Spies and Prejudice (2 page)

Tanner takes the seat across from Ryan. Next to me.

“Presumptuous much?”

“Are we keeping you from something?” Tanner glances at the textbook that’s been open to the same page for the last forty-five minutes. Not that he could possibly know that. He probably just expects me to drop everything the minute he opens his mouth. When I don’t answer his question, he forges ahead. “We thought it’d be cool if we knew someone our first day at McHenry.”

These guys are going to our high school? Good luck to them. They’d be better off knowing a posse of bodyguards to keep all the swooning girls away.

Mare jumps in. “I’m Mary Chris Moss.” She’s not kidding. She was born on Christmas Eve and her parents have a wicked sense of humor. Our crazy names are what brought us together the first day of kindergarten. Mare has embraced it, wearing her name as proudly as the cupcake-decorating badge she won in junior scouts when we were seven.

“Cool name.” Ryan grins back at her and they launch into a private conversation like they’ve known each other forever.

Tanner assumes my silence is an invitation to keep talking. “We just moved down from Orange County.” He says it like that’s a good thing. “Irvine.”

Tanner sits at an angle so his broad shoulders totally block my view of the mark. I twist a little to look around him. The mark still munches on fries, but the girl’s hand rests on his free arm.

I should be getting some pictures.

Tanner leans toward me, searching my face until I look at him again. When I do, his eyes brighten and his lips curve into a smile.

My breath catches in my throat.

Okay, no
. My stomach did not just flip itself inside out and sideways. I’ve seen countless men look at a girl in just the way that Tanner looks at me now. Right before they run off with their secretary, the grocery store clerk, or some random girl they meet on a bus. It’s nothing to get worked up over. Almost automatically, I finger the frame of my tortoiseshell glasses and snap a picture.

I struggle to regain my focus, looking resolutely over Tanner’s shoulder to where the mark and the girl giggle. The mark probably told her his one joke about a horse going into a bar. Then again, maybe not. She actually laughs.

Tanner tries again. “Is everything okay? You seem distracted.”

I look straight into Tanner’s eyes. “I was fine before you came over here, and I’ll be fine after you leave.” A little harsh maybe, but it’s an absolute and unequivocal truth.

Tanner inhales. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. A girl is supposed to bow in his presence. Especially one who is nothing amazing.

“Let’s try this again,” he says. “I’m Tanner Halston.” He holds out his hand.

I stare at it. A handshake? Really?

He starts to pull back, convinced I’m going to leave him hanging. He’s right to think that. I totally mean to. But before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and take his hand. His grip is solid and confident. I bet parents love him. If the little flutter in my chest is any indication, not just parents.

“I’m Berry,” I say, deliberately withholding my full name.

He flashes that smile again. “I’m Berry pleased to meet you.”

Drop dead good-looking?

Check
.

Squee-inducing grin?

Check
.

Razor-sharp wit?

Not even close.

I finally smile.

Mary Chris laughs from across the table. “Can you believe Ryan knows binary?”

Mare’s ability to make instant friends is legendary. She’s never turned away a person in need, starting with me. Looks like Mare’s foster friendship program just picked up a new project. I can only hope the stepbrother isn’t part of the package.

Over Tanner’s shoulder, the mark stands up and lays a twenty on the table.

I’ve got to get out to the parking lot to see how this date ends. “I need to go.”

Mary Chris notices the mark leaving with the girl. “Oh right. You had that thing.”

I stand up in a hurry, sending my history book careening to the floor.

Tanner stands up to retrieve the book, but he doesn’t move out of my way. “I was hoping we could hang out.”

I glare at him, willing him to move. “Yeah, not happening.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the mark heading outside.

Tanner holds the book out to me, his eyes clouded with something that looks like disappointment. I’m sure I imagine it. I take the book and shove it in my messenger bag. I brush past him, ignoring the tingling heat where my shoulder hits his chest on the way by.

Ryan’s voice carries across the restaurant as I push through the front door. “Dude! You totally struck out!”

The statement is nowhere near as true as it should be.

W
ithin a few minutes, my stakeout is back on track. The mark walks the girl to a green VW Bug and holds the door open for her. The girl twirls a strand of her hair but makes no move to get inside.

Here we go. I savor the surge of adrenaline that comes whenever I’m close to getting the evidence I need.

The mark trails a finger along her elbow to her hand.

Bingo.

I know the exact moment when he moves in for a kiss. He leans forward in excruciatingly slow increments, testing the waters. She stretches up to him, garlic breath and all. I snap away, capturing their kiss in pictures that more than make up for the two weeks I’ve spent trailing this guy. After a few more shots, I’ve got everything I need. I push the heavy eyeglass frames against my nose and lean against the planter.

I could go back into Sconehenge for Mary Chris, but that would mean more time with Tanner Halston. Not a chance that’s happening. May as well get home and upload the photos.

A man nearly trips over my feet as he rushes past the planter. I glare up at him, ready to tell him to watch where he’s going, but stop myself when I see who it is: Mary Chris’s dad. It’s not like he’s a bad guy or anything, but I instinctively keep my mouth shut. There are some laws of nature you just know. You don’t go poking lions with sticks.

Michael Moss looks past me, searching the parking lot for something in the distance. He doesn’t seem to notice me. I don’t know whether it’s these glasses or the fact that Mr. Moss seems to have a singular focus, like he’s looking for someone in particular. He waves and picks up his pace, leaving me staring at the streak of white in the back of his black hair.

I don’t make a conscious decision to follow. I just do. It’s more habit than anything else. Mary Chris’s dad being here is all wrong. Mr. Moss spends most Sunday afternoons at Valle Vista Country Club. He is not the kind of person to eat at tacky theme restaurants, and I’m pretty sure he’s never shopped at the mall.

A leggy brunette gets out of a black sedan and waves at Mr. Moss. Her hair is cut in a blunt line that hits at her shoulders. She’s dressed in a black pencil skirt and a gray flower-print blouse that says she’s not here for the garlic fries either.

My stomach sinks. He’s meeting a woman.

I don’t want to see this. I like Mare’s mom. I love Mary Chris.

But it’s not like I can look away either.

Mr. Moss puts his hand on the roof of the car and leans toward the woman, blocking my view. I have to dart around an SUV to get a good vantage point. I can’t hear what’s being said, but I can tell Mr. Moss is talking quickly by the way his lips move in tight bursts.

The brunette doesn’t look enamored. She looks deadly serious. On closer inspection, she’s older than she first appeared, maybe ten years older than Mr. Moss. Flecks of gray dot her hair and tight lines frame her eyes. She folds her arms across her stomach, clutching a manila folder.

I slip a few cars closer, ducking behind a minivan. Mr. Moss speaks in a hushed whisper. “You’re sure this is all of it? They didn’t get anything else?”

“Of course I’m sure.” The woman purses her lips. “I don’t know why you didn’t destroy the files years ago.”

Mr. Moss runs a hand through his thick mane of hair. “Maybe I trusted your people to keep them safe.”

The woman wrinkles her forehead. “We’ve taken every precaution.” She waves the folder in front of him. “My advice? Get rid of everything. They won’t stop trying now that they know you still have it.”

Have what? I inch closer, trying to get a closer look at the folder in the woman’s hands. There’s nothing identifiable on the outside. No writing. No labels.

“It’s your job to see they don’t get near it.” Mr. Moss’s voice is more emphatic.

“We’ve already put a team in place.”

Mr. Moss nods. “Good.”

The woman hands him the folder. He opens it, revealing the top half of the first page.

My hand flies to the frame of my glasses and I click off several shots as Moss skims the paper inside. He nods his head and then snaps the folder closed. “We can’t afford to have any more leaks. Not now.”

The woman’s face looks pinched. “Understood.”

Mr. Moss tucks the folder under his arm and walks away without another word. Just as he reaches his silver Mercedes, he glances over his shoulder. I duck back behind the minivan, holding my breath. After a few seconds, I peek around the corner. Mr. Moss is sliding into his car.

Okay. He didn’t see me. Which is good because no one likes being spied on. Especially not people with secrets.

Not that it’s ever stopped me.

I
drive into our neighborhood of detached condos. Every house is painted exactly the same salmon pink and dominated by a two-car garage in front. Perfect cover. With two bedrooms and two baths, our house is just big enough for Dad and me, not quite big enough for Little Lulu, our Saint Bernard.

Lulu stands on the other side of the door as I enter from the garage, her tail thumping against the wall. I push the door against her massive body and wedge sideways, sucking in my breath. It’s a good thing I passed on the fries today, since the door only opens about six inches. Lulu licks my arm as I press my way inside, leaving a trail of slobber along the sleeve of my jacket.

The alarm chirps in warning. With only thirty seconds before the full-scale blaring starts, I push past Lulu and enter numbers into the keypad. The beeps grow louder and more frequent. I enter the code again, northbynorthwest, no periods. As I hit pound, the noise stops and a flashing green light comes on. I sigh and sag against the wall. Lulu licks my arm again.

“Hi girl.” I pat her on the head as I make my way to the computer in the living room. Lulu lies across my feet with a sigh that sounds more like a snort.

I upload the files from the memory card in the frame of the glasses, clicking through the pictures of the mark and his date at Sconehenge. The photos from inside the restaurant are even worse than I thought, but it hardly matters, since the shots from the parking lot will tell the whole story.

I freeze when I get to the picture of Tanner.

My breath catches. Again.

I can’t remember the last time a guy smiled at me like that. Maybe never. Most of the guys at McHenry know better than to even think of flirting with me. At least not since the spin-the-bottle incident in eighth grade involving Collin Waterson and a bottle of pepper spray.

Looking at the picture of Tanner now, I almost wish I went back inside the restaurant. Until I remember Tanner’s obnoxious pronouncement that I’m not amazing enough for him. I have to sit on my hands to keep from throwing something at the screen. Only when I’m sure I won’t take my anger out on the monitor do I allow my fingers the freedom to hover over the delete button, ready to erase Tanner’s perfect face and banish him from my life forever.

Something stops me. It’s not like I save the picture to Favorites, or make it a screen saver or anything like that. Maybe I’ll print it out and use it for a dartboard. I could edit in a twirly mustache.

I smile to myself as I click forward to the shots I got in the parking lot of the mark and his date. They’re perfect. Even without the establishing shots of them at the restaurant, the mark is readily identifiable
in the photos. And the girl he is kissing is most definitely not his girlfriend. Case closed.

I check out the last few shots I took of Mr. Moss. I zoom in on the best shot of Mr. Moss holding the open manila folder. The folder is turned at an angle, so the top of the page inside is clearly visible.

I zoom in closer. It’s some type of letterhead. The pixels are fuzzy, but the name across the top of the page is almost legible. The page is upside down, so I rotate the photo until I can just make out the letters.

There’s a high-pitched squeak that could only have come from my own mouth. Lulu whines softly and lifts her head.

No way.

I read the name again, just to be sure.

It’s not possible.

Caroline M. Fields, PhD.

My mother.

I have no idea why Mr. Moss would have a piece of paper with her name on it. She was a psychologist. As far as I know, she had nothing to do with Mr. Moss. Besides, Mr. Moss has no reason in the world to keep my mother a secret.

She’s been dead for eight years.

T
he sound of the garage door opening has Lulu jumping to her feet and running for the door. She stands in the hall, tail thumping madly against the wall. I take one last look at my mother’s name on the screen before I close the program out and shut down the monitor. I stuff the memory card in the front pocket of my jeans.

Dad squeezes past Lulu and makes his way down the hall to the room that serves as our combination office and living room. “How’d it go today?”

I force a smile I don’t feel. “We got him.”

“That’s my girl.” Dad looks over my shoulder at the dark screen. “Can I see?”

My heart races as I flip on the monitor. What if I didn’t shut it down right? I can’t let my dad see the picture of Mom’s letterhead. He’s been doing so well, even without the antidepressants.

The only picture that flashes on the screen is our desktop background, a photo of Lulu as a pup, chewing on a rope toy as big as her head. Now, that toy would be a choking hazard.

I let myself breathe as I click open the case file.