She’d sifted through the advice that both the factual accounts and the novels had given on disguises, always focusing on the commonsense stuff. Don’t slap on a platinum wig and high heels just because you’re a short brunette. Don’t think opposite; think inconspicuous. Think about what attracts attention—like blondes and stilettos—and avoid it. Play to your strengths. Sometimes what you believe makes you unattractive can keep you alive.
Back in the normal days, she’d resented her boyish frame. Now she used it. If you put on a baggy jersey and a pair of well-worn jeans a size too big, any eyes looking for woman might slide right over boy. Her hair was short as a boy’s and easy to hide under a ball cap, and layered socks inside a pair of too-large Reeboks gave her that puppy-pawed look of the average teenage male. Someone who really looked at her face might notice some discrepancies. But why would anyone look? The park was filling with people of all ages and sexes. She did not stand out, and no one hunting for her would expect her to be here. She hadn’t been back to DC since the department’s first attempt to murder her.
This wasn’t her forte—leaving her web, hunting. But it was, at least, something she’d put some thought into beforehand. Most of what she did in an average day took only a small part of her attention and intelligence. The rest of her mind was always working through possibilities, imagining scenarios. It made her slightly more confident now. She was working from a mental map that had been many months in the creation.
Carston had not changed his habits. At exactly 12:15 he sat down at a metal bistro table in front of his café. He’d picked the one that was angled so he could be completely covered by the umbrella’s shade, as she’d expected. Carston had once been a redhead. He didn’t have much of the hair anymore, but he still had the complexion.
The waitress waved to him, nodded toward the pad of paper in her hand, then went back inside. So he had a usual order. Another habit that could get you killed. If Casey had wanted Carston dead, she could have managed it without his ever knowing she had been here.
She got up, shoved the phone in her pocket, and slung her backpack onto one shoulder.
The sidewalk led behind a rise and some trees. Carston couldn’t see her here. It was time for another costume. Her posture changed. The hat came off. She shrugged out of the jersey she’d layered over the T-shirt. She tightened the belt and rolled up the bottom inches of the jeans, turning them into a boyfriend-cut look. The Reeboks came off and traded places with the slip-on ballet–slash–athletic shoes from the backpack. She did all this casually, as if she were hot and just stripping down a bit. The weather made it believable. Bystanders might have been surprised to see a girl under the masculine clothing, but she doubted this moment would linger in anyone’s memory. There were too many more extreme styles on display in the park today. The sunshine always did bring out the freaks in DC.
Her tote went over her shoulder again. She dropped the backpack behind an out-of-the-way tree while no one was looking. If someone found it, there was nothing inside that she couldn’t live without.
Decently certain that no one could see her, she added a wig and then, finally, carefully, she threaded her earrings into place.
She could have confronted Carston in her boyish garb, but why give up any secrets? Why let him connect her to her surveillance? If he’d even noticed the boy, that is. She might need to be a boy again soon, so she would not waste the persona now. And she could have saved some time by wearing the costume from the hotel, but if she’d made no changes to her appearance, the image of her captured by the closed-circuit security cameras at the hotel could be easily linked to the footage from any public or private cameras picking her up now. By spending extra time on her appearance, she’d broken as many links as she could; if someone was trying to find the boy, or the businesswoman, or the casual park visitor she was now, he would have a complicated trail to follow.
It was cooler in her female outfit. She let the light breeze dry the sweat that had been building up under the nylon jersey and then walked out to the street.
She came at him from behind, taking the same path he had just a few minutes earlier. His food had arrived—a chicken parm—and he seemed to be totally absorbed in consuming it. But she knew Carston was better than she was at appearing to be something he was not.
She dropped into the seat across from him with no fanfare. His mouth was full of sandwich when he looked up.
She knew that he was a good actor. She assumed he would bury his true reaction and display the emotion he wished before she could catch sight of the first. Because he didn’t look surprised at all, she assumed she’d taken him completely unawares. If he had been expecting her, he would have acted like her sudden appearance had shocked him. But this, the steady gaze across the table, the unwidened eyes, the methodical chewing—this was him controlling his surprise. She was almost 80 percent sure.
She didn’t say anything. She just met his expressionless gaze while he finished masticating his bite of sandwich.