That gets me a big smile. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll help you finish up in here. I’m hiding from Jane. She’ll make me wash the dishes.”
Francie and I spend the next thirty minutes getting all their belongings back into the two suitcases. I continue to search for the previous instructions and detailed description of me as the subject that she would have received, but I don’t find anything else.
I head out to the main room to look for Ryan. I need to get out of here and go talk to the one person who can help me decide what to do next.
Alias: Mia Bianchi—Six Years Ago
There are lots of people trying to be the brightest and best help to Andrew Marshall. Smoke blowing and ass kissing are the two main qualities every employee and volunteer possesses. I decide to take the opposite route. It’s risky for sure, but I don’t care how inflated your ego is, blunt honesty has more value than blind worship, and if Andrew’s smart enough to get this far, he knows it.
I’m currently embedded in Andrew Marshall’s political campaign as he makes his bid for governor of Tennessee. When I got my first set of instructions for this job, which listed my new identity as Mia Bianchi and the address of my new apartment in Knoxville, Tennessee, there was a handwritten note on the bottom of the page that said: You’re moving to the big leagues so don’t fuck this up.
Even though I’ve been working for Mr. Smith for a little over two years, I have never met him in person or talked to him on the phone since the Kingston job, so I’m guessing that added footnote was from Matt.
Everything goes through Matt.
The second set of instructions came a week after I settled in Knoxville. It listed Andrew Marshall as the mark and informed me that Mia Bianchi would start work on his campaign the next week. My hair, makeup, and clothing were to be flawless. I was to be the brightest person in the room. I was to make myself indispensable. There were seven days to do a deep dive into Andrew Marshall’s life and everyone associated with him, including his opponents, so I’d be ready for my first day on the job. Moving up is all I’ve wanted, so there was no way I wasn’t going to be prepared.
I’ve come a long way from that first job. I was reckless just like Mr. Smith said. It was messy. And luck had been on my side. Jenny was in a medically induced coma for a week. The hit on the head mixed with all the drinking and pills made for a bad combination. When she came to, she had no memory of the entire twenty-four hours before the fall. I was in the clear. Or rather, Izzy Williams was.
I have checked in on Miles a couple of times over the last two years. The Kingstons are divorced now, and it looks like Miles lives with Mr. Kingston and the latest Mrs. Kingston. The last time I stalked the new wife’s Facebook page there was a post she shared from an interior design company she’d hired to remove all traces of Jenny. The post showed interior shots of the newly renovated home, including one of Miles’s room. When I zoomed in on the bookshelf, I spotted an origami swan sitting on one of the shelves. I’ll never know if it’s the same one I made with him that day or if he’s learned to make them on his own, but seeing that swan displayed as if it holds some importance is proof that I existed there, even if only for a very short amount of time.
Maybe I’m not quite the ghost I thought I was.
The Andrew Marshall job is the first time I’ve had to settle in, because I was told in the beginning it would be a couple of months before I got any further instructions. It is also the first job that came with a thick packet of cash for expenses, like rent and utilities, and other incidentals needed to become Mia Bianchi. This next rung on the ladder is pretty sweet.
It’s taken me three months, but now Andrew Marshall turns to me for my reaction on anything from which tie to wear to whether he should attend a certain event. A nod or quick shake of my head is all it takes to blow someone else’s carefully made plans for him.
Andrew Marshall is the only one okay with this.
I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to see the target painted there. His staff has dug into my background, trying to find anything that will knock me from my throne, but they’ve come up empty.
I am Mia Bianchi. Even though I’m only twenty-two, new-hire paperwork shows I’m twenty-seven. The right clothes and makeup are key. I’m a graduate of Clemson University—Go Tigers!—and I excelled in my public policy classes and killed it on the debate team. I can’t even begin to understand how someone was able to add my image into a pic of a debate against UNC a few years ago. But there it was. Just grainy enough that if you were looking for me you’d find me, but not so clear as to draw questions from the students who were actually present.
After two years of working with Matt, I know he isn’t capable of what it would take to insert me so fully into this engineered life, and I grow more and more curious about the team behind Mr. Smith. I wonder how many people he has out there doing jobs like this.
But those are ponderings for another day.
The subject up for debate today for Andrew Marshall is the American Bar Association event at some fancy hotel in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It’s a weekend conference at which lawyers, including those like Andrew, who no longer practice but still keep their license up to date, will get continuing ed credits in between a morning round of golf and afternoon happy hour. It’s as much for rubbing elbows and networking as it is for thirty-minute crash courses, like the latest tech for small firms. And since my third set of instructions finally arrived and made it clear that Andrew most definitely should be there, that’s what I’m pushing.
But there is another opportunity for him, one that is better for his campaign, in Memphis at the same time. And given he’s running for governor in Tennessee and not in South Carolina, it’s an uphill battle.
Andrew’s wife, Marie, is weary of me. I have not given her a single reason to think I want her husband in any way, but women are funny. I don’t have to give her a reason for her to still expect it.
The surprising thing about Andrew Marshall is that he’s a good man. I have searched through every file and personal record I can get my hands on. And since he doesn’t suspect a thing from me, I’ve had access to all of it. There’s not a hint of stealing or skimming money, no back-door deals, no promises he wouldn’t admit to publicly, he’s as in love with his wife now as the day he met her, and he’s good to his employees. Even his pets are rescue dogs.
All my past jobs centered around me getting something Mr. Smith wanted or needed—whether it was computer files or documents or any other piece of physical goods or property. But this job was different from the beginning.
Now I know why I’m here. Andrew Marshall will be the next governor of Tennessee and Mr. Smith wants to own him on day one.
Since there was no blackmail to be found, I will have to create it.
His chief of staff has just finished laying out all the very good reasons to pick Memphis over Hilton Head. My very good reasons for picking the convention have already been laid out. The Hilton Head choice is a regional event, not just for South Carolina, and there will be some pretty big hitters attending, since the keynote speaker has just announced he’s running for president, so media coverage will be on the national level. The networking and potential for new campaign donors is greater. And with social media transforming the landscape of politics the way it has, to become the governor of Tennessee you need to think bigger than Tennessee.
The room is quiet as everyone present waits for Andrew to either accept or reject the invitation to the Memphis event.
Andrew knows my choice. He looks at me and I’ve got a few seconds to decide if I’m going to help ruin a perfectly good man.
A quick shake of my head seals his fate.
* * *