Tangerine(68)

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, my voice cold and still.

“Doing what?” Aunt Maude asked.

“This,” I said, willing my voice to remain steady, calm. “What was on that passport?” I demanded, realizing that I had not seen it myself, had not seen the words written beside the photograph.

Maude watched me, coolly. “What do you think was on it, Alice?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the way she looked at me—detached, as though we were no longer bound together by blood—or her voice, low and challenging, and which in that moment I could only read as a threat. Or perhaps it was the simple realization that the one woman I had always trusted, the only real family I had left, had abandoned me, betrayed me. The knowledge of that threatened to smother me, such that I let out a strange, demented cry as I lunged toward Lucy once more—this time, toward the pages in her pocket.

I had to know, I told myself, pushing away her hands that she held up in self-defense, my nails sinking into her flesh. I had to know what was on the passport, whether my aunt simply did not believe me, or whether she was working with her, with Lucy—whether it was my best interest or my fortune that she had on her mind. And so I pushed and pulled. I scratched until I felt the blood, her blood, beneath my fingernails. I did everything I could until I tasted copper, until I felt two powerful arms pull me away.

“Alice.” Maude was crying, her face drained of color.

I stopped. I looked up into my aunt’s face, into the fear that flooded her features. Her hair had started to come undone, strands of it falling down her face. I turned toward Lucy and saw that she looked equally affected, her pinned hair now falling around her shoulders, her dress askew, her stockings torn, the evidence of my violence written there, across her body. An apology rose on my lips but I stopped, feeling the weight of her papers between my hands. I had to know. And so I cast a hurried glance at the words written on the passport now grasped between my fingers. SOPHIE TURNER. I struggled to breathe.

She was, I realized with a sinking feeling, still one step ahead.





Sixteen


Lucy


IT WAS EASY ENOUGH TO CONVINCE MAUDE SHIPLEY THAT her niece was going mad.

After that initial telephone call, we had spoken a handful of times before her arrival in Tangier, and I had reported on her niece’s movements, her state of mind, remembering all the while the words that Alice had once spoken to me—about the fear, after her parents’ death, that her aunt had wanted to commit her. The fear that her aunt thought she was mad, the fear that she might just be right.

Alice’s episode that afternoon had only helped. I had almost pitied her, watching how confident she had been, convinced that she was about to best me. As she stood before us, her eyes wide, dazed, her fingers turning the same pages of the passport back and forth, over and over, as if it would somehow change what was printed there, I had been half-tempted to rush to her, to take her in my arms and forgive her for everything that she had done. Instead I had looked away, brushed the instinct aside.

She couldn’t have known that I had already switched passports. That the idea had come to me while sitting in Youssef’s studio, that day he had tried to blackmail me. I had sat still in the moments afterward, afraid to move, to betray any indication of weakness. Only when I had worked it all out in my mind at last did I allow myself to smile, to shift. And then, steeling myself for his response, I had said, “Before I give you the money, I need you to do something for me first.”

Youssef’s eyes had narrowed, surprised no doubt by the audacity of my request.

I held his gaze. “I need a new passport.”

“And why would I do that?” He laughed. “So that you can disappear without paying me?”

“You’ll be paid—and in advance. But if I don’t get new papers, well, what would be the point of paying you to keep quiet? The police will figure it out sooner or later. New papers are my only way out of Tangier. Otherwise I might as well spend my money on enjoying my final hours.” I held my smile, though I could feel it, shaking against my teeth.

Youssef paused, considering my words. I could see him weighing them, carefully, as I had known he would. After all, what did he care if I left Tangier, as long as he got something first? Yes, he would have preferred a longer con, one that continued to earn him something over time, but if forced to choose between nothing and something—he was smart, and I knew where he would fall.

“All right,” he conceded. “I know a man who might be able to help.” He pointed his brush at me. “But only after I have been compensated.”

I nodded. “Agreed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Any tricks, and our deal is off.”

“Understood.” I stretched out my hand toward him. “Shall we shake on it?”

He laughed then, an amused sharp noise that let him indulge in his triumph over the helpless American girl. And I had wanted to give him that before I did what I had to next. His hand felt rough in my own, but I clasped it and shook—as if I had lost, as if he had won, as if the gesture was an acknowledgment of defeat.

Later, out in the streets, I had laughed, marveling that I had once ever doubted his worth.

I WAITED UNTIL MAUDE had convinced her niece to rest, until she had tucked her into bed, as though a child, and emerged a short time later, looking troubled and worn.