Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(58)

I ran for the stairs.

“What happened?”

There was no answer. He’d already hung up.

I slammed out the door and raced across the lawn. I heard sirens wailing in the distance. They were growing louder and louder.

Oh f*ck.

I ripped open the front door and sprinted up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom.

My dad was holding my mother against his chest, tears running down his face. He was speaking softly to her unconscious form.

“Maggie, please. You’ve got to wake up, my love.” They were the pleas of a desperate man.

I dropped to my knees beside the bed.

“What happened?”

“I don't know. She woke me up. Her face looked funny. Then she passed out. I think … I think it was a stroke. I called 911. And then you.” The words tumbled disjointedly from his lips.

He rocked my mother’s still body in his arms. “Maggie … please.”

The sirens blared from the street. I didn’t want to leave them, but I knew someone had to let the paramedics in.

“I’ll be right back. With help.”

I clung to the railing as I stumbled down the stairs. The thick, jasmine-scented night air clogged my lungs. I focused on the flashing red and white lights. I opened the gate and gripped the wrought iron with both hands as the ambulance surged up to the front of the house. I pulled myself together, knowing I needed to be my father’s strength. I’d never seen him look so lost and broken.

I couldn’t lose her, too. Not my mother.

I released my grasp on the metal bars and ran back toward the house to lead the EMTs up the stairs.

One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to New York.






Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about all of the things you could have done differently. Should’ve done differently. By the time I pulled into long-term parking at JFK, I was ready to stop replaying all of the moments I could have spoken up and told Simon the truth. I couldn’t take back the choices I’d made, and now I had to live with them.

I left the keys in Con’s magnetic case under the back bumper. I wasn’t sure if he’d actually come get it or not, but it was the plan we’d agreed on. I would have offered to return it myself, but I think we both knew I might not be coming back. Harriet was holding on to all of my stuff, but I wasn’t holding my breath. My lack of progress with the composition book, along with my strong suspicions about what it contained, made me wary of what I was about to do. But I was running out of options. As much as I wanted to consider the possibility, I couldn’t run forever.

I worked my way through the busy station to board a train toward Manhattan. Even though I had been a lifelong New Yorker, this was my very first subway ride. Like my first flight in coach—it wasn’t something I was proud of. I could only hope this wouldn’t be my last new adventure as a free woman.

I made one detour before re-boarding the train toward Federal Plaza. I rubbed my sweaty hands against my jeans as I ran through my plan. After what felt like a million stops, I exited the subway carrying only my real license and a hundred dollars in cash.

It was strange to be back in New York. It smelled different than New Orleans. The people were all rushing around with places to go. No one moved at the leisurely pace to which I’d become accustomed.

I looked down at my outfit. I had dressed up for the occasion: black skinny jeans and Chucks paired with my vintage Black Sabbath Heaven + Hell Tour T-shirt. It reminded me that I’d been duped just like everyone else. It was a subtle proclamation of my innocence.

I walked through the metal detector, ignored the curious stares, and ducked into the elevator. On the twenty-third floor, I stepped out and stared at the glass doors in front of me. Once I stepped through those doors, my choice would be irrevocable. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought the urge to turn around, get back in the elevator, and keep running. I knew how to disappear. I could do it again. I could start over somewhere else.

I pressed a hand against the cool glass. It was time to stop running.

I pushed the door open.

At the reception desk, an older woman with silver streaks in her dark hair perched on a chair. She held up a finger and gestured to her headset. I waited until she transferred the call and looked up again.

“Can I help you?” Her expression was skeptical as she took in my full sleeves and choice of apparel.

“I’d like to see one of the special agents in charge, please.” She raised an eyebrow at my request.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t need one.”

She shifted in her chair, looking like she was five seconds away from calling security.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Charlotte Agoston. I believe they’d like to speak with me.”



I sat in a small, windowless room with the requisite one-way mirror. For a moment I wondered who was behind it, but then decided it didn’t matter. I would say only what I intended to say, regardless of the questions asked.

The door opened, and a barrel-chested man in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red striped tie walked in. A second, taller man in a similar uniform followed. The first man held out his hand.

“Lou Childers, Special Agent in Charge.”

I shook his hand and watched his eyes rake over my tattoos.