The word Gina had used kept circling in my mind.Game. Game. Game.
“How much would someone pay for a job like this? Such an… amateur falsification? Let’s say, a million would be too much?”
Silence.
“Do you know anyone who might have that kind of money to spare onthis,” I shook the paper, “Julian?”
The Counterfeiter moved closer to the glass, his dark gaze examining the document again, scanning it from top to bottom, leaving no corner unread. I didn’t know what he saw orwherein the document he saw it, but when he moved away from the glass, his expression had a different shadow.
“It can’t be,” he muttered.
“What can’t be?”
“Where did you get the document?”
He spoke with the authority of a man trying to build a reputation inside his four walls, of a man who had nothing else but this.
“That’s none of your business.” I put it back in my bag. “Now, Julian, are you going to tell me what you know?”
He looked at the guard standing at the door.
“Not here.”
I laughed. It wasn’t like we could go out for a chat over coffee.
“Are you afraid of incriminating someone?” I was trying to get information for myself, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity this presented. Maybe, just maybe, I could get Julian to accept part of the deal the justice system had offered him. “Tell me their name. Tell it to the police.”
He shook his head. He was lying, and he knew I knew. “I’ve got nothing for you.”
I stood up.
“In that case, I’ll see you on Monday. Thanks, anyway.”
Had I wasted my time? I didn’t think so. Julian had revealed two things: that the person who had dragged me into this was an amateur, but also that he knew who it was. Just as I was about to tell the guard I was leaving, my client spoke.
“Wait.”
Was he finally going to tell me something?
A question. He asked me a question.
“Do you know what you have to do?”
At first, it puzzled me. What did I have to do with what? The Monday trial? Or… yes, his expression said it all. He was asking me about the note. About the task that whoever falsified my records had given me. Julian knew that whoever this person was, they had left me with a task.
“Yes.” I glanced up at the camera on the ceiling. I could say this in a way that sounded like it was about Julian’s case. “I’ll have the money issue sorted by Monday.”
His eyes widened in surprise before he gave me one last warning.
The guard led me back down the hallway. Julian’s last words seemed to echo off the narrow walls, chasing me, and when I left the prison, they came out with me with a sigh.
Get rid of it all.
“There’s still a day left until Halloween, you know?”
Bastian stood by the car, clutching a brown paper bag at both ends. My lunch. We got into the car. He looked the same as always: knitted vest, slicked-back curls, and the ember glasses he used for work and made the tawny glow of his cheeks pop. I checked myself in the rearview mirror. I knew that, to anyone else, my appearance was perfectly normal; I had put on makeup despite the chaos I’d encountered when I woke up. But no amount of concealer and powder could mask the worry on my forehead or replace the colour that had evaporated from my cheeks.
I turned on the GPS. It was twenty minutes to twelve.
