Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(27)

That was, if Simon could stand to be near me after he knew the truth. My hopes deflated at the thought, but I wouldn’t let it deter me. It was a long shot on both fronts, but it was the only shot I had. So I’d take it.

I thought about tonight. Simon was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. He seemed to just want me … for me. That was a novel experience. As the daughter of a billionaire, I’d always questioned people’s motives for befriending me. As a child, parents had encouraged their kids to get close to me in order to be invited into my parents’ social circle. Imagine being fourteen years old and being grilled for investment advice by a friend’s dad. Seriously.

I know, poor little rich girl syndrome. But you could never know what someone else’s life was like until you’d walked that metaphorical mile in her designer pumps. Pre-scandal Charlotte Agoston would have been the perfect match for someone like Simon. Well-bred, poised, not to mention wealthy and well-connected. But he seemed to like the simple, rough-around-the-edges, poor, loner version of me just fine. His political ambitions and upcoming campaign were the biggest wildcards right now. He’d never discussed them with me.

Would Simon still want to be with me when I refused to accompany him to fundraisers and public events? Or would he grow frustrated and lose interest? At this point, there was nothing to do but wait and see. The most startling realization was that I wanted to find some way to fit into his life.

I flipped open the notebook and delved into the wily depths of my father’s twisted mind. I stared at the words, letters, and numbers for hours, hoping a pattern would emerge.

It was his own shorthand encrypted with some sort of code—that much was clear. But without the key to the cipher, I could stare it for years and never break it.

The boldly scrawled numbers and letters were blurring together when I flipped the book shut hours later. The sun was already shining through my skylight, and I was no closer to figuring it out than I had been when I started.

The book went back into the safe, and I took a quick shower before dressing and heading out for coffee and my Saturday morning beignet. I had to be at the Dirty Dog by nine to help Yve sort through a new shipment of inventory she’d bought online. I opted to leave my bike at home and walked up Dauphine to St. Philip and my favorite café. A hotspot frequented by locals more than tourists, it was already jam-packed with the early crowd. While I waited in line, I noticed The New York Times on one of the tables.

The headline snagged my attention:

MONEY TRAIL COLDER THAN EVER

More than one year after his devastating fraud was uncovered, sources say federal authorities are no closer to locating the billions stolen by Alistair Agoston. Victims are demanding progress, and those demands have been met with silence.

The article went on to detail the arrest, the trial, my father’s 175-year sentence, my mother’s activities, and then: Charlotte Agoston, only child of Alistair and Lisette Agoston, has been in seclusion in an undisclosed location since giving her testimony just over one year ago. Sources indicate that while she’s not thought to be complicit in her father’s scheme, she’s considered a person of interest by the FBI, which has been unable to locate her for further questioning. When asked, Lisette Agoston denied having any knowledge about where her daughter was currently living. Anyone with information concerning the whereabouts of Charlotte Agoston is asked to contact the FBI.

At the bottom of the page was a picture of me. Well, the old me. I looked around to make certain no one was watching as I folded that section of the paper and stuffed it in my bag. It wasn’t like I could hide all the copies, but why leave it where someone might make the connection? The line was barely moving, so I picked up the local paper that was tucked under The New York Times and flipped through to find the entertainment section. It’d been a while since I’d been to a good show, and I wanted to see who was coming to town. I froze when I saw Simon’s face staring up from the society section. He was once again dressed in black tie, but this time his arm was wrapped around a gorgeous blonde in a sleek gray designer gown. She was tucked in close to his side, hand pressing against his chest. I read the headline:

NOLA’S FAVORITE SON SHINES AT CHARITY GALA

My eyes flicked to the date on the paper. Today. I forgot about the line and dropped into a chair.

Last evening New Orleans’s leading citizens gathered at a gala to raise funds for the final stage of construction of the art museum expansion. All eyes were on Simon Duchesne and his lovely companion, Ms. Vanessa Frost, as it is rumored that he is preparing to launch his campaign for the United States House of Representatives in hopes of ousting incumbent, Robert Carter, and reclaiming the seat his father held for sixteen years before his unsuccessful run at the Governor’s mansion…


I skimmed the rest of the article, and the words blurred when I saw the same speculation that a marriage proposal was expected to be forthcoming prior to Simon hitting the campaign trail. When I dropped the paper, my sweaty hands were smeared with gray ink from the newsprint. My churning stomach rebelled at the thought of food. A cold detachment settled over me as I realized Simon was apparently a very busy man. Somehow, between taking me out for dinner and picking me up for work, he’d managed to squeeze in a charity event with his … whatever she was. His girlfriend? I mentally ticked off his schedule for the evening: dinner with me, gala with her, then orgasms with me before calling it a night. Fucking over-achiever.