Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(65)

I blinked down at the e-ticket again. “But … why?”

“I was asked by Mr. Duchesne to make certain you got it. I informed him that the dismissals would be filed this morning. He made the reservation for tomorrow as he thought you might need some time to wrap things up here before heading home.”

My heart thudded in my chest.

Home.

I swallowed, continuing to stare at the piece of paper as if the flight information would somehow rearrange itself into a message from Simon.

He wants me to come home.

My mind raced with the possibilities. His motivations. The consequences.

Just being near him, I would tar him with my notoriety. It wasn’t like I could keep pretending that I was Charlie Stone—that ship had sailed. Or maybe sank was more accurate. But even if my name wasn’t Charlotte Agoston, the tattoos covering my arms ensured that I would never look demure in a dress, standing behind him as he gave a rousing speech to a cheering crowd. I was political cyanide, and there was no doubt in my mind that he’d have to choose between his dream and me.

I fingered the piece of paper in my hand. What the hell was I supposed to do with it? Be selfish or selfless? God knew I wanted to be with him. But how could I really choose to taint his future with the darkness that would always follow me?

“There’s also a reservation in your name at the Waldorf for tonight. Everything has been taken care of; all you have to do is check in.”

I looked back down at the e-ticket and double-checked the departure time.

Twenty-four hours to decide.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. No pressure. Just a choice that would dictate the course of the rest of my life. Run to him or run from him?

Ivers stood and offered his hand. I shook it. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head slightly and studied me. It was like he was analyzing the chaotic indecision of my thoughts. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Agoston. Is there anything you’d like me to tell Mr. Duchesne when I speak with him? Will you be using the ticket?”

There was a knock at the door, and I was saved from having to answer when Drake stuck his head in.

“You have a visitor in the lobby, Ms. Agoston. One that has been very persistent over the last several weeks. Both here and at the FBI field office.”

I scrunched my brow, trying to figure out who the hell would be trying to see me. “Who?”

“Your mother.”

My mother? My hands flew to my hair, and I began smoothing it into place before I realized that just the thought of facing her had me falling back into old habits. I forced my hands down to my sides. There was nothing about my appearance my mother would find acceptable, so what was the point? I could hope she’d just be happy to see me. Right. I wouldn’t hold my breath.


Moving slowly to delay the coming confrontation, I folded the e-ticket and dismissal orders and stuck them in my backpack. I hefted the duffle bag that the FBI agents had supplied to hold the extra clothes they’d provided me. More jeans and T-shirts to round out my wardrobe.

“Thank you again for everything,” I said to Ivers.

“It was my pleasure. Best of luck to you, Ms. Agoston.”

I met Drake at the door. “Lead the way.”

The paneled lobby of the U.S. Attorney’s Office was empty except for the receptionist and my mother. She was dressed in a linen pantsuit that she’d somehow managed to keep wrinkle free. No surprise there. Wrinkles were the enemy. Except it was clear that her current budget didn’t allow for regular Botox, because for the first time in my life, my mother had crow’s feet and looked very much her actual age. It reminded me that the last year hadn’t just been rough on me. My feelings toward her softened when I thought about her staying in New York and braving the gossip and ugly aftermath, while I’d chosen to run and hide. Whatever else she was, she was a strong woman.

“Mother. How are you?”

Her eyes raked me from head to toe, and any softness I felt faded. I could only imagine the flaws she was cataloging. The hair (which desperately needed a fresh dye job), the dozens of interconnected tattoos, the plain black tank and jeans, and my ratty old Chucks (which desperately needed replacing). I braced for her criticism, but it didn’t come.

“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, but they wouldn’t let me.” Her tone was aggrieved.

Maybe … she’d missed me? It was possible that a year had given her some perspective about what was really important. Not money. Not status. Not influence. People. Family.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really have any control over that.”

She waved off my response with a flip of her golden bob.

“Despite your … appearance … you seem to have done well for yourself in New Orleans. You are your mother’s daughter after all. Landed on your feet.”

What the hell was she talking about?

If she called over a year of lying to everyone and living under a false identity ‘doing well for myself’ and ‘landing on my feet,’ then we had very different interpretations of those phrases.

And then her meaning hit me. Her reason for being here became crystal f*cking clear. A cold rush of disappointment flooded me as her next words confirmed my thoughts.

“The son of a former congressman? I didn’t think you had it in you, Charlotte. I was happily surprised when I saw it on the news. It’s too bad he’s decided not to run. They’re blaming it on his mother’s condition, and I’m hoping it’s not really because of you. It’ll be much harder to get him back if that’s the case.”