malcolm over the head with until I got answers. Questions about everything. His alliance with Jolie. My mom. Whether he liked me or not. I pressed that one deep down into my subconscious. I didn’t want the answer to it, because then I’d have to admit that my emotions had been manipulated. While I’d pretended to be the ultra-cool spy, he’d been slipping through the backdoor, raiding the privacy of my heart.
He tugged at the strand of my hair, nudging me to answer. I peeked sideways at the emotion radiating from his face, the caring look in his eyes, the way his head tilted to the side, his lips. Oh, those traitorous lips. He acted like he cared, but underneath he was probably terrified I could expose him.
Spies act cool, calm, and suave in any and all dangerous situations. And this was a tricky one. He had to know I’d been down in the catacombs, especially if he’d followed the trail of water I’d probably left in my wake. He wanted to know what I knew.
“Okay, I’ll try another one. Where did you disappear to yesterday? You never came out of the bathroom at the Notre Dame. I had to sneak in and look for you. And that’s dangerous territory entering a girl’s bathroom.”
The splinters of the splinters I used to call my heart could not break any smaller.
“Major girl problems.” I lied like a pro.
“Oh.”
That shut him up. Always a good excuse.
“Why didn’t you call?”
Crap. “My phone was dead.”
He pulled his arm back. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fine. Don’t.”
My arm twitched, and I had to grab onto it to stop myself from slugging him a good one. How could he ask me these questions? We both knew the answers.
“If you’re feeling up for it, I found this great bookstore with an incredible café next door. The tarts have gotten top reviews. You’ll love it.”
He continued rambling on about this perfect date we should go on. That night. Both my fingers clenched into fists. My neck tightened. The blood raced beneath my skin, roiling and boiling at this boy’s balls. Did he think I couldn’t see through his act? That the “date” was his attempt to lure me into a trap, so they could squirrel me away somewhere, tied up to a chair with nothing to look at but the bones of the past?
“And then we could talk a bit more about Spy Games this weekend. In two days, I’ll be a spy. I might need some last minute tips.”
“Will you just stop?” The words came out louder than I’d meant, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers. Even if they weren’t what I wanted to hear.
He uncrossed his legs and jiggled them up and down. “I’m sorry. You must be tired of talking about Spy Games. It’s just it’s my first time, and I’m a little nervous.”
I whipped around in my seat, my glare piercing through his act. Screw his act. I wasn’t a spy. I didn’t have to act like one.
“Stop.” I choked out. “I don’t want to play this game anymore. Tell me about my mom. Do you have—”
He put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
“Don’t touch me.” I jerked my head away. “Okay. You want to talk about something else. Fine. Let’s talk. Why did you ask me out that first night? Was it to spy on my family?”
My voice cracked and trembled, threatening to betray my real feelings. But the words came pouring out, unbidden and free. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close.
“That’s fine if you were paid to spy on my family. I don’t get why because we’re a broken family from Pennsylvania. But you had no right to lead me on, to act like you cared, to become my friend, to kiss me.”
And then I couldn’t help it. The fear and rage coursed through my limbs, spreading and gaining speed. I punched him in the stomach. He doubled over.
“Good one,” he said in a strangled voice. “For a girl.”
“I’m not joking. You can’t make this go away with a joke and a laugh.”
I punched him again. In the arm, the chest, until my fist hurt. He didn’t fight back. He took it, took in all my feelings of hurt and betrayal. Finally I slumped over and put my head in my hands, not wanting to look at him.
He stiffened. “Fine, you want the truth now?”
I didn’t answer, but waited, not looking, with my eyes closed, and my heart shielded.
“I tried my hardest to keep you away from Pouffant. But you refused. I tried to distract you and to warn you to stay away. But you wouldn’t. You nosed around in things you know nothing about. I know that now. Because if you knew the truth, the real secrets behind all this, you wouldn’t be so careless and stupid.”
I was stunned. Too stunned to form thoughts, never mind words.
His voice lowered. “I’m sorry if I confused you. I thought your flirtations were part of the game. You started it. You got yourself into this.”
His words slipped past the cracks in the shield around my heart, the place he always managed to infiltrate. One question burned there. I might’ve started it, but did he care about me at all? And I didn’t even care about any romantic feelings. I mean was he my friend or not? Because at this point the friendship part was hurting a lot more.
And then it was as if he’d read my mind. “I don’t want to hurt you. But you need to know the truth. This whole thing, you and me, flirting and having fun, has been a game, a charade, a distraction. I played along. I pretended to like you.”
Any shred of hope and dignity that once bloomed inside me, shriveled up and died. He was right. I was playing a game I knew nothing about and should’ve stayed away from. I should’ve played my little role in Spy Games, believed Aimee’s note about traveling, and not questioned anybody.
Right. I didn’t think so either.
“And this is my warning to you. Stay away. And you might get away with your life.” His words left a trail of dread wrapping around my body. “Stop asking questions. Stop pestering Pouffant. I’ll make up something to keep the big boys away from you. I’m a good liar. As you know.”
Those were his last words to me before he got up and strode briskly away. I watched his back, his confident strut, like he was the master of this game. He never looked back, not once.
I stayed on the bench and leaned back, looking up at the trees and the innocent leaves being tossed back and forth by the breeze. My body felt depleted, empty of any emotion. I’d been through the wringer. In that one conversation I’d gone through fear, anger, hurt, betrayal, heartache, and back to anger. When I looked back to the road, Malcolm had disappeared into the crowd.
At home, I slipped in through my bedroom window, leaving a trail of dirt against the outside of the apartment. But that was better than through the living room. No lights were on, so I hoped Dad was out on official Spy Games business. The games were in two days, but I only cared about one thing. A shower. My grimy skin could just feel the pelting streams of hot water washing away the fears and memories of the past day, especially the skeleton memories. I slipped out of my clothes and stuffed them into a bag to be incinerated.
The shower cleaned my body, but no matter how hot I ran the water, the fears remained, wedged in my mind. One word pounded in my heart. Mom. Mom. Mom. Maybe she had good reasons for not being around. Like being held prisoner in the catacombs. I prayed she’d escaped from the clutches of the mad pastry chef. I could barel
y think, never mind say his name.
With wrinkled skin and wearing comfy clothes, I flopped on my bed and drifted off.
At some point in between sleep and wake I jolted up in bed. My room was pitch black.
Someone was in the house.