Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(64)

Since the day Charlie had been discovered, it had seemed like every media outlet in the country had tried to pin me down for an interview. We’d had to beef up security at the hospital, and I’d never been so happy to live behind a gate. It was all I could do to refrain from beating the shit out of the former intern who still waited outside my house, yelling that he deserved an exclusive for being the one to break the story. Every time I saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder if Charlie would have ever told me the truth. Because of him, I’d never know, and that fact ate at me, continually dredging up doubt.

The folded up letter in my wallet was all that kept me from losing hope. She’d said she’d left her heart with me. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted all of her.

The letter also kept me up at night because of what she didn’t include: an assurance that she was coming back.

I’d stopped myself time and again from asking Ivers to give her a message. I would move heaven and Earth to smooth the road ahead of us, but at the end of the day, she needed to decide that she wanted to walk down it with me. Charlie had to be all in for us to have any chance at a future. What would I do if she decided that disappearing again was easier than coming home? The thought sent me back to the bag. If I was too tired to move, hopefully I’d be too tired to think.





Three more weeks later.

The black Suburban inched through Manhattan’s morning rush hour traffic. Today was the first day I’d been permitted to leave the split-level in Staten Island where the FBI had stashed me. And I wouldn’t be going back. Because today I was regaining my freedom.

Six weeks in a safe house was certainly no vacation, but given the alternative, I hadn’t voiced a single complaint. Instead, I’d signed every piece of paper the feds had put in front of me. With each signature, I felt a sense of justice being served. That I was righting my father’s wrongs. And that feeling went a long way toward helping me cope with the boredom. I’d been allowed virtually no contact with the outside world. No internet access, no phone calls and, other than my rotating teams of FBI babysitters and rare appearances by Ivers to ensure the feds were holding up their end of the deal, no visitors. I surmised that my lock-down was to prevent the possibility of any information being leaked about the recovery of the money.

Regardless of the reason, once again I’d had altogether too much time to think. And as you might expect, Simon dominated those thoughts. And how could he not? He was the kind of man you waited your whole life to meet, even though you had no idea you were waiting.

I’d had endless hours to replay the shock, disappointment, and betrayal that had flashed across his features as the press had hurled their questions like daggers, shredding my carefully constructed charade. It didn’t matter that I’d finally decided to come clean. All that mattered were all of the times I’d chosen not to.

Simon wasn’t the kind of man who deserved to be dragged through the scandal that would always follow me. It wouldn’t matter that the funds recovered nearly exceeded what had been originally stolen when you added in the interest that had accrued. You could glue a broken plate back together, but you’d always see the crack. You’d never forget that it’d once been damaged.


In my case, recovering the money wouldn’t wash away the fact that I’d always be the infamous daughter of the reviled Alistair Agoston.

The Suburban pulled into an underground parking structure, and we traveled up a freight elevator that opened into a service hallway and the rear entrance of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. My escorts led me to a conference room where Drake and Ivers were both waiting.

I took the chair next to Ivers, and Drake slid two documents across the table. My hands shook as I reached for them

“As we agreed,” Drake said. I’m not sure if his words were for me or for Ivers, but I didn’t care either way. I was too busy staring at the signed and filed orders from a federal judge and a state court judge dismissing all charges against me with prejudice. These documents meant that neither the U.S. government nor the State of New York could come after me again for anything connected with my father’s crimes. They were giving me back my freedom. My future.

Now that I had them in my hands and no one could take them away, I asked the question that I had been afraid to ask before. “What about the rest of the accounts? The ones that weren’t in my name? What about that money?”

“They’re our problem, not yours.” Drake gave me a brisk nod of acknowledgment and stood. “I believe we’re done here. Have a nice life, Ms. Agoston.”

I sagged back in my chair. It was really over.

Ivers rose and shook Drake’s hand. “Could we have the room for another minute or two? I need to have a few words with my client.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Drake shut the door as he left the conference room. Ivers reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced a piece of paper folded into neat thirds. He held it out to me.

“What is it?” I asked.

His lips quirked. It was the first time I’d seen anything approaching a smile on his face.

“Just take it.”

I complied and unfolded it. It was a printout of an e-ticket. A flight from JFK to New Orleans. For tomorrow.

I looked up, eyes wide. “What is this?”

“I would think that’s obvious.”