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  “She’s not Virgil’s babysitter either,” I insist. “She’s his caregiver. His health is very fragile and he needs someone competent to handle all his daily medical needs.”

  “Sure, I get that. I can understand a team of nurses, but she’s like Nobel Prize levels of genius. She could probably have her own research lab if she wanted.”

  “I can’t even imagine what Virgil pays her,” I say.

  “Money is not usually a motivator for that sort of person.”

  “Okay, so she is a little strange. That’s not a crime. Look, I have to take my lead from Virgil. If he trusts her, I should too.”

  “You said ‘should,’ which means you really don’t.”

  “I—I do. I’m working on it, anyway.”

  “I know you don’t have much choice about her being in your life. It’s just . . . I practically have sinister-motive radar, and everything you’ve told me about her raises question marks. Like, what Chinese American woman has a name like Fitzgerald?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s adopted, or she married someone with that name,” I say, though I can’t imagine her being married to anyone or anything except her work.

  “She wasn’t adopted. She got her PhD in theoretical biotechnology from Peking University and came to the U.S. eighteen years ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I really don’t know much about Mrs. Fitzgerald at all except that she’s worked for Virgil for more than a decade. And she saw Evangeline Hodges for what she was long before anyone else did. One of the first things my father said to me when I met him in person was, “I should have listened to Grace about that woman.”

  “Found out everything I could about her, which wasn’t much. That’s what worries me. She has almost no online fingerprint at all, and that’s usually a sign that something’s been erased.”

  “So much for that technology ban on you, I guess,” I say. Officially, Thomas isn’t allowed anywhere near a computer or a phone. But clearly the FBI agents who are monitoring him have underestimated his resourcefulness.

  I can’t deny I share the same worries that Thomas does. I take solace in how the Feds hover over us the way they do, not that I can say I ever feel totally safe. Thomas is on the Feds’ watch list because of his past involvement with and future potential for criminal mastermindism. Meanwhile, I have all kinds of untapped superpowers from the Velocius project lurking inside my brain, and I doubt very much the Feds want me to figure out what they are. Point is, they want to keep both Thomas and me under their thumb, for different reasons.

  “If Mrs. Fitzgerald is hiding anything sinister,” I say, “she must be awfully good at it, seeing as the Feds have made three random, surprise visits to Virgil’s house in the last month.”

  Thomas’s eyebrows soar. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I don’t know much about it, other than that they searched all of Virgil’s computers. I’m guessing they were making sure that there were no remaining backup files with information from the Velocius project.”

  “And Virgil cooperated?”

  “A hundred percent. He gave their computer forensics teams complete access to everything. And his computer is connected to Erskine Claymore’s mainframe, and even the off-site data storage for all of Claymore Industries.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. I suspect Virgil hasn’t mentioned any of this to his father. The point is, the Feds examined Mrs. Fitzgerald’s computer too. If she were up to anything sketchy, how could she keep it from them?”

  “Please. People who know how to hide things can make it look like they’re not hiding things. I do it—”

  I give him a fierce, shaming look.

  “Used to do it, I mean.” He laces our fingers together and leans his shoulder against mine. “Anyway, speaking of reasons to be paranoid, let’s get this chat with Virgil out of the way so we can get on with our amazing night together.”

  He kisses my hand gently.

  I brush a piece of his red hair back from his forehead. He’s right—I’m already starting to push away the bad associations with that color.

  I take my phone out of the small clutch that I unwillingly received in exchange for the mangy string bag I was carrying when I arrived at Blake & Mikels. I punch in the number for Virgil. I think I might be the only person who has this number. Aside from Mrs. Fitzgerald, but she hardly leaves his side, so she doesn’t need to call him.

  I see Virgil’s face on the screen. He blinks, but his lips do not move. The ALS has robbed him of the use of those muscles. His vocal interface—the translation device he relies on to communicate—speaks for him. “Hello. Don’t you two look wonderful.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Claymore,” Thomas says in his most mature, “impress the parent” voice. “We do look wonderful. Well, Angel more than me, but I look pretty dashing if I do say so myself.”

  “I hope you have a fun night, but I just wanted to say . . . please be careful.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Thomas says. “Seeing as there’s no person in all of New York City who’s watched more carefully than Angel. Sometimes her protective detail is so close she can smell their breath.”

  Talking via Virgil’s vocal interface means there’s a slight delay before each thing he says. I know it’s not his fault, given his physical limitations, but all the strained pauses pretty much sum up our relationship. We’re working on understanding each other, on figuring out how to be a father and daughter, but it takes a bucketload of patience.

  At my request, he did change the voice to sound less like the voice translators the soldiers at the hospital used. The first few times he talked to me, my blood pressure spiked and my mouth went dry. Not the ideal beginning to my life as a member of the Claymore family.

  “The federal agents will have an easier time doing their job if Angel doesn’t keep trying to dodge them. I’ve had yet another complaint from them this week, Angel.”

  “Duly noted,” I say meekly. “I will never, ever do it again.”

  I look out the back window, trying to spot the tail that usually follows me. I can usually shake them when I’m on foot, and I’ll admit I enjoy putting the Feds through their paces. Some days I practically do parkour to lose them. The subtle difference between “protected” and “monitored” is lost on me, and lately—just in the last few days—I can feel the weight of even more eyes than usual.

  “Also,” Virgil says, “I know that you, young man, will be on your best behavior in all possible ways tonight. Not that Angel couldn’t handle things if you weren’t.”

  “Sir, the fact that Angel could probably kill me six different ways is an unnecessary incentive for me to be a gentleman. I care about her very much. And I respect her like crazy.”

  “We’ll be back by one,” I add.

  “Nice try,” Virgil says. “Midnight.”

  “Fine. Dad.”

  His face shows no emotion because it can’t. Instead he closes his eyes for a long moment. That’s his version of a smile.

  I find myself smiling too. “We have to go now. See you later!”

  I end the call and shift myself closer to Thomas. My foot accidentally knocks into his ankle and hits something hard.

  Something that feels very much like an electronic monitor.

  I lift the bottom of his pant leg, and there it is.

  “Angel—”

  “I thought you were supposed to get this taken off a few days ago. I thought that’s why we could finally see each other and go out together in public. I thought that’s what was making this night so special.”

  He holds up his hands in a gesture that’s half calm down and half don’t kill me. “Let me explain.”

  “Please do.”

  “Um. There’s been a slight delay on my plea bargain? I think that’s the best way to put it.”

  “A delay? Why?”

  “It’s just, you know, the Feds work slowly.”

  “Okay, so what does that mean for
right now? For tonight, I mean.”

  “It means that technically, for the moment, the terms of the original agreement are still in effect.” He says it quickly, like he’s reciting possible side effects at the end of a drug commercial.

  “All the terms? Including the ‘no contact with Sarah Ramos’ part?”

  “Um. Possibly?”

  “And you’re jeopardizing your plea deal why? Just so we could go to some fancy party together? That’s crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. I want to have a normal date. No, not a normal date: I want to have a spectacular date. With you. I wanted this to be our prom night and your birthday and maybe Mardi Gras thrown in. I wanted to give you everything you’ve missed out on, and I don’t care about the stupid restraining order. So maybe I might have sort of—”

  “Lied to me,” I say.

  “Withheld certain irrelevant details is more like it. The point is, my heart was and remains in the right place.”

  I take a deep breath. I have a lot of experience with being deceived. I know Thomas didn’t mean to hurt me, but I also don’t have a lot of spare benefits for all my doubts.

  “Do your parents know about this?” I ask.

  “Well, yes. I am allowed to be out at the party tonight. That part’s not the problem. It’s just—”

  “You’re not allowed to be with me.”

  He grimaces. “Right.”

  I slump back against the seat and pull my filmy shawl tightly around me. All along, in the back of my mind, I kept expecting something to go wrong with these plans. That’s why I put off getting ready until the last possible minute. It had seemed like tempting fate. My brain is hardwired to expect the worst, to distrust happiness. And for good reason.

  “Angel. Don’t get like that. It’ll be fine.”

  “And what if the Feds just happen to see handsome you and fabulous me together at this gala thing? Did you think about that possibility? They’ll probably find some other way to punish you.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow. Besides, I’ve grown fond of Nessie.”

  “Nessie?”

  “Yes, that’s what it says here, see?” He taps the metal anklet. “NESE1798. I hope that doesn’t indicate my ranking. I’d hate to think there were 1,797 other potential threats far more dangerous than me out there.”

  “We’re here, sir,” the driver says as the SUV comes to a stop in front of a dock. The place is swarming with security, not to mention expensive cars and limousines. Volleys of camera flashes are going off on both sides of the main entrance.

  The yacht is lit up with strings of white lights that look like stars on a leash. I can see people walking up the gangplank, women in ball gowns and men in black tie. One woman is actually wearing a tiara. On deck, waiters in white waistcoats are scurrying toward the center of the yacht, balancing silver platters full of champagne flutes.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” I say.

  “You said ‘shouldn’t,’ which means you still want to.”

  I face Thomas. Handsome, redheaded Thomas, who is looking so apologetic and hopeful that I feel the anger drain away from the glare half-formed on my face.

  “You are truly far too gorgeous to waste tonight,” he says. “It would be a crime for you not to go.”

  “No, it would be an actual crime for us to go, at least as far as the Feds are concerned.”

  Thomas leans toward me until our faces are inches apart. “We deserve this, Angel.”

  That I can’t argue with. After all we went through and all the months of waiting, we deserve to have one evening of fun. We deserve something special that no one can take away.

  “Okay, look,” I say, “we’re already here, and I’m in a dress that costs as much as a semester of college tuition, so here’s what we’ll do. You get out now, and I’ll tell the driver to take me around the block a few times and drop me off in ten minutes. Maybe if we don’t show up together, it won’t be so obvious. I mean, this is a very crowded party. We can kind of get lost in there, right?”

  “Deal. I’ll make nice with a few of my mom’s friends, stuff a few hors d’oeuvres in my face, and then I’ll meet you on the lower deck”—he looks down at his watch—“in around half an hour. Starboard side.” He gives me a quick kiss, then leans back and studies my face. “Everything’s going to be okay, Angel.”

  Something about the way he says that makes me worry. I kiss him again, hard enough to smother the fear. When I pull back from him, he looks happily dazed. I wipe my lipstick off his mouth.

  “See you inside in a few minutes,” I say.

  I watch him get out of the car and walk toward the security guards at the entrance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sudden movement. A young guy in a hoodie, maybe seventeen or eighteen, steps out from behind a nearby building onto the sidewalk, in full view, staring at the back of the SUV.

  I’d be inclined to think he’s just watching the spectacle of all these rich people and celebrities arriving at the dock for the party, but that wouldn’t explain why this is the fourth or fifth time I’ve seen him this week. And why he always makes a point of showing himself, like he’s waiting for permission to approach me.

  Well, he’s not getting it tonight.

  Chapter 3

  There are some words I’ve only ever encountered in a thesaurus. Up until this moment, “opulent” was one of them.

  I look around, trying to keep my mouth from dropping open every time I turn my head, but it’s nearly impossible not to be impressed. There’s a six-foot-long ice sculpture of the Brooklyn Bridge sitting on the bar at the far end of the room. I overhear someone saying that the tulips decorating the tables were flown in on a private jet from Holland earlier in the day. All the food seems to be very tiny and much of it is pierced by long, silver skewers. A waiter walks by with a tray and offers me a lamb “lollipop,” but I decline for fear that “lollipop” is some euphemism for eyeball or an even worse part of the lamb.

  Almost everyone is wearing black, and I worry my shiny white dress makes me stick out in all the wrong ways, until a woman stumbles past me clutching a bottle of champagne by the neck. “Great dress!”

  “Oh, thank you.” The thought, That woman looks just like so-and-so, gives way to the realization, That actually is so-and-so. By now she’s swallowed up by the crowd. I hear music start up—I recognize a popular song that Thomas and I agree is overplayed. As I step out onto the main deck, I expect to see a DJ, but instead I see the actual band who sings the song. Playing like they’re a wedding band, just carrying on in the background, completely unnoticed.

  I feel like Alice in Wonderland, if Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole and landed on a yacht docked along the East River where a lot of people are talking very seriously about the latest art installation at the Met, which is made out of milk jugs, wire hangers, and ten thousand breath mints.

  And yet, even with all the wow-factors piled on top of each other, after ten minutes of gaping, I’m bored. The one person I want to talk to is on the other side of the room, shaking hands with a series of middle-aged people who I imagine are friends of his parents. Thomas’s mother, dressed in a plum-colored suit, is petite and energetic. She doles out hugs and vigorous handshakes to the throngs of people surrounding her, laughing and looking like she’s having a wonderful time. Thomas’s father, on the other hand, is gripping his martini glass and looking as though he wishes he were anywhere else, prison included. I guess I won’t be meeting them tonight after all, which comes as both a relief and a disappointment.

  I watch as Thomas’s mother whispers something into his ear. Thomas nods and then dutifully shakes a few more hands, but all the while, he’s scanning the room.

  The moment our eyes meet, every opulent detail of this party drops away. The noise and laughter and the shimmering gowns—all of it grows fuzzy and dim. There’s just this tunnel connecting us, and I wish I could walk through it to reach him.

  I feel . . . happy.


  It’s such a simple feeling, but getting here has been anything but simple for me. I was so alone for so long that lonely became normal for me. I lived in the shadows, fearful, trying not to get caught. I was a walking secret, and the only peace I ever knew, my only sense of safety, came from solitude.

  But now I can look at Thomas and feel happy.

  Thomas’s mother leads him by the arm toward another group of her friends and colleagues. He sneaks another look at me, rolling his eyes. He points to his watch and holds up a hand. Five minutes.

  I nod, my face achy from smiling, but as I watch him, he’s suddenly transfixed by something on the opposite side of the room. He throws a worried glance in my direction. No, not just worried. Panicked.

  I try to figure out what he’s looking at, craning my neck to somehow see over or through the mass of people now congregating by the door to the deck.

  Someone’s coming in, flanked by men in dark suits with ear pieces. Bodyguards? Secret Service? For a moment, I worry that Thomas is in big trouble. Maybe the FBI is reneging on their deal.

  At last I get a clear view. Instantly I know how a champagne bubble must feel as it pops. A moment ago, I was feeling effervescent, and now . . .

  My grandfather, Erskine Claymore, has just arrived.

  My heart starts beating a snare drum rhythm, and for a moment the world seems to pause. I worry that my shock at seeing Claymore is triggering my Velocius abilities, so I try to snap myself out of it. I promised my FBI handlers that I wouldn’t use the crazy mind-enhancing technology that Dr. Wilson and Company put in my head, and even if I hadn’t made that promise, I don’t want my thoughts jumping to hyper speed ever again. Because I know that every time it happens, I’m subtracting years from my life.

  So I fight to stay calm, as the grandfather I’ve never met—the man who’s made several fortunes by trampling people like me underfoot—approaches. He doesn’t look anywhere near eighty-two years old. His snow-white hair is full and stylishly cut. His eyes—green like mine—sparkle behind a pair of boyish wire-rim glasses. Dressed impeccably in a pale gray suit and red bow tie, he gives off a warm, generous, charming vibe. He catches people in his gravitational pull with every step—hugging, clasping hands, and generally working the room like the incredibly important, influential man that he is. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me that he might be at an event like this.