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“Thank you.” I glance down at the floor, but I don’t see any blood. Good. I head for the hallway.
“Aren’t you kind of young to work for the management?” the neighbor says, but he seems more amused than suspicious.
I push the glasses up the bridge of my nose the way Sam does. “Everyone says that. Lucky me, I’ve got a baby face.”
* * *
I limp through the lobby. The change in the way I walk probably helps my disguise—the desk guy barely looks up. I walk out the door, going over all the things I could have done wrong. I make my way stiffly down to the street and then over to the supermarket parking lot, where the hearse is idling.
Lila hops out of one side and comes running toward me. The wig’s gone, bruise makeup is smeared across her nose, and she’s laughing.
“Did you see our performance? I think you missed the part where we convinced Larry that he’d accidentally punched me. He wound up begging us not to press charges.” She throws her arms around my neck, and all of a sudden her legs are around my waist and I’m holding her up.
I spin around to hear her giggling shriek, ignoring the pain in my ankle. Sam is getting out of the car, grinning too.
“She’s such a con artist,” he says. “Better than you, I think.”
“Don’t sass me,” I say. I stop spinning, walking over to Sam’s car and setting her down so she’s sitting on the hood. “I know she’s better.”
Lila grins and doesn’t unlock her legs from my waist. Instead she pulls me toward her for a kiss that tastes of greasepaint and regret.
Sam rolls his eyes. “How about we hit a diner? Larry paid us fifty bucks to go away.”
“Sure,” I say. “Absolutely.”
I know I will never be this happy again.
16
MONDAY MORNING I PULL into the parking lot of the FBI office in my shiny mob-bought Benz. I feel pretty good with the built-in GPS reassuring me that I’ve arrived at my destination, the leather seats heating my ass, and the surround-sound speakers blasting music from my iPod loudly enough that I can feel it in my bones.
I get out, throw my backpack over my shoulder, hit the button so that the alarm sets, and walk into the building.
Agent Jones and Agent Hunt are waiting for me inside the lobby. I follow them into the elevator.
“Nice car,” Agent Hunt says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”
Agent Jones snorts. “Let’s go upstairs, kid, and see what you’ve got to say. You better have something this time.”
We get to the fourth floor, and they march me into a different room. No mirror this time. I’m sure it’s bugged, though. Simple furniture. Table, metal chairs. The kind of room someone could lock you in for a long time.
“I want immunity,” I tell them, sitting down at the table. “For any and all past crimes.”
“Sure,” Agent Jones says. “Look, here’s my verbal agreement. You’re just a kid, Cassel. We’re not interested in busting you for whatever little—”
“No,” I say. “I want it in writing.”
Agent Hunt clears his throat. “We can do that. Not a problem. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable. Give us a little while and we’ll get something put together for you. Whatever you say to us, we can guarantee that no prosecutor will ever file charges against you. You’ll have your deal. We want you on board.”
I reach into my backpack and take out three copies of a contract.
“What’s this?” Agent Jones says. He doesn’t sound happy.
I swallow. My fingers dampen the paper with sweat. I hope they don’t notice. “These are my terms. And, unlike the deal you made with my brother, I need this to be authorized by an attorney in the Justice Department.”
The two agents exchange a look. “Philip was a special case,” Agent Hunt says. “He had some information we needed. If you’re proposing a trade, you have to give us something.”
