Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(30)

I looked down at the tattoos covering my arms. I needed to give him fair warning. “If what you’re looking for is a woman to stand next to you looking poised and perfect for the cameras, I’m not her, Simon. I’m never going to be her.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to be anyone but who you are. And if people have a problem with you, then they can go to hell.”

Con pushed off the bumper of his SUV, finally rejoining the conversation. “Lee has her own reasons for keeping a low profile. The kind of publicity that comes along with you isn’t something she needs.”

Simon’s attention flicked to Con and then back to me. “Are you in trouble? Running from someone?” His voice was low, and his forehead was lined with worry.

I grimaced, not wanting to lie to him again after I’d just raked him over the coals for it, and so I answered as honestly as I could manage.

“Not in trouble, exactly, but I’m also not broadcasting my whereabouts.” Okay, so maybe being wanted for questioning by the FBI counted as trouble.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Simon asked.

“It’s not your problem. I just prefer to fly under the radar.”

Simon started to ask another question, but Jack opened the clinic door. “Anyone coming in? Huck’s getting antsy.”

“Yes. Right now. Sorry to keep you waiting,” I replied.

I took a step toward the door, happy to leave the conversation behind, but Simon’s grip on my hand tugged me back.

“This conversation isn’t over, Charlie. We have some shit to get straight. If you ever find out something that bothers you, come talk to me. Don’t shut me out. I’ve always tried to be completely honest with you. And I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you.”

I nodded. “That’s fair.” And it was. Beyond being fair, it was a hell of a lot more than I could say to him. Complete honesty wasn’t something I’d be trying anytime soon, and I may not intentionally hurt him, but it seemed inevitable that I would.


Simon pulled me into his side. “Let’s go get Huck and take him home.”





My relationship with Simon was recovering from the newspaper incident. He was unfailingly polite and didn’t hesitate to reach for my hand whenever we were driving or walking somewhere, but he was reserved in most other ways. It was clear that my lack of trust and choice to shut him out had hurt him. When he looked at me, the questions he wanted to ask were all over his face, but he never voiced them. Part of me felt guilty for being happy that he didn’t—happy that I wouldn’t have to lie to him. Another small part of me wanted to come clean and tell him everything. And finally, a third, bigger, part of me wanted to bitch slap that small part for even thinking it was a possibility. But it was that small part that had me up at three in the morning after a full day of work at both of my jobs, studying an old book on cryptography I’d picked up from the library.

I had the composition book open, and I was trying to identify patterns so I could attempt to apply the code-breaking methods to the mess inside. So far, I was failing miserably. After further study of the notebook, I realized that my father had probably been using it for years, if not decades. His handwriting changed over time. It was subtle when you flipped through a page at a time, but when you compared the initial notes to those toward the back, it was obvious. This discovery confirmed my suspicions: this scheme had been going on for much longer than anyone had guessed. It was likely my father had spent more time covering his tracks and hiding the money than he ever had on legitimate investments. Once again, I was ashamed to be his daughter.

I looked back down at the notebook, thinking of all the lies I’d been fed since childhood. For several years, I’d been pulled out of school so much that my parents had hired a tutor to travel with us. We’d spend time at the house in Switzerland, the yacht in Monaco, the villa in the Caymans. And then back to New York for a few weeks before jetting off to more exotic locales: Mauritius, Seychelles, Singapore, and the Cook Islands. It had been equally frustrating and exciting to me. Frustrating because I’d just wanted to go to school like a regular kid. But exciting … well, for the obvious reasons.

Holy shit. I was such an idiot. I flipped through the pages to a series of letters and numbers that kept drawing my eye. My heart raced and my breathing accelerated as I skipped to the pages in the back.

Holy f*cking shit.

I’d assumed the book held valuable information, because otherwise it wouldn’t be in code, but this … I shook my head. If I was right, I wasn’t just holding some of the clues to the puzzle; I had the keys to the kingdom.

I let out a long, slow breath.

My technophobe father had recorded the dates and locations of his illicit deposits in a f*cking composition notebook that he’d hidden under the tissue paper in the shoebox of my Chucks. And the FBI had missed it in their search of the penthouse. Holy shit.

I still had to crack the code, but at least now I was pretty damn sure what I was looking at: the first two numbers in each of the sequences, when decoded, would most likely give the country code where the account was located. And I had to believe some of those accounts would be located in tax havens like Switzerland, Monaco, the Caymans, Singapore, Mauritius, Seychelles, and the Cook Islands. Places where my father could have easily made physical, untraceable deposits for years—all under the guise of a family f*cking vacation.