Page 7 of The Phoenix (Spy Girl 6)
“Is she buried as Charlotte?”
“Yes, I made my butler check it out. The three of your names are on the headstone. Supposedly buried together after the car accident that took your lives.”
“That’s okay. I like being Huntley Von Allister.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Thank you for all you did for me, especially not knowing I was yours. You went to a lot of trouble just for me. It speaks volumes of your love for her. I hope, maybe someday—anyway, so the house looks the same? Is any of my stuff still there?”
He doesn’t speak for a few moments, probably trying to determine what I was going to say, which was that, maybe someday, he would love me, too. Fortunately, I didn’t let it slip out because it’s a ridiculous notion.
“Obviously, I had it professionally cleaned, and there were pieces of furniture that had to be replaced,” he says, “but I asked them to do so with nearly identical items. The CIA went through the home and took anything that could connect your mother to them. Basically tore the place apart. Anything they didn’t take, they left for the owner to dispose of, which means it’s all still there.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
He gives me the address of a busy nearby park and instructs me to pick him up there.
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in front of the house. I’m wearing workout clothing, no makeup, and my hair is in a pony, pulled through a baseball cap. Ares is dressed as Uncle Sam, and we’re supposed to act like I’m a possible renter. It’s been over six years since my mother was killed. I highly doubt anyone has been watching the house for that long, but it’s good to be cautious.
The house is still adorable. Cape Cod style. White paint with black shutters and window boxes filled with colorful flowers. And what was always my favorite thing about it—a red front door. But, now, I feel like the door is foreshadowing what I will see inside.
I close my eyes for a moment. Instead of seeing the familiar little hole forming in my mother’s forehead, I see the blood and brain matter from the exit wound splattered across the room, the gore so unbelievable that it almost didn’t seem real.
Ares takes my elbow, steadying me.
“We need to change the color of the front door,” I mutter.
“Oh,” he says, quickly understanding but still leading me up to the porch.
He unlocks and opens the door. I expect to see my vision but am happy to see the house that I used to love coming home to.
I’m drawn to my mother’s room first, going in and seeing her white ruffled comforter on a black iron bed. Her bedside table still holds the book she was reading and her favorite perfume. I pick up the bottle and spray it into the air.
A deep inhale takes me back. They say smells are our earliest memories. The ones most ingrained into our brains. And this smell is everything. In this scent, she’s still alive. She’s smiling. She’s twirling me around and telling me she loves me. She’s tucking me into bed at night. She’s packing for a trip. She’s vivacious. And happy. And so am I.
Tears stream down my face as I realize why I’ve been having the reoccurring dream. Why I always wake up the second the bullet enters her forehead.
I didn’t want to remember what came next.
Because it was much too horrifying for my twelve-year-old self to deal with.
I move to her closet for another onslaught of memories, recalling when and where she wore each piece. The black-and-white-striped shirt she wore on a flight to Paris when she joked she should have added a red beret. The teal silk blouse she wore to dinner in Marrakech. A designer-labeled dress that she bought in Singapore. I run my hand across each item, stopping at one that isn’t familiar.
I pull it out, finding a concert tee for a band called The Cure.
“Have you ever heard of them?” I ask Ares.
“Well, of course I have. They were big in the eighties and nineties. Probably sold over twenty-five million records.”
“What kind of music?”
“They started out punk, did some goth rock, ended up being more New Wave pop.”
“Was she a fan? We listened to a lot of music together, and I don’t remember this band ever being mentioned.”
Ares’s face gets a sad smile on it. “Actually, I was into them. Your mom wasn’t sure about the whole punk rock movement.”
“The shirt looks new. In fact, it still has the tag on it. Was it supposed to be a gift for you?”
He looks at the name on the tag. “It says it’s from a store called Punk Rocker.”
I grab my phone out of my bag and do a quick internet search. “I’m finding only one store with that name—and it’s in Montrovia.”
“Do you remember shopping there?”
“No, but when I’m back in Montrovia later this week, I’ll go. See if I remember anything. Do you think it’s a clue?”
He takes out his phone, turns on his flashlight, then hits an app causing it to change to a black light, and running it across the shirt.
“That’s old school, huh? Write a secret message in ink that will only show up with a black light.”
“I’m not that old,” Ares teases. “But, yes, black light or sometimes a change in temperature. Would you go grab your mother’s hairdryer, so we can double-check?”
I do, but there is nothing, so I take the shirt off the hanger and flip it inside out, checking the tags, the seams, looking for anything.
But we come up empty.
“I think she just bought it as a gift to give to you,” I finally tell him. “That’s nice, right? Did she often bring you gifts from our travels?”
“Sometimes, yes. She could be very thoughtful. And we always had a special bond through our friendship. I think that’s why her not telling me you were mine hurts so much.”
I fold the shirt up and hand it to him. “Wear it well, punk rock boy.”
To that, I get a laugh. “Now, I have to teach you to appreciate their music.”
“I’m looking forward to that. You know, I didn’t come here, looking for clues. I was looking for peace.”
“I know that,” he says. “But what I don’t understand is why she went to all the trouble to give you clues and not give you the complete picture.”
“I’ve thought about that, and I think I know the answer.”
“You do?” he asks, looking surprised.
“I think she figured out just enough to know there was a plot. I mean, think about it. She took time off, lied and said she was going on vacation, even used two different passports for us to hide where we had been. She was keeping it all a secret from her work. But then, the minute we got home, she called her CIA handler—your father—and told him she had discovered a plot to end the world as we knew it. Why would she do that?”
“Because she needed help,” he says thoughtfully.
“Exactly. She had discovered enough to report to you that you were right, but she didn’t know enough to stop it.”
Ares nods. “That actually makes sense.”
I smile. “You know, everyone I meet tells me how brilliant you were. I’d like to think I got a little of that in me.”
Ares beams. “I am pretty sure you have it in spades. I’m really sorry—”
I reach out and touch his arm to stop him from saying it. “No. No more apologies. You didn’t know. And, after meeting you, I know for sure that, if you had known, things would have been very different. I’m not mad at you. Even though, at one point during all this, particularly when I thought you’d lied to my mom and stolen Ari,
I did hate you. I have a question though. Both your father and Blake seemed to think that you did. Why did you let them?”
“Because they both loved your mother in their own ways. I didn’t want to shatter their illusions of her.”
“You needed them in this fight.”
“I did. Still do. My father was shocked to learn you were his granddaughter. Although he had been tough on you at Blackwood, he was so very proud of you. At one point, I’d told him he was getting too close to you. That turning into an old man was weakening him.”
“I should go a little easier on him then, I guess. It’s just hard because he lied to me a lot.”
“It was for your benefit.”
“And he made me talk to that stupid counselor.”
“Until you punched him in the throat.” He laughs.
“I’m glad though. If I hadn’t been trained the way I was, I wouldn’t have been there to save Lorenzo.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Yet you are engaged to Daniel.”
“I guess I can confide in you since you don’t get out much. After the encounter with Dupree, having that gun to my head and thinking I was going to die, I left there and went straight to Lorenzo. He proposed. We got married at sea by the captain of his yacht. It wasn’t legal, but …”
“It meant everything to the two of you,” Ares says. “And, the next morning, the queen announced his engagement to Lady Elizabeth.”
“Yes. And, while Daniel and I are close friends, he’s in love with Lizzie. And, if I can’t save Montrovia from whatever is going to start there, who’s marrying who won’t matter.”
“We are going to save it together,” he says. “I’m very worried about my friends. Did you notice the logo for Arcadia on the dollar bill?”
“Yes, it sort of looked like the Vallenta coat of arms.”
