“Please, Fia. Please. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want it to happen to you. We’ll talk about it. I promise.”
“No. It’s fine. Fine, fine, fine. Everyone uses me, everyone bosses me around. Guess you finally caught on.” I remember what we’re allegedly talking about for whoever is listening. “But the funny thing is, I wouldn’t even have considered going dancing tonight if you hadn’t brought it up. What’s that term? Self-fulfilling prophecy?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I think it’s hilarious. Let me know if I have to kill anyone tomorrow, okay? Bye!” I end the call, then throw my phone against the wall. She’s—I can’t process this. I can’t deal with it. If she’s the one who wanted the hit, she would have had to convince Keane that Adam needed to die. Why? Why would she? Even if she didn’t make me go, she’s still the reason I had to.
She has to remember. She can’t have forgotten what it was like before Clarice. What it’s been like ever since. But no. She used me, just like Keane, just like everyone else. And I screwed up, again, always, and now she’s in danger and she didn’t want me to not kill him. How could she be disappointed in me for making the right choice for the first time in years?
Annie. Annie. Annabelle. Annahell. I stomp into my room and pull all the clothes out of my closet, throwing them behind me, until I find the perfect strapless black dress. It’d probably be more accurate to call it a dressless black strap. I laugh.
I wish Annie could have heard that joke.
Sharp red stilettos. I don’t know why I need the sharp ones, but they’re right for tonight. I can’t do my hair one-handed; it’s falling in waves down my back. Twist a strand back from my face. Dark eye makeup to better match my Cameron Underhill ID. Cameron is twenty-two.
I’m twenty-two tonight.
The only thing ruining the effect is the bandage on my left arm (it joins my other faint scars), but nothing to be done there. Shot is shot is shot. No room for a knife in this dress. I lean back and ponder. Don’t need one tonight.
I slink down the hall into the main room.
James is standing by the window, the sun now set, his beautiful, strong, all-American-boy face creased and pinched. “We need to be more careful. This type of work isn’t good for her. It risks everything I’ve built up the last two years. Why don’t we have her back on stocks and trading and espionage? She’s perfect there. This—” he pauses, only for a second but I know his dad will see the weakness there “—assassination work messes her up. She won’t be useful for months in this state of mind.”
Oh, useful. I won’t be useful. Heaven forbid. If they only knew what their pet had done. A pause, where I can only guess what the elder Keane is saying. I’ve never met him. None of the girls from the school ever have. I tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. I need to get out of here.
I grab my purse from the counter by the door, take off my heels, and hook them around my wrist.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” James’s dad can’t see the way his jaw tightens, the way every muscle in his body traces a line of anger and barely controlled rebellion. He is never more beautiful to me than when he is livid. But still James does as James is told. Good boy, James. Have another treat. Sit, James. Roll over. Play dead. Kill. There’s a good son!
“Going out,” I call, and he whips around in time to see me blow a kiss before I slam the door shut and sprint down the stairs, past the bewildered doorman, and out of the building. I can’t run away. But I can run.
And I can dance.
FIA
Two-and-a-Half Years Ago
ANNIE WANTS ME TO MOVE BACK INTO HER ROOM.
She doesn’t understand. I can’t. I can’t live with her because I can’t tell her, and if I live with her, she’ll know, she’ll figure it out. She’s worried about me.
She has no idea.
I am a murderer.
That day on the beach. I am trapped in that day on the beach. I take the small package. It fits in the palm of my hand. I focus on getting it in the woman’s bag without being seen. It’s easy. I know exactly what to do. No one notices a thing out of place, as the gangly teenage girl chases her ball past with a determined look.
No one connects her to the explosion that kills two people three minutes later.
Her. Me. Her. Me. I did that.
“Please choose, Sofia.” Clarice is sitting in front of me, calm and placid. She is always calm—I want to claw her eyes out sometimes. On the table between us are five boxes wrapped in plain brown paper. Five boxes. Two people. One explosion. Two murderers in this room.
I can’t leave now, not ever. I’d get caught. They’d know. They’d know it was me. I can’t tell anyone what this school really is because then I’d have to tell them what I did.
“Who cares. They’re all boxes. Why does it matter which box I choose?”