Chapter 30
COLE
Two days later—on Sunday afternoon—I’m finally taking a break from background work on my Big Store con. I’m sitting in the front seat of a black SUV, miles from home in the Washington suburbs.
“There,” Jacobson says. “In the Verizon truck.”
The white panel van looks completely legitimate. The familiar logo is painted on the side. Orange cones rest by the tires, in accordance with corporate policy. A uniformed workman sits inside, reviewing his clipboard.
It’s all a Sawgrass front, designed to keep the Andersons safe from harm.
“And no one’s seen a sign of Tarasov?”
“Nothing. One of my guys scared the hell out of an driver two days ago. He was taking a leak behind the neighbor’s garage.”
“How long before someone reports a Verizon van for overstaying its welcome?”
“We never sit for longer than six hours with that one. And we only use Verizon once, every two weeks. Dominion Power gives us a few days, if we move around on the street. Fairfax County too. We rely on regular sedans a good part of the time, including all the night shifts. We’ve had eyes on the premises twenty-four seven. ”
The Andersons’ small brick house looks tired under the sullen July sky. The hydrangea flowers have long since faded from blue to brown. The hostas are singed at the tips of every leaf. Scraggly grass has grown over the apron of the driveway.
Mr. A hates using the edger. Besides, I keep a straighter line than he does. Or maybe he just said that so I’d take on the job. So I’d feel like I was succeeding at something.
“Cover me,” I say grimly, reaching for my door handle. “I’m going in.”
Jacobson reaches for his shoulder holster.
“That was a joke,” I say.
“I’m laughing.” He isn’t, of course. I’ve never seen the man crack a smile.
There hasn’t been a lot to smile about in the forty-eight hours since Collins was executed.
Best assures me that in the history of Sawgrass Corporation, there’s never been a failure of security like that.
He was actually embarrassed as he stood at attention in my office, briefing me on all the steps he’s taken to correct the breakdown.
All gambling—from the office pool for March Madness to personal vacations in Vegas—is forbidden to all personnel.
All personnel are now required to submit to random checks on their bank accounts at intervals to be determined by Sawgrass.
Additional questions have been added to the already invasive polygraph tests conducted regularly on all personnel.
All fees paid by me for the past two months have been refunded. Sawgrass will provide its services for free through the end of the year.
That last point is a relief I’m afraid to let myself fully consider. Maintaining full security at the house and on the road was already a hefty expense when my billionaire status was secure. With the IRS preparing to gut me, the cost had become a much greater concern.
I hate needing to think that way. I feel as if I’ve slipped back decades, to huddling in a crappy motel with Shannon and Megan, waiting for the night manager to nod off so we can skip out without paying our bill. I thought I’d put that oily sensation behind me forever.
Best didn’t mention that I made things worse by failing to report my suspicions the first time Tarasov contacted me with information he shouldn’t have had. Best is a professional. He doesn’t blame the victim.
Now, Jacobson climbs out of the car when I do. Ever the proper Boy Scout, he looks both ways as he prepares to cross the street.
I hold up one hand. “I’d prefer to do this alone.”
“Sawgrass would prefer you protected at all times.”
“Noted. Get back in the car.”
“Mr. Wolf,” he says.
“Tony.”
Sighing, he gets back in the car. But he turns on the engine for long enough to roll down his window. From the angle of his arm, I’m fairly certain his weapon is no longer holstered. Instead, it’s resting on his lap for the fastest possible retrieval.
It’s only as I’m crossing the street that I realize I should have brought a gift. Flowers, maybe. A box of the Russell Stover chocolates Mrs. A loves. A couple of pints of Mr. A’s favorite peach ice cream.
Too late.
At least I can check the mailbox for them. Half the time, they’re both too busy with Saturday chores to pick up the day’s mail.
Sure enough, there’s a catalog for electronics gear. Tucked into its pages are a flyer from the local grocery store, a request for money from the animal shelter, and a credit card statement. For a man who teaches robotics, Mr. A has a surprising attachment to paper bills.
I knock on the door, fighting the wild animals raking their claws through my belly. I’ll ring the doorbell if they don’t answer. I can try the hidden key again if I have to.
But I hear the lock turn.
I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like—the tightening in my chest, my inability to catch my breath. I wipe my hand across my face, surprised to find sweat on my upper lip.
“Cole,” Mr. A says. “Come in.”
He doesn’t offer his hand. But he steps back and lets me enter the house.
Mrs. A is sitting at the dining table. Her hair is perfectly brushed, and she’s wearing her favorite lipstick. Her tee shirt is tucked into a pair of elastic-waist pants.
It takes me a moment to realize why she looks so wrong. Then it comes to me: She isn’t wearing her apron. In fact, I can’t smell anything cooking in the kitchen. There isn’t even a pitcher of lemonade on the table.
“Please,” Mr. A says. “Sit down.”
I do, saying, “I picked up your mail.” I hand it across the table.
“Thank you.” Mrs. A’s words are stiff and precise, as if she’s reciting a recording in language lab.
Mr. A says, “We weren’t certain you would show up.”
“It’s the last Sunday of the month.”
He says, “Well…”
Mrs. A jumps in before he manages to find his way through the thicket I never meant to plant between us. “We want to be clear,” she says. “We hoped you wouldn’t show up.”
The words hurt a thousand times more than I expect them to. They aren’t a surprise. The Andersons made themselves perfectly clear the day Tarasov released the indictment. But I somehow thought that the fact I’ve been allowed inside meant I had been forgiven.
Mr. A says, “What Linda means is, we need more time before we’re ready to talk about what happened.”
Mrs. A covers his fingers with hers. For the first time ever, I notice age spots on the back of her hand. Her knuckles are swollen, and I’m fairly certain she can’t slip off her wedding ring.
She says, “Evan is being too kind. He doesn’t want to hurt you.
Neither of us does. But the fact is, you’ve hurt us.
When you lied to us, you told us you didn’t trust us with the truth.
All the ways we’ve tried to help you didn’t matter.
You conned us, Cole, the same way your mother conned so many people.
And like your mother’s victims, we feel foolish now that we know the truth.
We feel like laughingstocks. You had so many chances to come clean.
But every single time, you chose to continue the lie.
That’s why we can’t be sure how long it will take for us to get over. If we ever get over it.”
She’s practiced the words. Memorized them. I wonder how many times she said them to herself in the mirror.
I nod, because she’s only saying what I deserve. “May I try to explain?” I ask.
She sighs. It’s Mr. A who says. “Go ahead.”
I’m so relieved I’ll get a chance that I almost forget to speak. But I open with, “I told you last time… After I got out of juvie, when I started to build Lone Wolf… I knew the two of you wouldn’t approve.”
“We loved you,” Mr. A says.
I’m terrified by those words, by the fact that they’re in the past tense. But I can’t give up on making my point. “I was working cons, using everything Shannon ever taught me. But I made it more than that. I built real solutions for my clients. I gave them what they needed. I wasn’t just a thief.”
“You made billions,” Mr. A says.
“I did. It was almost a miracle. Who could have known that the kid you two saved would have that sort of potential? But I realized my potential because of what you did for me, because of the support you gave me. You believed in me, even after juvie.”
Mr. A doesn’t have a response for that. Mrs. A just shakes her head.
“I know I started without any idea of values, or morals, or ethics. But the two of you taught me. You really did. Even while I was keeping so much of my life secret from you—a decision I will always, always regret—I tried to do good things. I did my best to help.”
Mr. A says, “We’ve always appreciated your help around the house. Cleaning the gutters, sweeping out the garage… you’ve never been afraid of hard work. You were never too proud to do the dishes.”
“I wanted to do more than that.” I gesture at the grocery store flyer sitting my Mrs. A’s elbow. “Those grocery gift cards… The cash I slipped into the oatmeal box in the kitchen… Maybe I wanted you to catch me. Maybe I wanted you to know the truth.”
“Gift cards?” Mrs. A asks, looking confused.
“The ones I had printed to look like coupons.”
“You paid for our groceries?” She’s shocked.
“I tried to make things a little easier for both of you.”
“You put money in my oatmeal box?”
“It was something,” I say. “It felt like the only thing I could do. I wish I’d done more.”
“You wish…” She trails off. I realize that’s not shock on her face. She’s horrified. “Cole. You had no right.”
I’m confused. “No right to what?”
“You had no right to bring us into your lies. Your crimes. The foundation of your fortune was illegal hacking. Every penny you own now is poisoned by that. But you sit here and tell us that you paid for our groceries… You gave us cash… You made us spend your dirty money. You made us accomplices without ever giving us a choice!”
“I never thought—”
“That’s just it.” She cuts me off. “You never thought—about what you were doing to us. About what you did to make your billions. You are exactly like your mother.”
“I—”
She turns to her husband. “I told you this was a terrible idea.” And then to me: “It’s time for you to go.”
“I don’t want to leave things like this.”
“Well, Cole, I guess there’s one single, solitary thing you want in this world that you aren’t going to get.”
She pushes back her chair. I barely have time to stand before she throws herself through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“I…” I say to Mr. A. “I thought I was making things better.”
“We all make mistakes,” he says, like I’m one of his kids on the robotics team who’s put the wrong variable into a line of code.
“Should I—”
“You should go home now.”
“But—”
“Go home. We know how to reach you. We’ll let you know if we’re ever ready to talk.”
Leaving seems like the only kindness I can offer. But with every step I take toward Jacobson’s car it feels more and more like defeat.