Literally everything.
The electric doors slide open, and the nurse at the front desk greets us. “Hi, Mr. Bradshaw. Ms. Warren.”
“Marla.” Park smiles back at her. “Is everything ready to go?”
“Your mother is waiting for you outside in the shed like you requested.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Park says as we walk past the front desk and down the hall of the assisted living center.
Who likes to hear that their ailing mother—fakemother in Park’s case—is outside in the middle of winter in a cold shed?
Okay, the shed’s not cold.
We brought a heater in last night.
But still.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” My eyes search Park’s face. “Because we could still change the plan. I could pose as Sasha.”
“You can’t pose as Sasha.”
“Why not?”
“Because Todd would immediately recognize you.”
“No, he wouldn’t. I have a great Russian accent.” I throw my arm out dramatically as I impersonate a Russian woman. “Friends. Countrymen. Russians!”
Park frowns. “What is that?”
My arm drops. “It’s my accent.”
“No, like, what are you even saying?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I run ahead of him and open the door that leads out to the back of the assisted living center. I hold it while they pass through. “I saw it in a movie once when I was a little girl, and I never forgot it.”
“As much as I loved your impression of a Russian, we’re sticking to the plan.”
“And it’s going to blow up in our faces.”
“Nah, you’re too worried.”
We walk down the sidewalk until we get to the shed on the corner of the property. It’s an A-frame building with metal walls and concrete floors. Up until last night, it stored the facility’s tools, riding lawn mower, and snow plow. But yesterday, we transformed it into Terminal 30 at the Port of Seattle.
I yank on the handle of the giant metal door and pull it open for us to enter. There’s a single rectangular wood table and two metal chairs, and that’s it.
Mary Bradshaw stands in the center of the room with her back to us. She slowly turns around, looking like a completely different woman from the last time we saw her. Her silvery-white hair is neatly styled in a bob, curling under her chin. Red lipstick paints her lips. Her gold maxi dress has a tasteful V neckline, long sleeves, and four decorative buttons that start at the bottom of her ribcage and end just below her navel. She rounds the ensemble off with a long sparkly necklace that makes her look like she’s about to go out for a night on the red carpet instead of striking a deal to buy chemical weapons.
I don’t know that Mary screams Sasha Petrov: Russian independent weapons dealer. Heck, the real Sasha Petrov is probably a man, but since it’s a universal Russian name, and Todd and Sasha have never met before, and since Mary’s the only actress we know, it has to work.
“You’re late.” Mary lifts her chin, staring us down. “I don’t like it when people show up late on set.”
I breathe the first sigh of relief.
Mary’s dementia has her fully convinced at this moment that she’s an actress. That was the first hurdle I was worried about.
“I know you hate that,” Park greets her. “I tried to tell Lacee to hurry.”
I roll my eyes at Park’s attempt to joke around and relax me. I guess, in a way, it’s endearing that he’s still trying to calm me down during high-pressure moments. I could see how a trait like that would come in handy if we ever had kids together.
