The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [130]
62
The pre-rush-hour traffic is easy and the midday sun is shining bright as Charlie, Gillian, and I cruise up the wide-open lanes of I-95. But even with the engine revving, and the radio humming the local pop station, the car itself is way too quiet. For the entire twenty minutes it takes to get from grandma’s old condo to Broward Boulevard, no one—not me, not Charlie, not Gillian—says a single syllable.
From my jacket pocket, I pull out the strip of photos. The white edges of the paper are starting to curl, and for the first time, I wonder if the people are even real. Maybe that’s why it came from a color printer. Maybe the photos are doctored. Fake IDs to help with a disguise. I stare down at the four faces in my lap. I change the redhead to blond; the black man to white. To me, they’re still complete strangers. To Duckworth, they were important enough to sock away in his best hiding spot. And while we’re still not sure if they’re friends or enemies, one thing’s absolutely clear: If we don’t figure out who they are and how they knew Duckworth, this trip is about to get even more uncomfortable.
“Here we go,” Gillian says, eventually breaking the silence as she points to the exit ramp. “Almost there.”
I flip down the passenger seat sun visor and use the mirror to check on Charlie.
In the backseat, he doesn’t even look up. Three days ago, he’d be scribbling in his notebook, feeding on adrenaline, and turning every awkward moment into stanza, verse and, if he were lucky, maybe even a full-fledged ballad. Rob from reality, he used to say with full adolescent swagger. But for all his bravado, Charlie doesn’t like danger. Or risk. And the problem right now is that he’s finally realizing it.
“It’s okay to be scared,” I tell him.
“I’m not scared,” he barks back. But I see his reflection in the visor. His eyes drop to his lap. For twenty-three years, he’s set his sights low—living at home, leaving art school, refusing to join a band… even taking the filing job at the bank. He’s always played it off on being carefree. But, as we learned from dad, there’s a fine line between a carefree spirit and a fear of failure.
“It should only be a few more blocks,” Gillian says, quickly clamming back up.
Like Charlie, she’ll only give me a quick, short sentence. I’m not sure if it’s our lying about the money, the loss of her dad, or just the simple shock from the attack, but whatever it is—as she grips the steering wheel in two tight fists, her childlike aura is finally starting to fade. Like us, she knows she’s jumped on yet another sinking ship—and unless we get a break soon, we’re all going down with it.
“There it is,” she announces as she makes a right turn into the parking lot. The sun ricochets off the glass-front, four-story building, but the purple-and-yellow sign above the front door says it all: Neowerks Software.
* * * *
“So you’re Ducky’s daughter?” a bushy-haired man with tight wire-rimmed glasses sings as he grabs Gillian in an overexcited both-hands handshake. Dressed in a schlumpy blue button-down, high-tech wrinkle-free khakis, and leather sandals with socks, he’s exactly what you get when you cross a fifty-year-old Palm Beach millionaire with a Berkeley teaching assistant. But he’s also the only guy who came out to the lobby when we asked if we could speak to one of Duckworth’s old colleagues. “So, it’s Gillian, right?” he asks for the third time. “God, I didn’t even realize he had a daughter.”
Gillian nods sheepishly, while Charlie slingshots me a look. I raise my shield and let it bounce off my armor. After everything she’s done—everything she risked—I’m not getting into his petty mindgames.
If she wanted to turn us in, she would’ve narced on us at the condo and at the house,I say with a glare.
Not until she gets her money,Charlie stares back.
“And you’re friends as well?” Bushy Hair interrupts.
“Yeah… yeah,” I say extending a hand as he once again shakes with both of his. “W-Walter Harvey,” I say, almost forgetting my fake name. I lower my voice to keep it down, but can’t help but