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.
And now he’s making his way toward me.
No, I’m imagining that.
He’s just chatting with people as he walks across the room. But he is coming this way. An impromptu receiving line is forming, and I’m right in the middle of it.
If I bolt now, I’ll draw attention to myself. So I stay frozen in place. He won’t recognize me. At least, he shouldn’t. Hodges went out of her way to get rid of me so he’d never even know I existed, and Virgil has been very careful to keep us from meeting. There are no images of my face floating around on the Internet—no social media profiles, no close-up photos snapped by admirers during my lawbreaking days. Still, Erskine Claymore is a man with astronomical resources at his disposal. I’m about to find out whether he’s somehow managed to discover who I am.
He reaches out for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Lovely to meet you,” he says as his gaze drifts toward the next face.
As soon as my grandfather is a few feet past me, I look around, but Thomas is gone. Or at least I can’t see him among all the people bumping into me as they shuffle to get near Claymore. I move toward the stairs as fast as I can, swimming upstream against the flow of people.
Thomas told me to meet him on the starboard side, and it’s only just occurring to me that I have no idea if that’s the left or right. I figure I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance and go to the left side of the boat, lower deck. It’s so crowded I can hardly make my way through the clusters of people, all of whom are glinting with jewels.
Five minutes becomes ten. Then fifteen. I lean over the railing and look up at the buildings, several of which are probably owned by Erksine Claymore.
Still no Thomas.
My shoulders sag and the shawl slips down on one side. Behind me, I hear a girl’s voice say, “So. You a friend of Thomas’s or something?”
Startled, I turn around. Standing on the deck is a girl my age in a bright yellow cocktail dress. She has wavy blonde hair with streaks of dark blue. Her full, round cheeks and slightly upturned nose make her look a little younger than she probably is, but her raspy voice makes her sound like an old blues singer.
“I noticed him searching for someone in the crowd while I was talking to him. Are you dating or whatever?”
Her expression is at once sneering and wounded. I immediately wonder if she’s an ex-girlfriend.
“Who wants to know?” I ask.
“I used to go to school with Thomas.” She puts out her hand for me to shake. “Cassidy Hicks. Resident mean girl of Dorchester Academy. That’s a fancy private school in Connecticut, in case you haven’t heard of it.”
I actually have heard of it. I went to a fancy private school too, not that I’m going to bother mentioning this to her.
I ignore her outstretched hand. She lets it drop but turns up the wattage on her sneer. “I didn’t think Thomas went for exotic types.”
My eyes automatically narrow. “Exotic? Is that a code word for something?”
“Oh, relax. If I wanted to insult you, I’d just do it.”
Yeah. Definitely a mean girl.
Good thing I’m a scary girl.
I smile. “And if I wanted to snap you in half and toss you into the river, I’d just do that too.”
I step around her, but before I can get very far she says, “Well, in case you’re curious, I just saw Thomas leave with a couple friends.”
I turn back. “What did the friends look like?”
She shrugs, twirling a piece of her hair. “Just two guys in suits. They were propping him up as he walked so I figure he sneaked too many drinks.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. Like five, ten minutes ago maybe.”
As I push past her, my shawl falls even farther down my shoulder. I hear her give a little gasp, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. A very bad feeling is swelling inside me. I climb the stairs to the main deck and thread my way through the crowd. When I’m back on the deck near the yacht entrance, I take my phone out and dial the number Thomas last used to call me.
No answer.
I rush down the gangplank as fast as my sky-high shoes will allow. A security guard lifts a rope to let me out. Some photographers are still milling around. They snap a few shots of me before deciding I’m not anyone tabloid-worthy.
“Excuse me,” I say to the security guard, “there was a guy in a tux, red hair, with two other men. They just left a few minutes ago. Did you see which way they went?”
He blinks rapidly and without looking at me says, “No, sorry.”
Judging by the flat tone and the lack of eye contact, the people who took Thomas slipped this guy some money and told him not to mention seeing them.
“That kid with the red hair? His mother is on the board of trustees for this event. Do you understand what I’m saying? Rich, important people will want to know where he went.”
After a second he tips his head to the right and covers his mouth like he’s coughing. “Toward the parking garage near the south dock.”
“The guys with him, what did they look like?”
He ducks his head and says, “Tall, dark-haired, pale skin, spoke with some kind of accent.”
I almost blurt out a “thank you” but decide he doesn’t deserve such politeness. I rush down the sidewalk and back onto the street. High heels and cobblestones are a bad combination, so I reach down and slip my shoes off one at a time, carrying them in one hand as I rush down the street. I hold my dress up a little so I can jog.
“Thomas!”
His name echoes off the brick buildings on either side and bounces back at me.
There’s nothing going on down here at this time of night. No restaurants or bars open. This is a place for tourists and right now, it’s empty. I pass the parking garage the security guard mentioned, but the gate is down.
The lapping water and distant horns of the city make me feel even more alone. And scared. I know Thomas wouldn’t leave without telling me. Not unless he was trying to protect me. And the Feds wouldn’t hustle him away like that, right out from under his parents’ noses—plus I’m pretty sure most FBI agents do not have accents. Something is very wrong.
The wind makes my dress flap violently, and I have a hard time keeping my shawl from blowing away. Where could they have gone? Manhattan ends right here at the water’s edge.
I see a crumpled cocktail napkin near the entrance to the south dock and dash toward it. A tall metal grate covers the entrance. There’s no way someone could have gotten around or over it, and even if they did, there’d be nowhere to go except into the East River. The only two boats tied to the dock are small, empty tugs that are both dark and empty.
I stoop to pick up the napkin. It’s got the Metropolitan Museum logo on it.
“Thomas! Thom—”
Something loops around my neck, rough and tight, choking me.
My eyes water as I gag and struggle to tear the rope away from my throat. The next thing I feel is my feet lifting off the sidewalk. Someone hustles me toward the river where the two tug boats are knocking against the dock. The water comes at me fast. I plunge into a sudden coldness.
I’ve gone under. I look up and glimpse one of my high heels floating on the top of the water above my head. I try to swim toward the surface, but the rope tightens and something drags me farther down into the greenish-black depths. I think it’s an anchor.