The rational part of my brain whispered that this wasn’t the best way to handle things—and, really, wouldn’t it be better to just go home? But I was done listening to that part. I was always the responsible one, and Kat got to make the big mistakes. Well, not tonight. Tonight I was going just act, for once, and not always be the person cleaning up the messes.
As the cab sped down Sixth Avenue, I looked out the window and caught my reflection in the window. Smudged eye makeup, puffy eyes, hair flying every which way. Not great. And not the way I wanted to show up at the hottest restaurant in New York, even if I was mostly going there for revenge. I pulled my hair up into a knot and used some tinted lip balm I’d found in my inside coat pocket, figuring it was better than nothing.
I glanced at the meter, relieved to see that we were still at ten dollars—still within the realm of what I could afford. I hoped it would be enough to get me close. Even though I felt like I could probably ask people for directions safely—because what were the odds of getting mugged twice in one night? Probably not that high, surely?—I’d prefer to be as close to the restaurant as possible.
“All right,” the cabdriver said, slowing down. I looked around and saw that we’d pulled to the side of the street. And there, in front of me, was Josephine’s. There was no sign—just a small engraved plaque. It was a converted carriage house that I recognized from the paparazzi pictures I’d seen, flashes lighting up whatever celebrity was just trying to make it outside.
“Thanks,” I said, handing the driver the fare plus tip. I glanced at the time—9:20. I was even early. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. It had a cozy, old-fashioned feeling, with two fireplaces, dark wood, and décor that made it seem like you’d wandered into a tavern.
“Hi,” I said to the hostess standing behind a little podium. “Um—reservation for Sinclair?”
“Sinclair,” she said, stretching out the word as she looked down at her iPad. “Ah! Yes, I see it. And we have a card on file for the bill with instructions, lovely.…” She frowned down at the iPad for another second, and then glanced up at me with a smile. “It looks like the other party is already here. You can follow me.”
Before I even knew what was happening, my coat was being shucked off and whisked away and I was presented with a claim ticket. The hostess turned and started walking briskly through the dining room, and I followed, trying to figure out where my coat had gone, and also, what she was talking about. The other party? I knew it wasn’t my dad. And I’d told Matty about the dinner, but none of the details, so it couldn’t be him or Margaux.…
It was Kat. It had to be.
Relief and happiness rushed though me, all at once. Kat had come through for me after all—I would get to see her, and we’d be together, the balance of the universe restored. She’d remembered the reservation and had taken the chance that I would be here too. It was like I hadn’t let myself feel the depth of how much how much I’d missed her all night until now. No doubt she was just ahead, sitting at our table, looking around eagerly and taking mental notes to share with Teri. Of course she would be there. And I could tell her about my dad—about what he’d done.…
“And here we are,” the hostess said, rounding a corner and stopping at a table.
I stared ahead of me, caught off guard. Because Kat wasn’t there.
But Beckett was.
PART FOUR 9:25 p.m.–11:11 p.m.
Lloyd: That’s farce. That’s the theater. That’s life.
Belinda: Oh God, Lloyd, you’re so deep.
—Michael Frayn, Noises Off
Meanwhile, in Brockville (Ontario) (Canada)…
SITTING ON THE COUNTER OF Alberta’s Goods, Teri turned her bottle of water in her hands. She tried to count how many laws she’d broken over the course of the night. She’d brought minors across state lines. Accidentally stolen diamonds. Driven a rental car she hadn’t rented. Not to mention illegally crossed a border.
Dustin had brought them all to his father’s store. It was the safest place he could think of. This meant, however, that they were now in Canada—which was certainly not where she’d intended to be tonight.
The store was dark and quiet—they’d closed at seven. Dustin explained they were mostly a wholesaler, but they kept a store in front of the warehouse. There were refrigerator cases, shelves of groceries and snacks, and most appealing to Chris and Daryl, a small arcade in the corner.
Dustin had given the kids handfuls of tokens and they’d run off to play. Teri had plugged in her phone to charge, then settled the sleeping Parker onto a few big bags of rice, creating a makeshift bed for her.
And then it was just the two of them, sitting next to each other on the counter.
“Some night, eh?” Dustin asked.
Teri nodded, with a short laugh. “I can’t thank you enough for all the help. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“What was I supposed to do, leave you there?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t leave behind the prettiest girl I’d ever seen—” Dustin stopped short, his face turning red. “I mean… I was worried about the kids. That’s all.”
Teri blushed. “Well, I think we’re just lucky we ran into you.”
“Maybe I’m the lucky one.”
Teri looked into his dazzling eyes and her heart beat hard—but for the first time all night, not because something was going terribly wrong. Because something was going right. “I really should figure out a plan,” she said, even as she felt a force, like gravity, drawing her closer to Dustin.
“A plan,” he echoed, his eyes fixed on hers, the space between them growing smaller and smaller. “We should totally get one of those.”
Teri smiled and he brushed her hair back gently. In that moment, it felt like maybe everything tonight—all of it—had happened so that she could be right here, with this boy. And maybe nothing else mattered. She tilted her head to the side, and so did he. They were just a breath apart. She closed her eyes—
BAM BAM BAM!
They both jumped—someone was pounding on the front door. Teri gasped. She squinted through the darkness, thankful the door was locked.
“We’re closed,” Dustin called as he slid off the counter.
The figure outside paused—then kicked the door so hard wood went flying, and the door came off its hinges.
The figure stepped through what remained of the door. He was tall, mid-thirties, Black, wearing a suit. He glanced back at the mess he’d made and shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t have time to wait around.”
“Who are you?” Teri demanded, trying her best to sound brave.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge, flipping it open. “Damon Gilroy,” he said, snapping it closed again. “CIA.”
CHAPTER 21
Stevie
Beckett?” I asked. I mean, obviously it was him. But what was he doing here? “What are you doing here?”
“Please enjoy your Josephine’s experience,” the hostess said warmly, clearly choosing to ignore whatever was happening right now, and then hurrying away.