I take easy, slow steps, keeping my face calm as I scramble to come up with a story. This is one of my strengths—lying—and yet right now I’m drawing a blank. We said tonight, didn’t we? Why is Luke here now? How’d he get in? And how risky is this that he’s meeting my handler? Do I introduce them? Who should Warner be to me? A friend? An ex-boyfriend?
“Hey, Luke,” is all I come up with.
Nails hitting hardwood sound behind me. Stanley, jumping off the couch and scrambling for leverage as he scampers toward the door, his curly tail like a screw as it wags. He climbs Luke’s legs with his front paws, like a dog missing his owner would.
Luke chuckles and reaches down to scratch his head. “Better greeting than yesterday.”
“I guess it’s not you that he has a problem with,” I murmur, trying for a relaxed tone.
There’s another awkward moment, and then Warner sticks his hand out. “Hi, I’m Jack. Rain’s brother.”
Brother! Good call.
“Luke. I live in the building next door.”
I have to pause for a moment as the two of them shake hands. Warner, a guy in a faded Boston Red Sox T-shirt, pretending to be my brother when he’s the FBI agent who wants to lock Luke in a small, windowless room and pressure him until he cracks. Luke, in a fitted black golf shirt, pretending to be just a regular neighborhood rich guy, when he’s the criminal that the FBI is betting their entire case on.
If this weren’t a risky situation, I might laugh.
Was Luke listening at the door? He very well might have been, to figure out if he had the right condo. How much would he have overheard? I quietly play back my conversation with Warner, trying to remember exactly what words were used.
I’m guessing all those same thoughts are going through Warner’s head. That’s why he’s not budging. I need him gone, before Luke decides his surprise visit was a bad idea and hightails it out of here.
“You’d better go, Jack, or you’ll miss your plane.”
Warner’s back stiffens, his entire body unnaturally still. He’s weighing his options. If I’m not in danger, then this is a blip but no big deal. If Luke did in fact overhear our conversation, puts two and two together, and something happens to me . . .
But Luke—standing there with his arms now crossed over his chest, that self-assured smirk sitting on his lips—doesn’t look like a guy who just figured out that he’s under investigation.
Finally, deciding something, Warner stands aside, gesturing for Luke to enter. “Like I said, I’ll be landing just after two, okay?” Warner makes a point of tapping his chest as soon as Luke has walked past him. Get the wire on, he’s saying.
“Yeah, okay. And you’ll call Dad for me?”
Dad. A.k.a. my surveillance team. They’re going to have to scramble to get into place.
“That’s the plan.”
Warner leaves, and I’m alone with my target in my living room, his eyes casually scanning everything. “Give me a sec?” I don’t wait for Luke’s answer, heading for my bedroom. I throw on a pair of tight jeans and a fitted sweater—enough to appeal to him—some makeup, and then fasten the necklace and switch on the wire. Everything that could be considered incriminating is locked up in the safe, so I don’t rush too much.
Except for my camera, I suddenly realize. It has a candid picture of him that I took one day at the food carts.
Shit.
Panic seizes me. I struggle not to run out of my bedroom, and sigh with relief when I find Luke holding a tennis ball in the air, teasing a now-frantic Stanley, his profile lean and muscular. “He’s not so bad.” He laughs. “He’ll do just about anything for this ball, won’t he?”
He’ll do what he needs to do. Just like me.
“So . . . this is a surprise.”
Luke finally relents, tossing the ball right into Stanley’s waiting mouth. “I like surprising people.”
“How did you know which condo was mine?”
As soon as I ask the question, I remember that I shouldn’t have. His gaze rolls down, over my chest, my waist, my thighs, and back up. He must be thinking about last night. He’s obviously impressed, given he’s here now. Maybe a little too much. If he mentions anything about my blinds being opened, Warner’s going to know what I did. I don’t want him to know.
I reach up, ready to cover my necklace and muffle Luke’s answer. “The invoice at the garage. I called Miller and he gave your address to me.”
I know that’s a big, fat lie. The two-minute read I got off Miller tells me he would tell Luke to fuck off if he called for that.
“You looked pretty shocked when your brother opened the door. I got the impression he wasn’t too happy to see a guy there.”
“Jack can be a cranky asshole sometimes.” That was for Warner’s benefit, when he listens to this recording. Then I add, “You know how it is . . . protective brother.” Ironically enough, I don’t really know how it is. Or at least, I didn’t. My brother never stepped into that role until much later in life, when he got his shit together. I didn’t need it by then. Before that, he didn’t have much time for a kid sister. He was too busy getting mixed up in the wrong crowd, getting arrested for dealing pot. I was only six when our dad kicked him out.
“Yeah, I get it. I have a younger sister.”
I know he does. Ana Boone. Twenty-one. Blond hair and blue eyes, looks like a Russian porcelain doll. Drives a Maxima, supplied by her uncle. Enrolled in an esthetician’s program.