17

“The payoff,” I blurt out after Agent Sharp answers the phone. “I figured it out.”

“You okay? You sound like you’ve been running.”

That’s because I just sprinted up four flights of stairs to make sure no one at the “agency” could hear me. Plus I’d been sitting on this information for two hours, dying for an excuse to sneak away and report to Sheldon and Sharp. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he says, as if he’d been worried. “Now, what did you find out?”

“My original assessment was right: the agency definitely isn’t collecting money or charging fees themselves—” I glance around the empty stairwell and then pause to listen. After deciding it’s all clear, I continue. “But the information packets they’re handing out recommend all these services—photographers for head shots, voice teachers, acting teachers, nutritionists, dance teachers…”

“And you think that if we looked into these places—”

“It’d be one big happy family reunion.” I mean, it was kind of weird that the team for this con would include only my dad and Milky. I had a feeling the rest of them were somewhere in the wings.

“I don’t know,” Agent Sheldon says in the background. I must be on speakerphone. “That’s a big leap to take with no guarantee these clients will call upon any of the recommended services. The agency doesn’t require professional head shots or voice lessons?”

“If they required it, there would be no clients. Those people would see right through that kind of scam.” I release a frustrated breath. Why does the FBI put agents in charge who clearly have no understanding of the art of human manipulation?

“I’m not sold on this theory,” Sheldon says.

“Look, you want my dad because he’s stolen tons from innocent people, right? But you’re forgetting the most important part of his crimes.”

“What’s that?” Sheldon and Sharp ask together.

“Most of his income was earned by convincing innocent people to put the money right into his hand. Happily. It isn’t black and white; there’s skill and chance that weigh heavily on the outcome.” Even straitlaced Miles wouldn’t have needed me to spell this out for him.

“I’m still not convinced we’re gonna get any payoff from this op,” Sheldon says with a sigh. She’s disappointed. She’s also an idiot. “If we pull you now, we might still be able to use you again on the inside of the next job.”

The next job? This is a long con. Could be a month, maybe even two, before there’s anything worthy of an FBI investigation. And by then it might be too late for Mom’s appeal or momentum might be lost. Besides, I’m right. I draw in a slow, deep breath, counting to five. You will convince them, Ellie. You will find evidence.

“The heart of the con lies in these outsourced services; you gotta trust me. You gave me this investigation because I’m the one who knows how my family operates.” The hair on my arm stands up again, like it had earlier when I was so sure someone was following me, along with the goose bumps on my neck. “I gotta go. I’ll text you the list from the packets and you can do some digging.”

I tuck the phone away and try to slow my racing heart. No one is here. No one followed me. But despite the pep talk, I still don’t want to take a chance, and instead of heading back down the stairwell, I open the door labeled floor 26. I walk about twenty feet and hear the click of the door. I spin around like a paranoid idiot, but the hall is completely empty. I shake my head and return to walking down the hall in search of an elevator or another stairwell. I’m completely on edge, so when I hear the slightest shuffle of feet behind me and then feel the brush of fingertips on my shoulder, instincts kick in—well, instincts and a handful of self-defense lessons.

My phone falls to the ground with a thunk when I reach up to grip the arm of my assailant. I use momentum and the attacker’s weight to send them sailing over me and onto the tile floor of the vacant hallway. I know I’m supposed to run now. A couple of months ago, when I’d finally performed this move for the first time, sending Miles flying over me onto the school wrestling mats, I’d leaned over him and asked, “What now? Stomp on his nuts? Assuming it’s a male.”

“Run,” Miles had croaked, still fighting to get air into his lungs. When he’d sat up and could breathe normally, he explained in more detail. “Run and don’t look back to see if you’re being followed. That head start will save your life.”

Clearly I have a death wish, because here I am hanging back long enough to see that same face looking up at me.