Page 54
“It’s not about those murders I heard about, is it?”
Stupid. So fucking stupid, and I know it. But the longer I can keep him talking, the more I can hear from the cops inside the fence.
“Afraid I can’t talk about it,” he says. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I shake my head, forcing my senses to their limit. There are so many humans around that it’s overwhelming, and their voices overlap into a confusing tapestry until I hear—
“—longtime radical. Looking for a reason to bring him anyway.”
“Sir?” the cop says. “You’d best be on your way.”
I feel sick with worry. A longtime radical at the Clifwell Inn? A man?
That pretty much describes the friend Penelope was meeting, doesn’t it?
“Yeah, of course. Sorry.” I flash him my best stupid tourist smile, the one that got me into so many places back in the seventies. The cop returns it, briefly. “Best of luck to you all,” I add, fumbling with the keys to my car. I dump myself inside and back up, keeping my eyes on the road and the drop-off even as I keep my senses alert for everything else. It’s all bleeding together in my panic, all the cops’ plans. I just know one thing, though:
Wolrath can wait. I’ve got to get Penelope out of that inn before tonight.
23
PENELOPE
“Ineed you to hold the tickets.”
Adrian’s voice startles me. He’s been bustling around over our change of plans for the last hour—reaching out to his various contacts, looking for someone who’ll be willing to host the video when the time comes, figuring out how we’re going to record the party in secret. I’ve mostly been sitting by the window, feeling antsy and agitated. We shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be doing any of this.
“The tickets?” I echo.
Adrian pulls them out of his wallet: two sleek pieces of black cardstock with silver lettering.
“To the party,” he says. “There’s an electronics store about ten miles from here, and I’m going to check out their camera selection. Don’t want the tickets on me while I’m out and about.”
I take the tickets from him, the cardstock velvety against my hand. Elizabeth Astor, says one. Frederick Astor, says the other. Our secret identities.
“Okay,” I say numbly.
“Keep those on you at all times,” he says. “Don’t leave them in the room. I shouldn’t be gone long.”
I frown up at him. “Why don’t you want to take them with you again?”
Adrian sighs. “Look, you blend in better around here. If something happens, I’d rather you get caught with the tickets than me.”
He’s not wrong about that, I suppose, especially since I opted for an especially basic bitch outfit this morning: leggings and cowboy boots and a slouchy white sweater, all items I stole from Callie, who had a big autumn girl murderess phase a few years ago. With my tattoos covered and my hair brushed out, I look like every other woman milling around outside.
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to go shopping?” I ask.
“We’re still a few days out from the party,” Adrian says. “And I’m not getting anything that suspicious.”
“Yeah, just a hidden camera.”
He rolls his eyes. “And we won’t be releasing the videos until this whole murder thing has been solved, okay?”
I don’t say anything. I certainly don’t tell him the whole murder thing probably won’t ever be solved—not unless someone innocent takes the fall for it.
“Besides, if anything feels hinky, I’ll get the hell out.” He flashes a grin at me. “Promise.”
“Fine.” I grab my purse and slide the tickets into my pocketbook.
