Chapter 18 Ingrid #2
If Beverly keeps prattling, Ingrid won’t last in this seat a moment longer.
She almost snatches Archie’s malt to cool the heat scalding her skin.
She can’t listen to these two, can’t think about what Archie’s going to tell Crenshaw, can’t do anything but wait until she’s free to sort this out with him before he has a chance to act first.
She waits, tense and doing her best to seem engaged, until Archie brings this dreadful encounter to an end.
“Well, I’m off. Good to see you again, Miss Tolbert, and to meet you, Miss Van Essen.” She doesn’t miss his wink. “This turned out to be my lucky day.”
When he departs, she watches to see which way he turns down the sidewalk, waits for approximately fifteen seconds, then gives
an excuse about an errand, gets up before Beverly can reply, and rushes from the pharmacy.
Everything around her fades—the street noise, snatches of muffled conversations, a distant whistle, everything except the
breath rushing in her ears and hurried footsteps thudding against the pavement. She prepared for this, didn’t she? She only
needs to catch him, and she’s rounding the corner when she nearly collides with the man lingering there. Gasping, she stops,
then is met with his familiar sneer.
“You’re fucked, Cousin Ingrid.”
She shields her eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight, glaring as she steps into the shade beneath a storefront awning,
where Archie joins her.
“And don’t give me some bullshit about not knowing that investigating a relative is a conflict of interest, because you’re
not that stupid. Although apparently you’re not as smart as I thought.”
“It’s not like that. I’m trying to find out the truth, and I won’t let you interfere. Ada won’t be honest with anyone else.
She knows me, trusts me—”
“Why wouldn’t she? A cousin on the inside helping her cover up her front organization?”
A statement like that to Crenshaw, and Ada’s exclusive will be rendered useless, then Ingrid will be promptly removed from Hollywood and imprisoned behind a desk, or she might even lose her job. Every breath comes faster, impeding her efforts to harness her thoughts even as her tone sharpens.
“Shut up and listen to me, you absolute prick—” She breaks off when he steps closer, then her back is against the building,
her eyes locked with his steady dark gaze.
“You’re getting loud, and our job is to be discreet, so remember that before you make more of a scene.” He braces one forearm
against the wall, leaving her no space to wriggle aside. “Relax and smile—you do know what a smile is, don’t you?”
To any onlookers, they look like two lovers eager to steal a private moment on a busy street, although Ingrid will take the
utmost delight in kicking him if needed. Still, he’s right; they can’t create a disturbance, not when their job is to blend
in. And if he believes he has the power in this situation, it will be all the more satisfying to dash his expectations. So
she stays where she is until she feels a palm against her waist. She promptly slaps his hand, even though it doesn’t budge.
“I’m married.”
“Not in Hollywood, you’re not.” He arches a brow, then shakes his head to silence her retort. “God, you’re uptight. Now here’s
what we’re going to do: I’ve got a car parked down the block. You’re coming with me to visit Agent Stieber, and you will admit
to working a conflict of interest. Or I’ll tell him for you.”
Those who believe they have the upper hand are always the same: eyes alight with a triumphant gleam, with certainty that nothing
will steal this victory from them. Yet being the one who is overlooked, the one considered inferior, disposable, powerless,
has taught Ingrid exactly how to be none of those things. To be everything those like Archie believe she is not.
And if he threatens her sister, her career, she will ensure he regrets it.
She pushes his hand off her waist. This time, he releases her. “Fine, tell Stieber, tell Crenshaw, tell whomever you damn well please.” Then she shoves against his chest, forcing his step back. “You certainly won’t mind if I tell them about New York.”
The faintest flicker of uncertainty passes across his face before he scoffs. “What about it? That I was raised there? That
I graduated from NYU in 1940? All the things they already know?”
“Of course not. I mean all the things they don’t.” She watches him, studies the way he studies her, the way the veins in his
temple pulse in anticipation. This will be fun. “Such as 1937, when a pro-Communist rally took place in the city. You wouldn’t
know anything about that, would you? Or anything about a photograph taken during the event, later published in a newspaper
article?” As Archie visibly bristles, she offers a little smile. “Quite a good picture of you, isn’t it? Very clear.”
After Ingrid was assigned to work alongside Archie and Stieber and she asked Hattie to investigate them, her friend managed
to uncover more than Ingrid ever hoped to find—evidence of an article that was likely swept aside after a convincing word
or deed from Archie to whoever ran his background check.
Except nothing is ever destroyed. Not entirely. One never knows when such tidbits might be useful, so Ingrid filed it away
for a moment precisely like this.
Archie stares as if unable to comprehend what he’s hearing before he glowers. “It was one rally, then I never associated with
the party again. Kids are stupid, make mistakes, and that’s all it was, and if you think I’m going to let you tell Crenshaw
or—”
“You’re getting loud, and our job is to be discreet.” She really should throw his own words back at him more often, judging
by the glare it wins her. “You should know I do have the proof. And I won’t be telling you if it’s with me, hidden, or with
a trusted source. As you so kindly pointed out, I’m not that stupid.”
He might think she’s bluffing—which she’s not, because of course she collected the proof. All it takes is calling Lars, explaining where she keeps the sealed file at home, and requesting that he not ask questions but please deliver it to her employer. Every bit of insurance counts.
Archie gives a half-hearted laugh, then he passes a hand across his jaw. “You bitch . . . you’re not going to ruin my career
over a harmless mistake made years ago. You don’t have it in you.”
“Shall we find out?” She waits, letting him squirm. Because she’s going to make him say it, not her. “Unless you convince
me to reconsider. Assuming you ask nicely.”
This time she is not going to be the one fighting to keep her place. This time, for once, it will be him. Let him implore
her not to share his secrets with their superiors, let him fight for his career the way she fights for hers every single day.
“Don’t give your proof to the bosses. Don’t mention it to anyone. Please,” he relents at last. “If you keep your mouth shut,
so will I. Nothing to anyone about you or Ada.”
Only then does Ingrid realize her racing heart has never slowed, not until she hears those words. She doesn’t show as much,
though, simply dips her head before extending a hand, which Archie accepts. She pumps his in a single vigorous shake, then
she doesn’t release him.
“I really don’t care if you like me, or if you want me here, or even if you trust me, but I am committed to this job. The
same as you are. At the Star Society party, you reminded me you weren’t the enemy, so let me remind you: Neither am I.”
No snarky retort, no sexist remark, nothing beyond the twitch of his jaw before he releases her and continues toward his car.
Not much. Not enough. But a start.