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Cons aren’t glamorous. They’re hauling out the ancient vacuum from the closet, changing the bag, and making sure you get up most of the dust. They’re sweeping in the basement to hide that you were recently rolling around after a transformation. They’re fieldstripping the gun according to instructions on the Internet and carefully buffing off any fingerprints with a lightly oiled cloth, then wrapping the whole thing in paper towels. They’re driving a mile to an abandoned stretch of road and soaking the murderess’s coat and gloves with enough lighter fluid that they burn to ash. They’re waiting to make sure they burn to ash and then scattering that ash. They’re smashing any remaining buttons from the coat with a hammer, then tossing them along with the vacuum bag and any hooks or metal parts in different Dumpsters far from where you burned the clothes. Cons are all in the details.
By the time I’m done, it’s late enough to call Sam and get the next part of the plan under way.
* * *
My mother’s a purist when it comes to scamming people. She’s got her thing, and it’s pretty effective. Glamorous clothes, a touch of her hand, and most people are willing to do what she wants. But I’d never really thought about costumes or props until I met Sam. I have my computer open to Cyprus View’s website. They have examples of the layout of their apartments for prospective renters. Very helpful.
Sam’s expectantly holding up a fake wound on a thin rubbery piece of silicone. “Look, you said yourself that guard wanted to be a hero,” Sam is telling me.
It might be true that I said that. I don’t remember. I said a lot of things on the stakeout, mostly boring observations about the place or completely exaggerated claims about how I was going to beat Sam at cards. “But then we need another person,” I say. “That’s a three-person job.”
“Ask Lila,” he says.
“She’s all the way in the city,” I say, but it’s a halfhearted objection. The thought of seeing her one last time before I lose her is poisonously compelling.
“Daneca and I are still… I don’t know. Besides, she’s not the best actress.”
“She did fine at Zacharov’s fund-raiser,” I say, thinking of the way she smiled in my brother’s face moments after she slipped me a fake blood packet.
“I had to give her a pep talk on the way,” he says. “How about if I’m the one who calls Lila?”
Mutely I hand him my phone. I want her to come. If I resist this, I don’t think I will have any resistance left.
* * *
We pick Lila up at the train station in Sam’s hearse. He works on her in the back while I fiddle with the radio nervously in the front seat and eat a slice of pizza.
“Almost done?” I call, looking at the clock on the dashboard.
“Don’t rush the artist,” Lila says. Her voice goes through me like a knife, leaving a wound so clean I know it won’t even hurt until the knife’s pulled out.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, Sam.”
Finally she climbs into the front seat. She’s got a bruise painted on her cheek. It looks real, partially hidden by curls of a long blond wig.
I reach out automatically to touch her face, and then jerk my hand back.
“Don’t mess me up,” she says with a lopsided grin.
“We ready to go?” I call into the back.
“One second,” Sam says. “I just have to get this scrape on my mouth, and it’s not sticking.”
Lila leans toward me, nervous and determined. “That thing you said before you hung up the phone,” she half-whispers. “Did you mean it?”
I nod.
“But I thought it was all fake—” She stops and bites her lip, like she can’t quite bring herself to ask the rest of the question, for fear of my answer.
“I faked faking,” I say softly. “I lied about lying. I couldn’t think of another way to make you believe we couldn’t be together.”
She frowns. “Wait. Then why tell me now?”
Crap. “Because I am about to be devoured by poodles,” I quip. “Remember me always, my love.”
Mercifully Sam picks that moment to lean into the front. “Okay, all done,” he says.
“Here’s what you asked me for,” Lila says, pulling a green glass bottle out of her backpack. It’s wrapped in a T-shirt. “Is this what you’re going to plant in her house?”
