A Spy Like Me (10 page)

“That’s not good.” I dropped onto the
bed.

A rope? Maybe he had already used some of it
on Aimee. I hadn’t planned on taking extreme invasive measures
unless I found something suspicious, and I had. Or Malcolm had. He
sat next to me on the bed, which sagged and pushed us together. The
mattress was probably from the 1800s.

“This isn’t a Clue game,” I said. “That could
be for anything.”

I zipped opened my backpack and reached
inside. “We’ll know for sure in a couple days.”

Amazement spread across his face and he
glanced at the door. “Are those—”

“Trackers? Why, yes, they are. Fancy you
should ask.” I dropped three black button-like trackers into his
hand. “Add them to his clothes. I’ll put them in his shoes.” I
sounded way more 007 than I felt.

“How?”

“Don’t you ever watch the movies? Rip open
the seam a tiny bit and shove it in. He’ll never know.”

“Where did you get these?” He ran his finger
over them. “Isn’t this illegal?”

I pulled out a pair of sneakers from the tiny
closet. “It might be, but I have strong probable cause. Get to
work.”

For the next ten minutes, we worked in
silence. The quiet built up in my head, warning and whispering that
I could get caught any second, and my shaky fingers made it that
much harder to finish my task. Finally, I shoved the last one into
a tiny crack in the sole of his sneaker.

“Let’s get out of here,” I urged.

We rushed to the door and opened it to find
ourselves face to face with Peyton.

Damn.

In a matter of seconds, he went from
eyes-wide-open shock to jaw-clenching furious and back again. His
eyes darted between Malcolm and me, and he backed up a few
steps.

My heart shot into my throat and pulsed,
sending tiny sparks of fear into my body, from the sweat on my
scalp to the itch in my toes that told me to run like hell. Could
we go to jail for this?

Malcolm gripped my arm and held me back.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of this.”

“No way,” I muttered and took a few steps
back, dragging him with me to give Peyton space. I had to show him
we weren’t the bad guys. “Hey, how you doing?”

He stood still, his fingers twitching at his
sides. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

“We thought we’d stop by and chat and noticed
the door was open.” I said it as casually and friendly as I
could.

“And you decided just to let yourselves in?
Is this how they do things in Paris?”

Malcolm muttered, “I can tell you’ve got
this.”

I didn’t bother to give him a dirty look.
“Remember me? From Spy Games? The Eiffel Tower?”

Complete annoyance settled in his eyes. “How
could I forget?”

“I guess we got off on the wrong foot.”

All the meaningless words from Peyton’s file
flashed in my memory. Nothing that would help me.

“That’s one way to look at it.” He stepped
closer. “You ruined everything!”

Malcolm moved in front of me. “Why don’t we
talk about this? Peyton, right?”

It was tempting to hide behind Malcolm and
let him smooth things over with his charm and good looks, but I
refused to play the coward. I pushed him back.

“I did not ruin anything,” I argued.

Peyton snorted like he didn’t believe a word
I said. My fingers curled into a ball, and I remembered the look on
his face, his out of control behavior.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Not
my actions, not my words. Not when you are completely psycho!”

“Good one.” Malcolm grabbed my arm and rushed
toward the door.

“What is your problem?” Peyton asked.

I whipped away from Malcolm’s grasp. “A Spy
Games staff member is gone.” I pointed a finger at him. “After you
threatened us.”

Color crept up his neck and across his face.
“You think I had something to do with your friend’s
disappearance?”

“I know you do.” I followed Malcolm’s lead.
“I came to check out your place for any clues.”

“That’s crazy.” He pulled out his phone from
his pocket and started stabbing at numbers.

I didn’t stay for coffee, and ran out the
door. Malcolm followed.

“That’s right, coward. Run! Because soon the
police will be after you. Enjoy your last days of freedom!”

I slammed the door as something crashed
against the other side of it. Probably a vase or something.

“Let’s go,” I said. “This is how to leave a
scene when you’ve been compromised.”

We booked it out the front door, Peyton’s
words ringing in my ears. The police?

After running several blocks, I finally
slowed down. My lungs burned. Malcolm started to talk but I cut him
off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded, any hint of a smile
disappearing.

I turned down one street and then the other
with no direction in my mind. Aimee and I often roamed Paris,
talking until we found a spot we liked. But she wasn’t here. And by
tonight I might be in jail.

Malcolm kept his eyes trained forward as if
he were obsessed with the large red rose on the lady’s hat ahead of
us. I’d pissed him off, but I didn’t care. It was better he knew
the real me - the sweet, the silly, and the crab. For the umpteenth
time that day I had to fight the urge to pull out my phone and text
Aimee.

Malcolm quickened his stride. “We completed
our mission. Hopefully, Peyton will lead us right to Aimee.”

“Yep,” I said.

I remembered the time Aimee and I’d wondered
how many cafés we could visit in one day and still get our work
done. We’d sampled about every croissant, tart, and scone in Paris.
Then we’d spent the next week eating nothing but celery to lose the
extra weight.

“What’s the next plan of action if Peyton
ends up a dead end?” Malcolm asked.

He pointed to a cute café with a blue-striped
canopy, signaling us to stop. I shook my head and kept walking.
That day with Aimee, we’d forgotten which shops we’d visited, and
when we tallied our list at the end of the day, we’d had five
repeats.

Malcolm spoke louder. “Because we still can’t
be one hundred percent sure that Peyton is our man.”

I glared at him. “Thanks for the professional
analysis.”

I kept walking, leaving him with the sting of
my words. Why did I feel like such a crab, pincers and all? Pretty
soon, a dirty grey shell would start growing over my back and
antennae would sprout.

“If Peyton is our man, will we go to your dad
or the French authorities? It’s not like Peyton is French. The
French police might just laugh in our faces.”

“Probably,” I answered.

Malcolm’s frustration was increasing, and
right when I was listing in my head the different punishments the
French could throw at me for breaking and entering, he gripped my
arm and pushed me up against the glass front of a cute but
super-expensive boutique just for hats.

His flushed face was close to mine. “You’re
supposed to be training me for the next Spy Games, but instead
you’re walking aimlessly around Paris.”

His lips tightened and a muscle twitched in
his jaw. He was millimeters from my face. All I had to do was
pucker up, and we’d be smooching like French lovers. He could grow
a twirly mustache and wear a beret, and I could whisper
Je
t’aime
and forget about all of this.

“You’re the trainer. What’s the lesson here?”
he asked.

He needed an answer. I could’ve told him that
to live the life of a spy, you had to deal with people’s
idiosyncrasies, with wandering the streets and missing the people
you loved like moms and best friends. I blinked away my tears and
hardened my face. My words came out as a whisper as my throat
closed up.

“After especially hard or draining missions,
it’s important to relax and refuel.”

He didn’t move back, and we stood there
face-to-face, lips almost touching, both of us breathing a bit
abnormally. The crowds of people passed us by. The bell above the
boutique door jingled. A baby cried. A slight breeze stole between
us. Thoughts of Peyton and prison time faded, and I curled his hair
around my finger.

“You know, you’re awfully cute when you’re
ticked off,” I said.

Malcolm tilted his head, and his face
softened as if suddenly he understood the female brain. He traced
his thumb across my lips.

“And you, Savvy Bent, are sexy when trying to
act like you don’t give a damn.”

With both hands on his chest, I pushed him
away and broke the spell. I didn’t want to feel that close to
someone who would just leave me later.

“Don’t you have to go to work?” I asked.

He smiled a warm and cocky grin. “Why yes, I
do.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “someday you’ll have to admit
you like me,” before he turned and walked away.

“I’ll text you about our next training,” I
yelled.

“Whatever.” He didn’t look back.

Two days later, I woke up a total grump. I
wasn’t even close to finding a creative pastry recipe for the
Extravaganza. Peyton’s trackers showed no activity, and I had no
clue what to do next. I stayed in my flannel nightgown, which I’d
dug out of the bottom of my dresser after walking in on Malcolm in
my kitchen. Flannel nightgowns are highly underrated, soft and
comforting. I didn’t shower or brush my hair, and I raided almost
every single carb we had stored in the cupboard. Dad left early for
Spy Games business, so looking like a granny, I pondered how
uncooked rice would taste. I checked the remote showing the
position of Peyton’s trackers. Again. And each hour gnawed away at
the faith that I’d find Aimee.

I finally showered and threw on my dad’s
oversized white T-shirt that said “pastry chef” and a pair of
jeans. Then I spent a few hours whipping egg whites into a
meringue, dicing strawberries, and attempting to turn
confectioner’s sugar into frosting. All combinations of ingredients
failed epically. This was crazy. How in the world of French
pastries would I beat out top chefs? Insanity. I wished a best
selling recipe had been included in the package.

Underneath the superficial worries about what
frosting to use were thoughts of Mom’s package I’d opened. Why did
I have to take that guy’s picture? What was it really all about? My
gut said it was more than it seemed, and I needed to demand she
tell me everything.

Finally, after my second failed attempt at
making the perfect tart, I kicked the wall. It was so useless.
Following stupid instructions didn’t bring me any closer to Mom. I
didn’t even know if I wanted to be close to her.

“Savvy?”

“Dad? I didn’t hear you come in.” I didn’t
want to talk to him about any of this.

“Is everything okay?”

“Um, yeah.” I waved at my face. “It’s just
hot in here.”

Dad shifted from foot to foot and glanced
toward his office, his escape, and then back at me like he knew he
should say something. He stepped closer.

“You know, sometimes the more time that
passes, the more we feel the effects of a different culture.”

I nodded like the dutiful daughter. Yeah, I
guess that could be part of the problem, but ever since I’d seen my
mom, the feelings about her that I’d pushed down had gurgled up
like air bubbles in a cheesecake. And I didn’t even know if
cheesecake could get air bubbles.

“Why did Mom leave?”

“Your mom would have to explain that.”

“Mom’s not here. Try.”

He sighed. “Sometimes people need a break to
figure things out. She’ll be back.”

I didn’t dare glance up because I didn’t want
to see the truth. “So the split isn’t permanent?”

Dad’s silence told me everything. Finally, he
said, “Only time will tell.” Then he wiped a smudge of frosting off
my nose. “Why the sudden interest in cooking?”

I didn’t want to tell him I knew Spy Games
was struggling or that if I won the contest I could go on to try
for the prize money.

“A hobby to keep me busy between Spy
Games.”

“Good idea.” He put his finger under my chin
and lifted my head up. “You can do anything you set your mind to,
whether you ever make the perfect croissant or not.”

I blinked back the tears blurring my vision.
Wow, the second time in a week Dad had talked to me about something
other than Spy Games. I bit my lip, then spoke.

“Bet I can beat you in chess?”

A light that I hadn’t seen in weeks flickered
in his eyes. He glanced at the table and I could sense the flooding
memories. Happy ones. When Mom, Dad and I were a family.

The light faded, and he cleared his throat.
“Not tonight. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on.”

He turned his back to me, his shoulders
hunched. I struggled to hold back the words churning in my mind.
Dad expected me to take his brush-off in stride and go read a book
or something, and the daughter he knew and had lived with for
seventeen years would’ve done that. But I didn’t want to be that
girl anymore. That girl wouldn’t be searching for her best friend.
That girl wouldn’t dare stick up for herself. And that girl
wouldn’t challenge her dad.

“You can’t ignore me forever!” I shouted.

Dad stopped. Slowly, he turned and faced me,
his face worn and weary. “Savvy, I’m not ignoring you. I’m trying
to get this business off the ground and provide for you.”

“Sure, right.”

Why did I feel guilty for wanting to spend
time with my dad? The next few hours sucked. I pulled out our
travel pack of games—checkers, Backgammon, and chess—and played
against myself. I imagined the conversation I could’ve had with my
dad where I’d learn all of Mom’s past secrets, especially the one
about her penchant for dressing in costume and her problem with
paranoia.

That could be why I never noticed the knock
on the door or the fact that someone had entered without me even
knowing it.