Chapter 6
The knife’s edge gleams in the dim light.
I draw in a sharp breath, slowly lifting my hands in a universal gesture of surrender. “I told you,” I repeat. “I’m Augusta Pine.”
“Not your name,” says Eames. “Who are you with? The killers?”
I grimace. “What makes you think—”
“You talked into your visor in the stairwell.” Eames takes a step back, keeping Piper behind him. “You spoke about taking a building in terms of how you would do it. You knew they hacked the mainframe. Who are you?”
He is right. In the last ten minutes, I’ve been unforgivably sloppy. I may have lied with my words, but my every reaction was that of someone who has dealt with this kind of thing before.
Only two kinds of people act the way I do: criminals and the law. If I confess to the former, there is no way I can get them to trust me. And I need them to trust me. That’s the only way any of us are going to escape this alive.
“I’m with law enforcement,” I say.
“You’re a cop?” Eames says the last word with such distaste that I know I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve just confessed to being a felon.
“Federal law enforcement,” I amend.
Piper frowns. “You’re lying,” she says. “FBI agents have to be twenty-five years old.”
I gape at her. “Aren’t you, like, nine? How do you know that?”
“I’m ten,” she says with restrained dignity. “And I know because I read a lot of true crime books.”
I look at Eames. “Seriously?”
“It’s true,” he says with the long suffering of an older sibling.
“There are more appropriate books for kids,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“Whatever happened to those books about crime-solving horses?” I ask. “Foal Patrol? ‘All shall hear the hoofbeats of justice’?”
Piper wrinkles her nose. “Those are for kids.”
“Hey, I loved those books,” I say, vaguely offended. “And they’re way more age-appropriate.”
“I keep trying to buy her kid books,” says Eames defensively. “She just won’t read them.”
“You’re not an FBI agent,” says Piper. “You’re too young, even if you sound old right now.”
“Well,” I say. “You’re right, I’m not an agent. I’m an intern.” I swallow. Might as well give them a little more truth. “With ISD.”
“ISD?” asks Eames, his frown deepening.
“The Identity Security Division,” I say. “That’s how I know this stuff.”
ISD doesn’t have the reputation of the other alphabet agencies. It’s not romantic like the CIA, infamous like the FBI, or shadowy as the NSA. To most people, ISD is regarded much like the FTC: a government branch that exists, serves a purpose, but no one is clamoring to join it.
Prefect explained the rules of ISD when I was in physical therapy and recovering from the car crash. We try to avoid being noticed. As long as people believe that their identities are safe, we have completed our mission.
And how do we do that? I asked.
By solving problems creatively.
“And before you ask,” I continue, “I have no idea who that woman is. Or why she killed the security guy. I’m not even on a job right now.”
“If you’re with ISD,” says Eames slowly, as though he is putting his thoughts together, “then you can call someone, right?”
“Not if the building has all the cell signals jammed,” I answer. “Internet’s out, too.” A thought occurs to me. “Do you have a landline in your apartment? We could use that to call out.”
Eames lowers the knife. Finally, I seem to have won a degree of trust. “Who has a landline these days?”
I pace back and forth, teeth digging into my lower lip. Because I know exactly who has a landline.
My stubbornly technophobic grandmother.
I can’t. It’s a terrible idea.
“What about—” Piper begins to say, but before she can finish, I lurch forward and nearly clamp a hand over her mouth.
Eames brings up the knife but I shake my head and hiss, “No one say a word.”
I look where the apartment’s virtual assistant is installed.
It sits on its high shelf. Still, silent, and unassuming.
Forgotten—which is the point. VAs are meant to be unobtrusive and helpful, which makes most people overlook them.
With the jammers in place, this VA won’t be able to search the internet for queries or order takeout, but it’s still listening.
And it’s connected to the apartment’s mainframe.
That’s how it knew the building is running on generators.
If I was going to take over a building, one of the first things I would do is tap into every apartment’s VA and run a program to eavesdrop for any dangerous words.
At once, I begin mentally replaying our conversation, trying to sift through any words that might have triggered an alert.
FBI.
ISD.
Well. That isn’t good.
Goldie Glocks might have overheard everything. Which means we can’t stay here, even if we want to.
Slowly, I point to the VA. “They might be listening,” I whisper.
Eames glances toward the virtual assistant and his eyes flash wide in alarm. Piper shivers, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pool water drying on her skin or her own fear.
Standing there, in the quiet and shadows of the blackout, I know there’s only one real way forward.
I need to call for help. Nonna has a landline.
There has to be a way into her apartment.
My gaze tracks around my apartment, looking for escape routes.
There is an air vent, but I refuse to crawl around in air vents unless absolutely necessary.
The balcony. I walk to the sliding glass door and try the handle.
It doesn’t open. Of course it doesn’t—it’s linked to the building’s mainframe just like the front door. Even the windows are probably locked down.
I hurry for my backpack. On it, I keep a small tool clipped to a strap. It looks a little like a tiny metal flashlight. I pull off the cap and within is a thick, needlelike tip. “What is that?” whispers Piper.
“Hopefully our way out,” I say quietly.
I bought this window breaker with my first stipend from ISD. With it, I can escape any car—even if it’s underwater. I’m not sure if it will work on the thick glass of the sliding door, but I have to try.
I press it against the door. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the metal tip punches into the glass. White cracks form like cobwebs, spiraling outward. But the door doesn’t break.
I take a breath, then punch it into a new spot. More cracks flicker outward. I close my eyes, glad for the protection my visor provides. And I try a third time.
It shatters. Flecks of glass hit my cheek and I feel the whisper of a warm breeze. When I open my eyes, tiny fragments are scattered all around me.
I turn to see Eames and Piper gaping at me. I step to one side and gesture at the doorframe with a “ta-da” flourish. Then I walk outside. The fresh air is so very welcome. It smells like city—exhaust and the nearby river and August heat.
We’re no longer trapped in my rental apartment, but there’s no way to get to the ground. The apartments below mine don’t have balconies, so I can’t even try a foolhardy plan like jumping to a lower floor. There probably aren’t enough sheets or blankets to tie together to make a rope ladder.
I know what I have to do—and every cell in my body recoils from the idea.
“We can’t jump down.” Eames has followed me onto the balcony. At least he left his knife in the apartment.
I force my gaze upward. From this moment, I won’t look down. I can’t look down.
“No,” I say. “But we can jump over to the next apartment.”
Eames’s mouth tightens in disapproval.
“We can’t stay here,” I say quietly. Even if we’re out of the VA’s range, I still don’t want Piper to hear us.
“Not if those killers overheard us. We talked about the FBI, about ISD. Those words could trip any software they’re running to keep track of potential problems. They could come here to kill us.
If we can get to the next apartment over, we might be able to find a way out.
Or maybe find a phone.” I can’t tell him that I know a landline will be waiting for us, not without tipping him off.
I meet his eyes. I know he can’t see mine behind the visor but I hope the sincerity bleeds into my voice. “You can’t protect your sister here.”
Anger flares in his eyes. It’s a simmering resentment, the kind of frustration born of helplessness. He’s terrified for Piper.
If it were my sister, I would feel the same.
Eames reaches out and takes hold of my forearm. It isn’t a friendly grip. “Promise me,” he says, every word fierce. “Promise me you don’t mean my sister any harm.”
It’s been a long time since anyone touched me.
And while this touch isn’t affectionate, it still sends a jolt of sensation through me.
There are calluses at the tips of his fingers.
He has worn hands—and somehow, that makes him more real.
He has a life, a history, a world outside of this dangerous moment.
I cover his left hand with my own.
“Eames,” I say. “I’ll die before I let anyone hurt her.”
He jerks back, releasing my arm. Perhaps it’s the touch that surprises him, or the utter honesty in my voice.
I am not a good person. But there are good people in the world. The least I can do is try to keep them safe.
“Okay,” he says, stepping back. Then he repeats the word, as though to himself. “Okay.”
I reach up to touch my visor, making sure it’s set to the deepest opaque. It’s not quite a mask, but hopefully it will obscure enough of my features that Nonna won’t know me on sight. Because if she does … I don’t know what will happen to me. I don’t know what will happen to her.
I won’t let anything happen to her.
I retrieve my backpack from the apartment, giving the VA one last glare. “Come on,” I whisper to Piper. She follows me out onto the balcony, carefully stepping over the glass.
It’s a bit of a squeeze—three people on the concrete balcony.
I take hold of the railing. A summer breeze brushes my cheeks and neck, tasting of distant Douglas fir and warm grasses. I inhale twice before I feel steady enough to move.
It is perhaps five feet from my balcony to Nonna’s. It isn’t a long jump, not truly. But the distance is all the wider for the three-story drop. I carefully angle myself up and over the railing. My palms begin to sweat.
I have fallen from higher places.
But some things don’t get easier with practice.
I jump before I can stop myself. For a heartbeat, it feels as though I am flying. Then, gravity seizes me. My momentum slows. Far below me, I see sidewalks and mown grass.
My palms slam into the railing of Nonna’s balcony. I wrap my fingers around the metal as tightly as I can, but one hand slips. Gritting my teeth hard, I cling even tighter with my other hand. My ribs and back will protest all of this tomorrow, but for now I have adrenaline to keep any pain at bay.
I haul myself up and over, landing awkwardly on Nonna’s balcony. Heart hammering, dizzy with relief and the near fall, I turn back toward Eames. He has Piper around the waist. She looks like a cat that thoroughly dislikes being picked up: She’s curling in on herself and scowling.
I hold out my arms. Eames grimaces, clearly hating the idea, but he nods. And then he tosses his sister as far as he can.
I seize her—one hand around her arm and the other snagging on her bathing suit strap. My stomach thuds against the railing as the kid’s full weight drags me downward.
Agony tears through my left shoulder. My spine screams a warning and I squeeze my eyes shut, all the breath leaving my lungs. But I don’t let go. I won’t—not even if I’m pulled over, too.
With a gasp, I yank Piper upward. Her free hand fastens around the railing and her bare toes scrabble as she pulls herself up and over.
Eames nimbly steps over the railing without hesitating. With his long legs, it’s less of a jump and more of a hop to get onto Nonna’s balcony.
We’re safe—for the moment. “Come on,” I whisper. I peer through the glass door.
The apartment is dark, sunlight reflecting off the glass.
I can’t see much beyond the living room.
If Nonna is out, I might be able to slip into her apartment with no one the wiser.
I really, really hope she went to the Saturday farmers market.
Maybe she’s browsing locally sourced hazelnuts and tomatoes.
My fingers curl around the door handle. It’s only as I pull that I realize it’s probably locked, just like the rest of the building—
It comes open easily.
“How?” whispers Eames.
I feel a wave of affection for my nonna who remembers a time before cell phones, before social media, before the dawn of the information age.
And she has stubbornly clung to it with the tenacity of a dog with a bone.
I remember her front door with its physical lock.
She must not have taken any smart upgrades at all.
As we step inside, it’s like being plunged right into a memory: the smell of rose-scented laundry detergent and that old luggage trunk Nonna uses instead of a coffee table.
I want to breathe it all in, to close my eyes and luxuriate in it, but there’s no time.
Nonna’s landline phone sits on a table by her love seat. I turn toward it and—
Nonna stands in the doorway. She brandishes a heavy rolling pin. “Who are you?” she says tightly.