Chapter 23
KATE
Megan shifts from foot to foot as I ask the host for a table in the corner. The restaurant is outfitted in neutral grays and beige. Everything is soft. Everything screams luxury.
As I settle into the seat against the wall, I think about Da. He’s the one who taught me never to have my back to the room. It’s good advice in general. But today, I especially don’t want Megan having the chance to signal any conspirators as we eat.
From what I’ve read, running a good con is a lot like working magic.
The trick is to distract people, to keep them from seeing your real goal until it’s too late for them to respond.
That, and con artists harness the evil twins of greed and shame.
They offer their marks something too good to be true, then embarrass them so badly they won’t go to the authorities for payback.
I don’t distract easily, and I’m wary of anything that seems to break in my favor. I’m also a Lynch, so I’m perfectly capable of getting my own payback.
As I place my starched white napkin on my lap, I study Megan.
Her hair is shorter than I’ve seen it before.
It’s messy, like she’s been running her fingers through the spikes she’s dyed a bright yellow-green.
Her face is thinner than I remember. She fingers her silver fork, and I wonder if she’s calculating what it would bring in a pawn shop.
“That was smart,” I say. “Getting a message to me with that boyo. How do you know him?”
She looks around, as if she suspects a hidden microphone. When she answers, she whispers like a spy transferring state secrets on a lonely bridge at midnight. “I sleep on his mother’s couch sometimes.”
“He was very good at slipping me that paper.”
Her shrug is barely perceptible. “I taught him.”
“He learned well. And Smoky played his part too.”
Another tiny twitch of her shoulders. “He’s a good boy.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the dog or the child. I wait for her to clarify, but we’ve squeezed all the juice we can out of that topic of conversation.
I wonder why she’s lured me here if she’s so reluctant to talk. I’m curious enough to say, “I’m glad you reached out. I’ve been wanting to apologize.”
“For what?” Her voice sounds creaky, as if she isn’t used to speaking out loud, and she doesn’t get the volume right. Two tables over, a man looks up from his mobile. Megan winces and hunches her shoulders. “Sorry,” she says, dropping her tone to a whisper.
“That day,” I say. “Back at the house.”
She nods, because there’s only one day we can be talking about.
Just the thought of saying Tarasov’s name floods my mouth with the metallic taste of a dirty penny.
I set my shoulders and take a breath, reminding myself I wanted to contact Megan that night.
I would have, if Cole hadn’t forbidden me to speak to her.
My mouth goes dry as I remember his command. I take a sip of water as a server appears with two heavy menus.
“Ladies,” he says. “Welcome to Seasons. In addition to our regular menu, the chef has prepared a phenomenal lobster ravioli in yuzu sauce. We also have…”
As he rattles off three more specials, I study Megan. I have to be careful. Cole has told me in a dozen different ways his sister cannot be trusted. She manipulates everyone she sees. It’s impossible for her to speak without calculating precisely what advantage her words can bring her.
But the girl sitting across from me looks harmless. No. She looks harmed.
She flinches as two women exclaim across the restaurant, loudly complimenting each other on their unexpected weight loss. Megan twists her fingers in her lap as if she’s trying to open a door to another dimension. She tucks her chin into her chest as the server finishes his recital.
“Thank you,” I say to the earnest young man. “We’ll need a few minutes.”
Megan looks grateful when we’re left in peace.
I take advantage of the silence to say, “I know what it’s like not to have a choice. I know…” I still can’t drag Tarasov’s filthy name across the table. I clear my throat and start again. “I know he can be terrifying. You didn’t have a choice. I understand that.”
She flashes just a hint of a grateful smile before she says, “H— He hurt me.”
“I know. He hurt me too.”
“I never would have—”
“Ladies?” The server’s smile is too broad for the conversation Megan and I are finally having. Plus, his watch is running fast if he thinks he’s given us the few minutes I asked for. Nevertheless, he pushes: “Have you decided?”
Megan looks panicked, as if she’s trying to gauge how much I’m willing to splash out on this meal. I say, “I’ll have the Caesar salad. With grilled shrimp.”
“Me too,” Megan whispers.
“Excellent choice,” says the server. “And to drink?”
The yoke is getting on my last nerve, but the best way to make him leave is to finish ordering. “Iced tea,” I say.
Megan barely opens her mouth. “Dewars,” she says. “A double. Neat.”
The server wrestles his surprised expression under control. “Of course,” he says. “Those salads will be up in no time.”
Neither of us speaks until our drinks arrive. As I squeeze lemon into my tea, Megan gulps half her whiskey. She starts to put the glass on the table, but then she shrugs and downs the second shot.
“What I’m trying to say is,” I start again. “Cole thought it was all your fault. But I know I was to blame too. I never should have opened the gate.”
“I’m so grateful you did. I don’t know what Tarasov would have done to me if you hadn’t let us in.”
There. She said it. The shitehawk’s name sits between us like a turd.
I force myself to ask, “Has he come after you?”
She shakes her head, just once, very hard. “He can’t find me.”
“Are you sure about that? He’s very good at computers.”
“Cole is better,” Megan says. She’s a completely different person when she says her brother’s name. Her face shines. Her spine straightens. “He taught me how to stay safe.”
“Good,” I say. But then I think about the weeks I spent hiding from Cole, the days I stayed away from every possible computer. “It’s harder than you think.”
Before she can answer, the server is back with both salads. After arranging the plates with the precision of a designer at Fashion Week, he tops off my untouched iced tea from a silver pitcher. Megan asks for a refill on her Scotch.
We eat in silence. Everything seemed so urgent, immediately after the home invasion. I needed to apologize for my role in that terrible morning—and now I have. But I have nothing left to say to this damaged woman. I can’t imagine why she reached out to me.
She eats like she’s prepping for a marathon, crunching her way through every crouton and spearing every piece of lettuce.
Her shrimp disappear like the victims of a magic trick.
She scrapes the side of her fork against her plate to collect the last of her dressing before she finishes her second double Scotch.
When her glass is empty, she sits back in her chair. “Kate?” she asks. “Can I call you that?”
“Of course.”
“I have a huge favor to ask.”
I fight the urge to stiffen. “Go on,” I say.
She reaches into the left pocket of her ragged jeans. Whatever she takes out fills the palm of her hand. It’s dirty white, with splotches of orange and black. When she finally unfolds her fingers, I can see it’s a stuffed animal, a calico cat.
Or, rather, it used to be a cat. The toy has lost almost all of its stuffing. It flops on the table between us, an empty sack of fake fur. One green eye hangs from a few black threads, and the other is missing. A few embroidered whiskers are still visible beneath a dirty pink nose.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.”
“This is Kitty Mew-Mew.”
“Okay…”
“Cole gave her to me for my fifth birthday. It was the only present I got that year because my mother totally forgot.”
I know how it feels to be neglected by a mother. Mam remembered my birthdays. But more often than not, they ended with her stretched out on the sofa in the parlor, a compress over her eyes as she mourned how hard it was to raise a hellion like me.
Megan tries a brave smile as she strokes the deflated toy.
“I’ve kept her through…everything. But I want you to give her back to Cole now.
Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I appreciate everything he’s ever done for me.
I take and I take and I take, and I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t right. And I’m sorry.”
There’s something about the rhythm of her words, something that sounds familiar. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the way Breagha spoke in her bedroom, when she told me about the Dogfight, about everything she lost while I was in Ireland.
I pick up the stuffed cat. It doesn’t weigh more than a ball of cotton wool.
“Thank you,” Megan says, and there are tears in her eyes as I put the toy in my own pocket.
I have to try again, have to make her understand the danger she must be in. “You know that if you want to avoid T— Tarasov, you have to stay away from computers.”
“I know,” she says, tinting her words with exasperation. I suppose she can afford that now—she’s finished eating and drinking and handing off her toy. “Just like with Cole.”
“You need to use cash,” I insist.
“You think I don’t know that!” Half a dozen people glance at our table, then pretend they aren’t paying attention to the green-haired waif who’s almost in tears. “You think I don’t know that?” she repeats, collapsing in on herself again.
She’s terrified. She’s hopeless. She’s alone.
I take out my phone case. I’ve tucked five crisp hundreds in there. I knew I’d need to pay for lunch in cash, so the Four Seasons didn’t show up on any account Cole monitors. Cole gave me the money when I was shopping for my wedding dress.
I peel off three bills and pass them across the table.
“I can’t—” she says.
“Take it.”
“You aren’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not—”
“Ladies!” The server is back. Megan sweeps the money from the table, as if she’s afraid he’ll steal it from us.
No, I tell him. We don’t want dessert. We don’t want coffee or tea. Just the check.
Megan waits for him to leave before she pushes back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s going to duck out.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “I’ll be back in just a minute.” She slips her phone out of her back pocket and puts it on the table. “See? I promise.”
The device is collateral. I feel like shite for even suggesting she’d run away.
“Go on,” I say.
The server brings the bill. I pay with cash. He comes back with my change.
I take the stuffed animal—Kitty Mew-Mew—out of my pocket. I try to imagine what it looked like when it was new. How bright the white fur was. How the pair of eyes gleamed.
I check the time on my phone. I need to get back to the house. I want to visit Granny, and I need to check in with Carlotta Mirabelli about the first two women she wants to bring into Ariadne’s Daughters.
The server takes the unused sugar he brought for my tea. I check my phone again.
The room is almost empty now. The only customers left are the two newly thin women in the corner, huddled over a chocolate dessert they’re gutting with a pair of spoons.
I reach for Megan’s phone.
The case is scarred black plastic, scuffed at the corners, the type of thing I’d expect a cash-strapped person to carry. I turn it over.
It’s empty.
Megan got what she wanted, and now she’s gone.