Chapter 7
7
The dream does not put me in a good mood. I’m going to chalk it up to the melatonin gummies. Nick’s attractive, factually speaking, but he isn’t attractive to me . I promised Gail professionalism, promised myself that I wouldn’t get caught up in his charm—and I’m still immune to it.
In fact, the thought of him—real-life Nick—makes my skin itch.
I shower, washing away any trace of the dream, and slip into another pair of dark jeans. Rough-toweling my hair, I pace my room, flipping through every piece of Nick intel that I can absorb. Nothing’s come in from the virus implant yet—Nick and Johnny went straight to sleep last night and have barely picked up their phones since—but at five twenty-two this morning, Gail confirmed that Calla’s engagement ring wasn’t a match on any of the FBI’s stolen goods databases.
I’m just as frustrated as I am relieved; that would’ve been an easy win. Johnny might be too loud, too in-your-face, but he isn’t stupid.
Neither is Nick. I’m learning that. One of his files explains that he was salutatorian of his high school. Scored in the 97th percentile on the math section of his SATs.
Still stalking back and forth, phone in hand, I click on another Nick folder. It shows he pays his taxes on time. He has zero parking tickets. He’s never been married. His grandparents are deceased, and his parents are divorced. Not much info on his American mother, even less on his Canadian father. Nick has an undergraduate degree in economics that he—for some reason—chucked aside to be Johnny Jones’s bodyguard. He jogs on weekend mornings. He rows on the Charles River at least fifteen times a month, in sunshine and in snow. There’s a photo of Nick in his boat, backward baseball cap smashing down his hair, beads of sweat dripping down his neck.
Gross, no.
I scroll right past that—and venture outside the contents of his folder. Social media isn’t my go-to place for reconnaissance (the foreign assets I recruit hardly ever have internet profiles), but in rare cases, it’s good for establishing a baseline. It tells you how to approach a target based on how the target views themselves.
Nick views himself as... hungry.
His profile features a whole lot of ice cream photos. Cones and sundaes and triple scoops. In Boston, he lives across the street from a shop called Lick of Luck, run by a couple of Irish octogenarians who whip up their own specialty flavors. Nick’s tried them all. Here’s a picture of him with Owen and Catriona (the owners), arms wrapped around them, in front of a poster for a brand-new flavor: “Nick of Luck.” It has pistachios in it.
That is, unfortunately, my favorite kind of ice cream.
The picture with Owen and Catriona sharply contrasts with the next images, where the real Nick explodes off the screen. Raucous photos of Nick, Johnny, and some of the boys: I recognize Andre, Conrad, Marco, Sal. Most of them are untagged. Drinking in pubs and bars in Boston, looking like a bunch of assholes with their beers and we-get-away-with-everything grins. Is that Vinny? That’s Vinny, throwing his arm around Nick. He’s got a tight buzz cut and a face that looks like he’d bite you and enjoy it.
You’re going down, too , I think, still flicking. Much farther down in Nick’s profile are a few nicely cropped dinner photos with people who aren’t octogenarian ice cream moguls or garden-variety thugs. In one, Nick’s kissing the cheek of a twenty-something woman with close-cropped curls. Run, girl. Run. In another, he’s sharing a vegan hot dog with a tennis pro named Bobbie. Only one other person appears regularly on his profile. Nick’s grandmother. His “Nan,” as he calls her. Here they are at a Red Sox baseball game, a bucket of popcorn between them, and—no. No . The picture triggers something, my own memories of baseball games with Calla and Dad, my own family tradition, which I shove back down. Focus on Nick’s nan instead. She’s short, adorable—and my guess? Didn’t know that her grandson protects a criminal.
Speak of the devil...
The chop of metal sounds outside my window, and I curl my fingers around the blinds, peeking through. Nick’s in the backyard, splitting wood for the fireplace; he’s wielding the axe with expert care, his neck glistening with sweat, like in the rowing photo. If he sees me, he doesn’t let on—just pauses to unzip his winter parka, revealing nothing but a plain white tee. He lifts the edge of it, wind against his muscled stomach, and wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead.
Oh, come on.
This is just ridiculous. He’s going to get frostbite.
Scowling, I flip the blinds closed and listen to see if anyone else is awake. Downstairs is the scent of Grandma Ruby’s famous peppermint candy cane scones (buttery, sweet, like Christmas in gluten form), alongside the sounds of voices: Johnny gently teasing Calla about her fifth-grade yearbook pictures. I’m alone up here.
Good.
Within fifteen seconds, I’ve dug out a pair of latex gloves from my backpack. I know this house. The creak and squeal of each floorboard is locked in my memory, so I step lightly in all the right places, slipping out of my room, easing open the guest room door and popping inside. The Elf on the Shelf is, once again, giving me the judgmental eye from the bookshelf. Tiny recording devices are still possibly hidden in this room.
No time for a bug sweep...
My gaze whips back and forth. Despite her newfound impulsivity—which I’m convinced isn’t really her—Calla is still meticulously tidy. Her suitcase is neatly tucked in the corner, clothes probably pressed and hung in the closet; her Christmas gifts are already wrapped and arranged on the desk. Johnny, on the other hand, is more scattered. Two designer suitcases lie open on the floor, eight-hundred-dollar sweaters sticking out like tongues. Had a housekeeper when he was growing up, I’m sure. Probably never had to clean up after himself in his life.
I nudge one of the sweaters to the side with my foot. Hopefully, all of Johnny’s stuff will end up bagged and tagged in an evidence locker.
That’s what I want for Christmas.
Silently snapping on the gloves, I dip inside the first suitcase. Cashmere sweaters. A Men’s Health magazine from the airport. A baggage tag from Boston Logan international. Aftershave, dirty boxers, a packet of tissues (maybe for when he breaks another mug in the kiln and has to fake-cry about it)—and ah, what’s this ? Unzipping one of the hidden suitcase pockets, I yank out a black switchblade, flicking it open. Its metallic swish sounds so cold in the warmth of the bedroom. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this is not for carving the turkey.
The knife isn’t what I’m looking for—I’m searching for a laptop or a tablet, any larger communicational device that I can mine for intel about the next heist—but it’s a literally sharp reminder of just how dangerous this man can be. The FBI crime scene photos from his last heist ping in my brain. A pool of blood drying on an art gallery floor.
Take the weapon , a voice in me says. Throw it out the goddamn window.
But then, footsteps.
Shit. Someone’s headed toward the stairs.
I’ve left myself enough leeway to cover my tracks this time. No one will find me huddled in the shower or (worse) stuffed into this oversize suitcase. It looks tight in there. And I’m not that flexible. Rushing the switchblade back into the suitcase, I snap off the latex, wedge the gloves in my pocket, and stride calmly out the door. The handle clicks shut as Johnny crests the bottom staircase step.
I give him a believably innocent wave and stare down from the landing, wondering if I need an eye test. Is it just me, or is he... wearing my bathrobe ? From high school. That is my fleece bathrobe from high school, the one with blue and white polka dots.
Johnny motions to the fleece, then pets it, like he’s taming a tiger. “Sorry, this okay? Calla said it would be okay. Forgot my robe.”
“Yeah, totally fine,” I manage, even though I really want to say: You couldn’t have worn one of your fucking sweaters? Or the specifically designated guest robe?
Spiritedly, Johnny rushes up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He looks like he’s eaten a carton of eggs before dawn. Just so chipper . “I was actually coming up to talk. Would you mind if I borrowed you for a second?” Up close, his breath smells of candy canes. His curls are visibly hardened with gel, so his face looks tougher than last night, when he was belting out Mariah Carey karaoke. “I want to run something past you.”
Another believable smile from me. “Yeah, go for it.”
Opening the door I just shut and striding through, Johnny pats the mattress, gesturing for me to take a seat at the end of the guest bed. Uncomfortably, I do. Even more uncomfortably, he perches right by my side. We’re shoulder to shoulder, his aftershave hitting my nostrils with daggered spikes.
“I want to get Calla a wedding present.” Johnny’s hands cup the air, as if to demonstrate the largeness of the gift. He’s a big hand talker; based on my observations, he’s never met a gesture he didn’t like. “Something substantial that I can give to her at the altar. Diamond tennis bracelet, plane tickets to Aruba, a horse...”
He wants to give her a horse at the altar. Like, physically? In our living room?
“Now that the timeline’s pushed up,” he says, narrowing his blue eyes, “I need something fast, and all my options are starting to sound generic. I do have one thing that’s getting shipped in, but I was thinking we could put our heads together this week. Figure out a second option. Go shopping.”
Christmas Shopping with a Crime Lord sounds like a Hallmark movie that I’d skip. “What’re you having shipped in?” I pry, cell phone buzzing in my back pocket.
“Oh, that’s a surprise,” he says, winking at me in a completely unironic way. Besides the bathrobe, he looks like he could be on a political campaign flyer, and— goody . Another surprise. Just what this holiday needs. “I’m sure she’ll like it, though. Don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I have good taste. Picked it out myself.”
“Like the ring,” I add, trying to butter him up. “It’s beautiful.”
He enjoys the compliment. “Thank you.” He slides a bit closer to me, our shoulders touching with a static spark. “Not jealous that your little sister’s getting married before you, huh?”
And there— that . That first trace of nastiness, like he couldn’t help himself. The way he’s said it, it’s like a joke. He’s just teasing me. But it’s meant as a subtle dig. Men like him see competition in everything.
I’m honest. “You know, the older I get and the more I see, the more I’m completely turned off by the idea of marriage.”
Johnny frowns. “And why’s that?”
“Well,” I say lightly as my cell phone buzzes again, “can you ever really know who you’re marrying?” I give a tiny shrug, like this is a joke, too. We’re both so funny. “But yeah, we can go shopping... Looks like I have a wedding gift to get.”
“Because I’m getting married ,” Johnny says with a sly grin, smacking me on the back. My god, would he stop doing that? You don’t just get to touch everyone . “Hey, I just want you to know, your sister is... well, she really is the most special girl I’ve ever met. I never believed in that whole ‘love at first sight’ thing, but she had me with that nose scrunch she does.” He scratches the tip of his own nose, huffing out a laugh. “She’s... she’s made me a better person. And smarter. I didn’t think I’d like a girl who’s as smart as Calla, but turns out, it gives you more to talk about.”
I nod, tight-lipped, reading him. He isn’t lying. Don’t need a polygraph test to figure that out. But the question isn’t Does he genuinely love my sister? It’s Does he love my sister enough to keep her out of trouble? Is a part of him using Calla’s goodness, her light, as a cover? Some men, they think they can love a woman and control her at the same time.
“All right,” Johnny says, slapping his thighs, “we better get down there. Breakfast calls.” When he stands up from the bed, fluffy blue bathrobe opening a little too widely across his chest, he looks back at me. “Aren’t you going to check who’s texted you?”
“Oh, it’s my landlord,” I tell him automatically, pulling the lie from the air. “She keeps wanting to know if I’ll sublet my apartment.”
Johnny shakes his head, exaggerated as always. “Don’t recommend that. I’ve heard horror stories.” He waits until I’ve followed him into the hallway, shutting the door with a loud click . “Wouldn’t want a stranger in your house, would you?”
—
At breakfast, I go easy on the caffeine. Grandma Ruby’s hazelnut coffee is pretty strong, so three cups will do. I’m sipping, upright by the coffee station, reading Gail’s messages like I’m reading the news. Apparently, right before he came upstairs, Johnny puttered out to the driveway and made several calls to a Mid-Coast Maine area code. Mid-Coast Maine? Who does he know in Mid-Coast Maine?
No mention so far of New Year’s Eve in any text messages, just a lot of Christmas chatter. Gail sends me screenshots of a few from Johnny to his cousin Andre, asking if he’s bringing Christmas presents to the wedding. Is that code for something? Or am I reading too much into it?
“Sydney, off your phone,” Grandma Ruby says, urging me to sit , sit next to the mountain of candy cane scones. There’s also maple French toast, scrambled eggs, crunchy strips of turkey bacon, and no less than seven bottles of hot sauce, including Grandma Ruby’s “home brew” recipe, which makes pepper spray look like a soothing mist. She applies it liberally to her eggs and asks if I want some.
I laugh. I could not love her more. “I’m going to have to give that one a miss.”
She waves a hand in my direction, like Oh, Sydney! “You girls never did get that ‘spicy’ gene. Well, more for me!”
Nick—who’s arrived back inside from his wood-chopping adventure—slides into the seat beside me. He’s oppressively close. His hair’s messy and he smells heavily of cedar, like an old man’s closet.
“Morning,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Hope he burns his tongue. He takes it black, with a side of charming my grandmother. Over the meal, he asks her about her house-painting business, about growing up in Maine, and Grandma Ruby supplies that at her own wedding, one of the groomsmen was kicked by a horse.
“Just, wham!” she says, slapping her hands together. “Right in the behind.”
I throw a meaningful look at Johnny. See? No horses at close-quarter weddings.
Johnny doesn’t interpret the look correctly. “Here you go!” He thrusts the butter in my direction. I accept it like butter is just what I wanted. “Speaking of injuries,” he adds, sucking a tiny blob of jam off his thumb. “Has Calla told you about Darlene?”
Tell me Darlene isn’t another crime lord.
“She has not,” I say.
“Darlene is a hamster,” Calla explains, pouring maple syrup on her toast. It pools in glistening globs. “I think being a class pet may not be all it’s cracked up to be? She Houdini-ed herself out of her cage right before pickup for winter break, and got stuck inside one of the Lego houses, and by the time I found her, she was annoyed .” Over the French toast, she extends a hand, showing off two tiny bite marks, imprinted into her knuckle. “Darlene is spending her Christmas holidays with our PE teacher, and then she’s being reassigned to third grade. No Lego houses there. The problem is that I now have a fear of hamsters. The other problem is that we don’t have a class pet now, and we need to adopt one before there is a full-out mutiny in the New Year.”
“Lizard?” Nick suggests, forking his toast.
“Raccoon?” I suggest, raising an eyebrow.
Calla huffs, then nods seriously. “Good thinking. Kindergarten isn’t chaotic enough without adding rabies to the mix.”
“Don’t I know that from experience,” Grandma Ruby says incomprehensibly, and Calla and I look at each other like what? For a second, things feel a smidge normal. Like it’s just me and Calla and Grandma Ruby again, eating French toast and joking about our lives. Like Dad might be sitting right at the other edge of the table.
I slap myself out of it.
Then come the wedding plans, storming in. Grandma Ruby agrees with a whoop (and an extended sob) to serve as the justice of the peace. She even has the shoes: black patent leather brogues with gold buckles, like an antique pilgrim. “I’ll have to dust them off,” she sniffs, beaming, “but they’re my good luck shoes! I’ve married people in them before. I’ve married lots of people since you girls have been out of the house. Lobstermen, tourists, even a former member of the Hells Angels, with the tattoos and the—oh!” She smacks her head dramatically, white hair puffing, before rushing upstairs with extra pep in her step. Quick as lightning, she fishes out her wedding dress from the attic; to Calla’s luck (or perhaps misfortune), the fabric has remained untouched by tiny raccoon paws, and the sleeves are just as poofy as they were in 1962.
“It’s still got some oomph in it, I think!” Grandma Ruby says, draping it over the couch. “The thought of you wearing it, having a long happy marriage like I had... Well, that brings me a lot of joy.” She starts suggesting design alterations for the gown, pulling out her bulky sewing machine. Calla kisses her on the forehead—right before asking if I have a dress to wear for the wedding.
I mumble something about a fancy pantsuit in my closet, knowing that no such pantsuit exists. We won’t get to the point where I need an outfit. Everything will be sorted by the day of the wedding.
Satisfied, Calla then asks Nick if he wouldn’t mind gathering wedding accoutrement in town (additional lights for the altar, handmade white stationery for the name cards, et cetera). Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text. Did you know that your town has a shop that is both a lobster pound AND a nail salon? Then , This is Nick, by the way .
My nose wrinkles. But good. He’s reached out first.
After breakfast, I tried to scuttle back upstairs to research any link Johnny might have to Mid-Coast Maine, but Grandma Ruby caught me by the elbow. She’s roped me into phoning distant relatives, spreading the jolly news. I text Nick in between calls. Do they not have those in Boston?
I’m confused , Sidekick Nick responds right away. Can the lobsters request manicures if they want them? He also texts back a picture of a poster in the shop window. The poster boasts a drawing of a man with a trout poking out of his pants. Explain?
If only I could.
No , Nick replies, you really do have to explain this .
With nine more relatives on the to-call list, I type as fast as I can. That’s an old poster from the summer. About a hundred years ago, people in Cape Hathaway wanted to honor the summer fishing industry, so they started Fisherman’s Picnic, which is like a food festival with games. The main game is the trout toss, where grown adult humans cut two holes at the bottom of a trash bag, step into said trash bag like underwear, and hold out the sides, trying to catch a fish in the pocket. The one who catches the trout from the farthest distance away wins. And the truth is they don’t actually win anything but the fish they caught in their pants .
Tell me they don’t eat that fish , Nick says.
Gamely, I respond with a fish emoji, a trousers emoji, and a dinner plate emoji. Nick types a germ emoji followed by a shrimp emoji, and that’ll do. Enough of him for now. I return to calls.
“Hi, Aunt Meryl. Hi , Aunt Meryl. It’s Sydney. Syd-ney ... Your grand-niece? I know, it’s been a while. Yep, Calla’s getting married... Who’d you hear it from? Oh, okay... No, I don’t know if Calla has any mixing bowls. I don’t think Johnny has any mixing bowls, either... I’m not sure what their wedding colors are. Green and red, I guess? No, the dress isn’t red. It’s white? Off-white? They’re just getting married at Christmas... I know it’s short notice. Mm-hm, this Christmas.”
Uncle Wilfred promises to send a check, then asks how he’s related to us. The Bartlett side of the family is vacationing in Mexico for the holidays and doesn’t pick up the phone. All in all, I call seventeen people, inviting them to the wedding at Grandma Ruby’s behest; a few of them say they’ll look into last-minute flights, which is nice of them.
But I’m praying that no one spends money on a wedding that—surely—is about to be canceled.
I even try to persuade a few of them, in not so many words, to skip it.
Hardly anything I can do about the bachelorette party, though. That’s full steam ahead. It’s going to be on a boat. A few of Calla’s friends are driving up from Boston on the twenty-first, and Johnny will be there with his bachelor crew, too. A joint party isn’t what Calla had in mind, but when Johnny hears about the winter cruises around Oak-Bar Harbor, he’s sold. There’s a cancellation. Space available. I explain to Calla, in a roundabout way, that maybe it’s not the best idea to gather a bunch of drunk (and lest we forget, criminal) men on a boat together in a small, icy harbor, where a body can easily be dumped overboard and the Coast Guard will take weeks to find it, but Johnny’s already made a reservation over the phone.
Grandma Ruby says she won’t attend, just in case, as the maid of honor, I want to comfortably invite a male stripper. “I’d check the Yellow Pages,” she says, still wonderfully in 1992.
By noon, Johnny and Nick have barely picked up their phones for more than a quick Wordle (Nick) and a Google search for hair gel (Johnny). Not exactly actionable intel. I hate waiting. I could sneak up to my room and research possible heist targets, but right now it’s like throwing a dart, blindfolded, at a moving target. I’ll go for a run instead, to keep myself centered while intel trickles in.
When I rush downstairs in my jogging clothes—extra-thermal black leggings and a polar jacket that moves well when my elbows swing—there’s Nick, back from his errands, lacing up his sneakers on the floor. Half of me is irritated to see him, blocking my way, but also...
I can work with this.
“You going running?” he asks hopefully, glancing up at the final bunny loop.
I crouch down on the hardwood next to him. “I was thinking about it,” I say slyly, yanking on my own sneakers and tying them tight.
Nick unfolds to a stand. “Can I join you? I haven’t been on a run in ages and I’m starting to get kind of antsy.” He’s wearing a pair of sleek sweatpants and a black hoodie, a winter beanie tugged down over his ears. When I gaze up at him, I see the dream version of him peeling off his sweater in the shower and think that there is no one in the world I’d rather run with less. For the mission, though...
“Absolutely.” I hop up, grabbing a pair of earmuffs from a bowl by the front door, and slap his stomach with the back of my hand. His abs are not unlike a block of wood. I deeply wish I didn’t know that. “As long as you can keep up.”