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“No shit.” He tapped the top of the folder with the tips of his fingers. “But I haven’t told you the best part yet. Guess who they are targeting?”
“Who?” I asked.
His eyes locked on mine. “You.”
My face went white, the color draining. I didn’t want any part of this. I shook my head. “Why me?”
He shook his head. “No idea. Especially when they could have gone after someone reasonably good looking, like me.” He grinned.
“Everyone thinks we’re related,” I said. “If I’m ugly, you’re ugly.”
He left me the file, filled with a deep dive of information on all the staff members of CityScoop, preparing me should someone approach me. Told me the team would keep me abreast of the situation. I flipped through the thick stack of papers.
Her photo, a headshot CityScoop took a few years ago when they first hired her. One for their website. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. Beautiful, yes, but that wasn’t what kept me staring.
It was those big, brown, soul-filled eyes.
I found myself re-reading her profile. Googling her even though I already knew everything there was to know. Staring at her picture before I went to bed. There was something about that pink suit she wore; such cheap fabric, cut for a much older woman, an outfit from a department store clearance rack.
Yet, she wore it as a queen wears a crown.
Knowing her self-worth and ready to take on the world.
Those big brown eyes stared into the camera, bright and determined, but I could see the hint of sadness behind those irises.
Her smile was sweet, soft.
They should have selected Ava for their mission, the tall, thin girl with the long dark hair and outgoing personality. So confident. Outspoken. Ready for a mission like this. But it was Lindy they chose.
I’ve been keeping my eye out for them, but I couldn’t believe it when I finally saw her. The girl from the photo. Dancing awkwardly on her own in the corner of Gotcha’s.
Lindsey Gorse. Goes by Lindy. Raised by a single mom in a small town upstate, called Cherry Grove. Living in whatever cheap housing they could afford at the time. Former pageant contestant. Graduated with honors, BA in journalism. Has worked for CityScoop for the past three years. Recently broke up with her cheating fiancé.
Seeing her in the flesh, dancing with her, it was too much.
I stepped outside to get air. Then Sasha called. I forgot about the girl. I couldn’t believe it when Arie brought her to me on the jet. She was the stowaway.
I finally reach the clearing of the semi-circle of bachelors’ homes, happy to have a break from my ongoing stream of thoughts. Same model as the larger white stone mansions, just much smaller homes—white stone walls on the insides as well as the outsides. Huge, open concept rooms, soaring ceilings.
I let myself into my dad’s house, closing the door quietly behind me. I stroll through the home, knowing exactly where I’ll find him.
My father’s place is warm, inviting. He hasn’t changed a thing since he moved back in. Polished wood floors stained a warm brown. A unique mantel over the fireplace—a beautiful, knotted piece of timber. Huge floating shelves run up and down the wall on either side of the stone fireplace, covered in books.
My mother loved to read. So did he. She was in the middle of re-reading Little Women for the millionth time when we lost her. The book is probably still sitting on an end table, open to its place, the spine creased; my father probably chided her for not using a bookmark when she put it down.
The house I grew up in… he’s not let anyone enter it since she passed away last summer.
Maybe that’s why he stays here, in his old bachelor home. Too many ghosts of my mother in the other house.
After he married my mother, this home housed a couple of new recruits over the years, but then my mother died and he took it back, bringing his things out of storage. Making it an exact replica of the home he owned when he was single.
A colorful woven rug sits in the center of the room, a dark brown sofa and matching chair positioned on it. All the furniture is made of wood or leather. There are a few lush plants, potted in woven grass baskets the staff attend to when he’s away.
Or in times like this when he’s mentally checked out.
I steel my nerves, preparing myself to enter the kitchen. He looks the same as he did yesterday. No matter how many times I see my father like this, it never hurts any less.
I pull out a chair across from him and slide into it, drumming my fingers on the smooth tabletop.
