CHAPTER 25

“You can’t keep picking my locks,” Miles says, striding into the windowless secret room. He’s sweaty and chugging a bottle of water. “One of these days, Clyde is gonna catch you.”

“Why are you all sweaty?” I bite into a slice of the pizza I ordered while waiting more than an hour for Miles.

“Took Dominic to the gym. He didn’t want to go home; his dad was pissed at him.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, recalling his dad’s sharp tone and stomping feet. “And don’t worry about Clyde catching me. I’ll just tell him we’re sleeping together, and you gave me a key.”

Miles chokes on his drink. “Do not tell Clyde that.”

“What’s the deal with him anyway?” I offer him the pizza box but he shakes his head. “Is he really your uncle? Or is he like your undercover handler?”

He flinches at the mention of undercover. Still getting used to someone knowing about his secret life. “He’s my uncle. Unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

Miles closes the pizza box then wipes crumbs off the table. “Clyde’s a criminal. As skilled in check fraud as the guys he puts away.”

Cheese congeals to the roof of my mouth. “Wait…what? So he really doesn’t work as a freelancer?”

“The FBI hires him all the time.” Miles scoops a fallen thumbtack from the floor and jams it into the wall. “He was never convicted. Got immunity for turning in the big boss running his operation and now everyone thinks he’s a reformed bad guy, God’s gift to bridging the gap between criminals and the Feds.”

I force myself to swallow the bite of pizza lodged in my throat. “And what do you think?”

Miles turns to face me. “I think the larger the body of water between criminals and the people trying to catch them, the better.”

I twist my hands together. “But then how do they figure out how to catch the bad guys without informants on the inside?”

“I don’t know.” Miles shakes his head. “But not like that. Not when I’ve spent my entire life keeping myself on the right path, all so I can get a job and work beside someone who should be locked up in federal prison?”

“Or live with him.” Or live next door to them.

The pizza twists in my stomach, turning sour. I shove the box farther away.

“Exactly,” Miles says. “So yeah, I’m not a fan of that plan. But there’s nothing I can do about it. My dad trusts his brother, therefore he expects me to.”

I was right about Miles all along. He doesn’t do gray areas. Doesn’t forgive easily. He isn’t going to be my ally if he finds out the truth. My secrets are nothing like his. Mine are ugly and kept hidden so I can appear to be a good person. His secrets are important and noble and put lives in danger if they get out.

I dig my fingernail over the surface of the table. “I guess I didn’t realize con men could be hired by the FBI.”

“Happens more than you’d think,” Miles says.

It’s true that I didn’t know it was a regular thing, and unlike Clyde, I didn’t get paid for the job, but I did get freedom. For Harper and me. And my mother, too, though that part hadn’t worked out. All in exchange for my father. The boss man. Head of my family’s operation. But then my mother walked into that bank and ruined everything.

And speaking of criminal behavior…

“Why haven’t you lectured me yet about the wrongs of breaking and entering and illegal search and surveillance?” I ask. “Figured you’d get right to that. Maybe whip out some handcuffs.”

He lifts a brow. “Oh, I’ve got handcuffs.”

“Yeah?” I drop my feet to the floor and pretend I’m not curious. “Let’s see them.”

Miles hesitates, like he’s debating that whole this-is-complicated thing. Eventually he sighs and says, “Next time.”

I place the flash drive full of Dominic DeLuca secrets on a table between us. “I took this, not you. I crawled through that window, not you. I can look through all of it on my own if you want. But you should know that I am going to look at it no matter what you say in your how-to-be-a-saint lecture.”

He stares at the flash drive for what feels like forever, probably reciting laws in his head, then his hand closes over it. He slides it to the center of the table. “Last resort, okay? Let’s put together our notes.”

A notebook lands in front of me, and he flips it open to a page in the middle. “Here’s a list of everything I saw when I planted the notebook in Dominic’s room.”

The list is long. Really long. Details about which model of iPad he owns and the brand and color of the pens on his desktop. I read each item carefully until I reach the middle of the page and can’t take any more of the dry information.

“There’s nothing useful here,” I complain. “Nothing to help us get inside Dominic’s head, figure out why the fuck he’s carting an envelope full of Simon Gilbert articles. He didn’t even like Simon. You should have heard him in the hall one day last spring. He was pissed at Bret for inviting Simon to a party. Explain that from your list.”

Miles narrows his eyes at me, his arms folded over his chest. “I suppose you did better?”

I wave a hand over the flash drive. I mean, duh.

“Through legal means,” he clarifies.

“Well, yeah.” I think for a minute, recalling details about Dominic’s room. “The guy’s a pig. Crumbs all over those fancy sheets. But his music collection is alphabetized.”

“ADHD?” Miles suggests.

I shake my head. “Who knows? But obviously he’s loyal to some things in his life. When he doesn’t care about something he doesn’t bother pretending.”

Miles sinks back in his chair, thinking. “Those articles were trimmed and cut with precision. Perfectly placed into that envelope.”

“You saw them, too?” I ask, and he nods. “Seems like something a psychopath would do.”

“What if…” Miles stands, paces the room. “Dominic did have something to do with Simon’s death, and what if someone knows about it and is tormenting him with the articles, and planted the bugged pen in his bag…?”

“If that’s true, why would Dominic keep the articles there?” I ask.

“You’re right. Doesn’t make sense.” Miles stops pacing and sits back down. “It’s more likely the FBI is still keeping an eye on a handful of Holden students.”

“Then wouldn’t they be keeping an eye on me?” I say. “Also, the device I found in Dominic’s bag wasn’t FBI issued.”

“And you know that how?” Miles drills.

“I have a friend who looked into it for me.” Still looking into it, actually. And unfortunately before Miles caught me in his secret room, he found Connie’s device on Dominic’s keys and promptly destroyed it. Not sure if she’ll continue to help me after I tell her this.

“So what you’re saying is that we don’t know who’s spying on Dominic and why he carries around those articles,” Miles concludes. “Basically we learned nothing from his room.”

“That flash drive’s looking pretty good right now, huh?”

Miles eyes it and then picks it up off the table, holding it in one hand. “I think I can get a warrant to view this evidence.”

“A warrant? Seriously? On what grounds? You have a hunch that the FBI screwed up a homicide investigation?”

“The grounds for it aren’t a problem. Plenty of criminal activity to justify searching that house and online activity.”

I perk up. “The house? You mean Dominic’s dad? What’s he into?” Dominic’s family is old money. It’s a lot harder to figure out what those families do and what type of trouble they could get into.

Miles gives me a bewildered look. “I’m talking about Dominic. About the crimes I’ve witnessed.” My face must be blank because he adds, “Did you miss the drug dealer he has on speed dial hanging out here last week?”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “Dominic’s not like a criminal criminal. He hasn’t established sainthood like you, but still…”

“Ellie, he purchases, uses, and occasionally gives illegal drugs to friends in exchange for cash.” Miles pauses, offering me a chance to retract my statement. When I don’t, he continues. “Where I come from, that’s a crime. And people who commit crimes are called what again?”

I hold my hands up, surrendering. “I guess if you want to get all technical.”

“The grounds for search aren’t a problem, like I said. It’s the deception involved. Making it seem like I’m looking for something related to…to my…”

“Schoolwork?” I prompt, knowing he still won’t admit it out loud. Maybe they put a silencing spell on him at that military school.

“But I would be searching for something else. Reporting it like I’m not using the information for my own agenda.”

I lean on one elbow, looking him over. “Keeps you up at night, huh?”

God, we are so different. I’d have been halfway through that drive by now.

He flips the plastic thumb drive between his fingers. I’m waiting for a lecture or a textbook answer, but when Miles looks up at me, I’m caught off guard by the intense stare.

“Can I ask you something, Ellie?”

Oh no, not with that look. “What?”

“What are you hoping to find? With all this digging into Simon’s death? What’s really keeping you from adopting the suicide conclusion that closed the case?”

Right now, I have a gut feeling. Not exactly what Miles wants to hear, I’m sure.

“What’s keeping you from closing the case?” I ask, turning the table. “Are you really hoping to find proof of an accident or maybe even find a murderer?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his face inches from me. “I’m hoping to find the truth. Something better than evidence strung together to create a believable story.”

My heart pounds, realization hitting me. “Because you have a piece that doesn’t fit the story.”

I think I’ve known this since the moment he revealed his true self after holding me at gunpoint. I knew there was something real and tangible that brought Miles here.

“So do you,” Miles says. “Or we wouldn’t have bumped heads investigating the same things.”

“Bumped heads, or something else?” Not the time for a make-out joke, but the comment slipped out before I could stop myself. “And if you have something, why not hand it over to the authorities? What’s that rule you quoted about destroying evidence again?”

“I haven’t destroyed anything. And I need more to work with than what I have. Then I will go through the proper channels.”

“So you do bend the rules?” I watch him closely, and after a second, he looks away. My gaze travels to the note Simon wrote him, pinned to the wall. “For Simon, you’ll bend the rules,” I conclude. “What was it like for you two after he wrote that note?”

“Hard,” he admits. “We were both honest and neither of us got what we wanted. He wanted me to feel the same about him, and I wanted my friend back.”

Weight presses on my chest. This keeps happening to me. I tease Miles, I get pissed at him for driving me insane, and I daydream about making out with him again, lots of shallow feelings and mostly lust. And then he says something that allows me to see inside him and it becomes this heavy weight on my chest, something more than shallow. Much more. But I can’t do the same. Not to someone who hates everything I’m about, all the parts I keep hidden. Not to someone leaving soon. Going back to a squeaky-clean life of civic duty. This is the truth and it hurts already. Imagine how it would feel if I did let him see me?

“Did you keep in touch after he left Marshall Academy?” I ask, getting back to business.

“Yeah, we did. But it wasn’t the same. There was always this invisible thing between us, and no matter how hard I tried to get rid of it…” He stops, clears his throat. “All I know is that he would have done anything for me if I’d asked. Despite what happened between us. If I needed him, he would have been there. And I owe it to Simon to do everything I can to find out the truth about his death. Whatever that is.”

“So let’s find the truth,” I say. “No more follow-the-rules B.S. The FBI closed the case. They left us no choice.”

“If we’re going to work together, we have to really work together,” Miles says. “No more deviating from our plans without telling me. No more handing over evidence to secret sources or whatever you did with that bugged pen—”

“That was before our civil union,” I argue.

“I know,” Miles says. “But from now on, we’re a team. And you don’t lie or turn on your teammates, got it?”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Got it.”

But that might be a lie. I’m not sure I know how to be a team player. In my family, we obviously had to work together. The Dr. Ames con would have never worked as a solo job. But honesty with one another was never part of our team rules. If you’re good enough to con a con artist, then you should do exactly that. The only person I’ve ever trusted in my family is Harper. I would add my mother, but if my dad asked her to lie to me, she would, so I never really knew with her.

We sit in silence for a long moment, and I’m half expecting Miles to draw up a contract or make us sign in blood. But he doesn’t, and the silence makes me more nervous. “So, does this mean we’re looking at the flash drive?”

“Yeah.” He tosses it on the table and grabs his laptop. “We are.”

“Only took you an hour to get on my train.” I pull out my own laptop. “Good thing I already downloaded everything onto my computer because we’re gonna have to double time it to make up for the wasted time dealing with your moral compass.”

“Jesus, you are impossible,” Miles says.

I grin at him. “Impossible or impossibly amazing?”

“You’re at least a hundred different impossibles.”

“I do like to aim high.” I type in my password and open the folder on my desktop labeled “wtf.” “Care to be more specific?”

Miles types in his own overly complicated password. “Impossible to get you to turn off your game, impossible if you don’t get your way. Impossible to ignore.”

Impossible to ignore. Like the view from the window when Miles is in the pool. Unfortunately, they closed the pool for the season last week. My face warms. I try to focus on looking through Dominic’s documents, but then I feel eyes on me.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, the flash drive poised in one hand ready to be inserted, but he stops and places a hand on my cheek. “Awfully warm.”

I shoot a glare at him. “It’s hot in here. I’d open a window if you had one.”

He’s still staring at me thirty seconds later. “Impossible to get inside your head, something I’d love to do right now.”

I laugh darkly. “You can try, but you would be going where no man has gone before.”

“A challenge,” he says. “Be careful with those. I have trouble resisting.”

Resisting a challenge or me? But I don’t ask that because Miles is right. It’s complicated. I dig my heels into the investigation. “How about you tackle all the folders full of C-level papers and I’ll search through the photo and video files.”

Miles dives into a piece of brilliant literary analysis by Dominic while I open a picture folder labeled: Family Vacation 2006.

From my experience, studying an asset through computer data, it’s always a long, tedious search usually offering tiny morsels of gold buried in thousands of bytes of useless data. So when a very leading photo pops up before my eyes not five minutes in, I nearly fall out of my chair. Instead I lean in closer just to see if my eyes are correct, then I promptly slam the laptop shut. “Oh my God!”

Miles looks up, startled. “What?”

I wave a hand at the laptop. “Uh…think I found something.”

“Okay…?” Miles slides the laptop in front of him and opens it. “What— Oh shit.”

I shove back my chair and start pacing the room. Several things are beginning to make sense. I conjure up the image of our biology classroom last semester. Simon on my left at our lab table, his gaze constantly fixated on Justice. If I were in Simon’s spot, looking the same direction, I’d have a clear shot of Bret and Dominic’s—

“How did I not think of this the second I saw that note?” I point to Simon’s love letter to Miles on the wall.

Miles expands the photo, zooms in on it. I stop pacing and lean over him to examine the photo. Dominic DeLuca and Simon Gilbert lip-locked. I blink. Check again to make sure it’s still there.

“That’s the suit he was wearing the night of the dance,” I assess.

Miles nods. “It’s too close up to tell where they are. Outside somewhere. Do you remember him leaving at all during the dance?”

“He went to the bathroom a couple of times,” I say.

Miles flips to the next photo. It’s a screenshot of an email sent to Dominic from alleyesonyou@gmail.com. The email is blank, no text, but the subject line reads: PHOTO OF YOU, and a thumbnail-sized version of the scandalous photo is clearly attached at the bottom.

“This is who sent the picture,” I say.

Miles nods. “He probably deleted the email to be safe.”

We continue to flip the deliberately mislabeled 2006 Family vacay folder and find more screen shots of emails. All blank. All from the same address. Same photo attached. There are dozens of them dated about a week apart, spanning all the way back to the end of last June. Right after Simon died.

I start pacing again, shake out my arms. My head is a mess. Too much, too soon, maybe. “Now we know why he carries those articles.”

“And why he hates you,” Miles says, jumping up from his own seat.

I turn sharply to face my teammate. “Dominic hates me? I know he glares a lot and barely says anything, but hate…why? Because I went to the dance with Simon?”

“Think about it, Ellie. If this”—he waves at the make-out photo—“happened during the dance, you would be Dominic’s top suspect, the most likely to notice Simon vanishing.”

My forehead wrinkles. “And then what? Follow him outside, let him make out with another guy, and then kill him?”

“Dominic isn’t exactly open about his dating preferences, as far as I can tell. We might be thinking about catching a killer, but he’s thinking about keeping his affair a secret.”

I stare at him, still not following completely.

“Dominic thinks you’re tormenting him,” Miles explains. “And he can’t say anything because you know something he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

I sink down into my chair. Dominic thinks I’m blackmailing him. God, that does explain a lot. “But I’m not sending these pictures, and I didn’t put the bugged pen in his bag.”

“I know.” Miles turns to face me. “Someone is out there targeting Dominic. He could be in danger and not even know it.”