Trust Me, I'm Trouble (13 page)

I’ve already forgotten the others’ names. Strad-something, Hayes, and Gallagher? I think. The last guy’s name I can’t recall at all. Three girls, three guys. One of the guys is black, and one of the girls is wearing a hijab, but the rest are overprivileged white kids. In other words, they’re all dismissible—not relevant to the job.

I set down my mostly empty satchel and move to sit in the last open spot in the circle when someone new comes over. Or not new, exactly.

“Settling in?” the guy with the beanie asks as he strolls up to us, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent. Everyone stand up.”

We comply, each of us getting to our feet with varying amounts of enthusiasm. I’m the slowest.

“My name’s Joseph, and I’m the intern coordinator,” he says, flashing his perfect teeth again. “You all think you know who you are. Let’s find out if you’re right.”

• • •

“You have to be kidding me,” I say, staring up at the twelve-foot wall I’m supposed to climb. “Where was this in the internship application? I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed ‘physically impossible feats of strength.’ ”

Joseph laughs. “It’s in the fine print under ‘team building.’ ”

I glance around at the groups of older people, NWI’s stable of “initiates,” busy with various obstacles. It’s my first exposure to the marks who my mark is allegedly targeting. So far, they seem like ordinary people. Not as many traditional-looking business execs or government officials as I’d expected. I heard one woman say she was a special-needs teacher. Her trust-fall partner replied that he was a marketing copywriter for a distributor of HVAC units. How either of them might be valuable to a grifter is beyond me. Maybe they’re just the chaff that comes in with the wheat. Still. All of this is disappointingly healthy-seeming.

“I have to climb a wall to be part of the team?” I say, turning back to the monolith in front of me.

“You have to climb a wall to prove to yourself that you can. The team building is just gravy.”

I heave a sigh. “I so did not wear the right shoes for this.”

Joseph laughs again. He laughs a lot, actually. It’s easy for him, and the fact that I’m not used to it shows how damaged the people I hang out with generally are.

Anyway, it turns out the whole second floor of the NWI building is dedicated to the ropes-course challenge, complete with commitment bridge, swinging log, tightrope cables, spider’s web, trust-fall platform, and, my current nemesis, the twelve-foot wall.

I kick off my heels and stretch, judging the height with an unpracticed eye. I back up several steps. Then I take a running leap at the wall, smacking into the wood embarrassingly short of the top and smearing to the floor like a cartoon character. I grumble curses under my breath and pick myself up again for another go. My lame efforts injured more than my pride—I’ll probably be sporting a few bruises by morning.

I look around for something I can use to boost my five-foot-four height. Some of the initiates are using a small, square trampoline for one of the other challenges. I sidle over and ask to borrow it. They agree, nice as pie, and a couple of them even help me drag it in front of the wall.

I position it where I think it will give me the biggest advantage. Then I resume my previous position and take another running leap, this time onto the trampoline. Unfortunately, I didn’t take into account how much the addition of the trampoline would add to my acceleration. I gain height, but also velocity. I smack so hard into the wood that it stuns me for a split second. By the time I start scrambling for a handhold, I’ve already slid down enough to grasp the top by a bare couple of fingertips—not enough to get a solid grip. So once again, I slide ignominiously to the floor mat.

Joseph comes over and offers me a hand. Despite my irritation and additional bruises, I’m not too proud to take it. I push myself up and smooth the wrinkles out of my pants.

“Try just once more,” Joseph says, smiling encouragingly. I must admit—for a laugher, he hasn’t laughed at my failure. That alone persuades me to give it another go. But before I head back to the trampoline, he stops me. “Jump from here,” he says, pointing to the floor directly in front of the wall.

“Are you on crack?” I say, craning my neck to see the top. “I’ll never make it.”

“Just try,” he says.

I shrug and turn to face the wall. At least I won’t get smacked as hard before falling down.

I bend my knees, coiling my muscles for the jump, and then push against the floor as hard as I can while reaching up as far as possible with my right hand. I’m still three or four feet shy of the top, as I knew I would be. But as I start my descent, I feel hands under my feet, pushing me up again.

I flinch in surprise and fall forward into the wall. But when I look down and see Joseph and two of the other interns—Blondie (Hayes?) and Gallagher—pushing me up, I force my knees to straighten and arms to reach up again. Three feet, two, one, and then I grab the top of the wall and pull with all my strength. I take a chance and swing my left foot over the top. I barely clear the wall with my foot, but once I do, I manage to pull myself up and over the edge to a platform a couple of feet lower than the top with a ladder going down to the floor.

I sit for a second to catch my breath, as well as the point Joseph was trying to make. The wall is
supposed
to be impossible to manage alone. Jerk. He’s trying to draw me in as much as I’m trying to draw him out.

I pop my head over the top to glare down at my audience. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me this side has a ladder?”

After that, our intern team hooks up to a team of initiates. Let me just say this, the trust fall freaking sucks. Or maybe I suck at it. But the rest of the obstacles are actually fun. The initiates are all surprisingly well adjusted for adults pretending that the green mat under the spider’s web is full of alligators. We end up laughing a lot and bonding over tasks set seemingly at random by Joseph and the other facilitator, who appear content to torture us in new and inventive ways.

Unfortunately, concentrating so much on the rules of the game has knocked my own internal walls down almost completely. It isn’t till we’re almost through the last obstacle that I remember I’m on a job. If this were a war, I’d have lost today’s battle for sure. But I can’t help feeling a measure of relief. Today was fun. Even Ackley dialed down his obnoxious tendency to micromanage as we made it through each challenge. And just for a moment, I felt a little less alone.

“All right, interns,” Joseph says after our debrief of the last activity. “Time to meet the head honcho.”

Or maybe today’s battle isn’t over yet. Crap. Better put my game face back on.

We all troop up to the elevator, me tucking in my blouse and straightening my hair. I really should have read that packet they posted for the interns on the site more carefully. I missed that whole “come dressed for activity” memo.

The elevator takes us up to the executive floor. Stepping onto the plush carpet is a strange sensation after spending the day bouncing around on spongy foam flooring. But at least I’m dressed the part for meeting a CEO.

Joseph opens one of a set of frosted-glass double doors and enters the room behind it. Ackley and the others follow. I take a breath and head in last.

The office is huge, with bookshelves lining one wall and windows along another. There’s even a fireplace and a seating area with two overstuffed leather couches facing each other across a frosted-glass coffee table that matches the doors.

The high-backed chair behind the sprawling mahogany desk on the other side of the room swivels away from the floor-to-ceiling bank of windows to face us, revealing the man behind the curtain, so to speak.

He’s tall. I can tell even though he’s sitting, which means he’s at least as tall as Senator Richland, if not taller. His hair is sandy and styled in a classic executive cut. He’s not muscled like Joseph, but he must work out to maintain his trim frame. He’s in his late forties, but he looks younger. His eyes are an arresting blue, which probably helps him hold people’s attention. The grifter part of me wonders if he’s wearing colored contacts.

“Welcome to NWI,” he says, rising to his feet. He reaches his hand out for each of us to shake. “I’m delighted that each of you, leaders in your own right, have chosen the New World Initiative as your summer internship experience. I have no doubt we will learn a lot from each other. I encourage you all to explore every facet of our leadership program over the next few weeks. However, there is one rule that must be followed. The confidential information of our participants must remain confidential. Beyond that, help yourself to all the information we can offer. We want you to be invested in the program, and you can only become so if you thoroughly understand it.”

“Yes, sir,” says Ackley.

Aadila, the girl in the hijab, surreptitiously rolls her eyes. I make a mental note of it. She might prove useful.

“Joseph started as an intern himself a few years ago. He knows this place inside and out,” Duke Salinger continues. “If you have any questions, any concerns, any suggestions, he’s your first stop. He can point you in the right direction. If for some reason you manage to stump him, come to me. My door is always open.”

That seems to be the agreed-upon signal for the end of his speech, as Joseph gathers us up like ducklings and ushers us to the door. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or bummed. The meeting went well enough, but I didn’t glean any actual intel from the exchange. I may have to devise some other way to get a one-on-one with NWI’s founder.

“Ms. Dupree, if you wouldn’t mind staying behind a moment.”

Or maybe I’ll get a one-on-one now.

“Sure,” I say, turning on my heel and reapproaching Salinger’s desk. He nods at Joseph and Joseph nods back, shutting the door behind him.

“Julep Dupree,” he says, coming around the side of his desk and gesturing me to the leather sofas. “Interesting name.”

I sit on one sofa, and he sits opposite me.

“Do you know what the purpose of our organization is?”

I pause, searching for the right response. I have to be careful. He’s a grifter, so he’ll see right through the wrong answer. “To give people the skills to make their professional lives better.”

“Professional and personal, actually. The two often go hand in hand. But that’s just the window dressing. What is our real purpose?”

I blink, confused. Is he admitting to me that there’s a hidden agenda for NWI? Should I be recording this conversation? Damn it. Where is Murphy when I need him?

“To help people grow?” I offer lamely.

He shakes his head. “It’s to help people
connect.
Too much of our lives is spent in mental and emotional silos. It’s what makes us most vulnerable. If we connect with each other, really connect, nothing external can break those bonds. We’re far stronger together than we are apart.”

“I’m not sure I follow. Why are you telling me this?” Sadly, that admission is simply the truth. I’m not playing him. I honestly have no idea where he’s going with this or why he singled me out.

“Building those connections takes time and trust. I need to preserve that trust by maintaining a safe space for the initiates and the other employees. I hope that you’ll respect that safe space during the course of your investigation.”

Wait. What did he just say?

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand what you mean by ‘investigation.’ ”

“I assume that’s why you’re here,” he says, his expression mild. “You look shocked. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize a fellow grifter?” He winks at me. “You’re not as anonymous as you like to think, in certain circles, at least. But don’t worry, I’ll keep this just between us. I want you to continue your search. I have nothing to hide, not anymore. I am exactly who I say I am.”

I gape at him.

“Would you like to shake again?” he says, smiling and taking my hand. “It’s good to meet the daughter of Alessandra Moretti.”

“H
ow could he possibly know who you are?” Murphy asks as he drives me to NWI the next morning.

“I have no freaking idea. I mean, my dad told me he was a grifter. Maybe he heard about my dad somehow.”

“But he didn’t say, ‘Good to meet the daughter of Joe Dupree.’ ”

“I know. That’s what’s so weird. My mom wasn’t the grifter. She had no ties to the criminal world.” I say it, but I don’t believe it. A gun inscribed with her initials is a pretty good indication that I don’t know everything there is to know about my mom. Not to mention all the stuff my dad said about her family. Who
are
they? And what does any of it have to do with NWI?

“What are you going to do?”

“Now that my clueless-intern cover is blown, my options are limited. I need help. Inside help.”

“Who? The intern coordinator guy?”

I shake my head. “Too obvious. Salinger would have planned for that.”

“The other interns?”

I lean my head against the headrest. “Maybe. But they’re all so intern-y.”

“Meaning…?”

“They’re invested in the outcome, but not my side of it. It’s in their best interest that NWI stay up and running. They’re not going to be in a rush to expose and bring down their ticket to the Ivy League.”