You Don't Know My Name (The Black Angel Chronicles #1)(12)

“Don’t feel bad about not hanging out with me,” she says, looking back at me. “Luke’s just being a hog. I’m probably betraying a little brother-sister confidence here, but I think he really likes you.”

I feel my jaw unhinge. Harper’s been teasing and prying for months now but Claire’s much closer to the source. Claire and Luke are as close as a brother and sister can get. They had to be with a career-long, high-ranking military officer for a father. The number of cities they’ve lived in are only surpassed by the number of framed photographs of Colonel Weixel shaking hands with the congressmen, senators, and generals that wined and dined him during his military days. He’s retired now. Well, as retired as he’ll ever allow himself to be. He’s a special operations consultant and still spends months at a time overseas advising military leaders.

Because of Colonel Weixel’s training, I watch what I say in front of him. He’s warmer than you’d expect a man of his military status to be, but I know beneath that thinning white hairline is a brain trained to analyze every word and action, just like mine.

Claire’s confession ping-pongs around my skull. I refuse to let her words settle into place. I’m ill prepared to deal with this. Luke is not something I can quickly evaluate and categorize like I do with everything else in my life. I feel my pulse quicken, my vein pounding inside my neck. I bite my lip and study my feet, not wanting to see what’s written in Claire’s big eyes and not wanting her to see what may be written in my own.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” I say, hoping to end the conversation, not wanting to hear what Claire might say next. I glance back up and try to give her a smile, but it feels crooked on my face. Her lips part to speak; she searches my face and thinks better of it. She closes her mouth, waves, and hurries away. I press the long breath I’d been holding through my lips and dig my fingers into my hips, pushing down any hint of the emotions threatening to break free from the box I lock them in and keep in the darkest corner of my body. I dig my fingers even harder into my hip bones and the flood retreats. I settle back into the comfort of numbness and breathe again.

I look up at the sky. White puffy clouds are moving quickly across the blue. I feel for the double hearts on my bracelet, hold the cool metal between my finger and thumb, step back into the sunshine, and head to the library.





FIVE

“I wanna rewrite my heart and let the future in. I wanna open it up and let somebody in.” Harper is behind the wheel of her Range Rover, driving down the tree-lined streets of the New Albany Country Club community and singing along to an old Miike Snow song from my Spotify playlist. Actually, it’s a playlist Luke made me. He’s always making me little playlists with songs he knows I’ll like.

“I love indie artists who stay indie artists,” Harper says, turning down the music. I crack a half smile. Harper hates it when the indie musicians she loves show up on Top 40 radio. Harper likes to pretend she’s above celebrity gossip and pop culture, but I’ve found Us Weeklys under her bed. It’s ingrained in me to know every inch of my environment and the people I surround myself with. But I’m also kind of a snoop. So I know all about her secret tabloid subscription and the fact that she’s downloaded an embarrassing number of baby-faced, floppy-haired boy band songs and hidden them on a secret playlist. I’ve never called her out because she’d be mortified. So I let her keep up her too-cool-for-school act. I guess it’s not totally an act. She really doesn’t care what people think and never tries to impress anybody. But still, I wonder how much of it she’s faking. How much we’re all faking.

The song finishes and Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” comes on. A slow smile creeps up my face as I look over at Harper, knowing what will come next. She shakes her head, her wavy hair swinging from side to side, and laughs.

“You officially have the world’s weirdest music collection,” Harper says, pulling past the lavish New Albany Country Club. We’re not members but Harper’s and Luke’s families are. My parents occasionally let me escape my Saturday training sessions for a dip in the Olympic-size pool or a match on the clay tennis court.

“I think the word you’re looking for, my love, is eclectic,” I say and sing her a few lines of Frank. “In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me.” I push together my lips and make a kissy face for Harper. She laughs and blows me a kiss back.

“The Wombats are coming to the Newport next Friday night,” Harper says, winding her way around the ninth hole of the golf course. The warm October day has brought out plenty of polo-shirt-wearing golfers hoping to squeeze in one more round before gray, cold November skies roll in and the course closes for the season. “Carlee Abernathy’s brother is bartending that night and said he could hook us up with tickets and a little drinky drinky. Want to go?”

“Depends. If my parents are out of town, totally. If they’re home, definitely not.”

“So when will you know if you can go?”

“Next Friday.”

“What? We can’t get the tickets day of. How do you never know their schedule?”

“They’re journalists. They go where the story is and they go when it’s happening.” The journalist thing was their new cover. My dad was supposed to be a photographer, my mother a writer, for the Associated Press. Saying they worked for the AP made it plausible for them to have to leave at a moment’s notice, be gone for long periods of time, and never have a byline in the Columbus Dispatch. It was a great cover. CIA operations officers usually pose as diplomats while out on assignment, but anyone in the Special Activities Division, especially Black Angels, gets the best and most detailed cover stories. Because unlike CIA officers, who really only collect information from foreign agents, Black Angels are the ones who are in true danger on a daily basis, even on American soil. They’re the group the government pretends doesn’t exist and the president doesn’t even know about. Well, he probably knows something. He’s the president, after all. But there’s sort of a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy with the Black Angels. He knows there is an underground group the CIA calls on to handle the messy stuff the government doesn’t want to lay claim to, but he doesn’t want to know any details. It’s the knowing that could get him in trouble and get Black Angels killed.